Warning: slash, slight angst, and not reviewed by a beta
Disclaimer: I do not own them and am not in any way making money off my use of them.
Author's Note: Thanks to those who reviewed! This is for you... hope it lives up to your expectations! Once again, constructive criticism is more than welcome.
Small childish fingers tangled themselves in platinum blond locks- a toddler's high-pitched squeals punctuated by elated shrieks of "That way Papa! Go that way!" The day was warm and humid with a hint of rain to come balanced recklessly on the billowy clouds decorating the azure sky. Birds tunelessly chirped their praise of the fine weather as father and son basked in the beauty of a world without commitments- a world where all men were good and righteous and kind…a child's world.
Then he came. He smelled of sulfur, and sweat, and sour wine; his coarse gray robes where smeared with dirt, grease, and a mark the color of rust that the boy couldn't quite place… the father stopped smiling. Soon the child found himself being embraced by the summer air and its pleasant scents- that were so at odds with the odor of the man, as strong arms separated him from the comforting warmth of his father's shoulders and placed his small unclad feet gently against the soft green grass. Dropping- to his knees the boy tangled himself in the hem of his papa's robes.
"Don't go Papa! Mother promised you wouldn't go anymore!" But the rain had fallen from its tenuous perch and the image of the retreating form of the regal man was already being swallowed up by the hypocritically warm droplets.
And then he was there again. This time they were flying. The boy was older now- as he spread his arms above his head relying on the strength of the long limbs wrapped around his broomstick to keep him from a terrifying plummet- long pale fingers reaching for the clouds as their laughter rode the cool autumn breeze. They raced, and circled, and dove. Each smiled- enjoying the company of the other and that of the bias-less, opinion-less sky. Then the laughter stopped…someone was calling. The son and his Papa drifted to the ground- as if in hopes that time might stop if they took long enough to land. The man was there again only this time his robes were black and clean- though the smell of day-old wine still clung cloyingly to his obese figure.
"Please…" What was meant as a quiet plea felt harsh and painful as it escaped the boy- now a man's dry throat.
"Here," gentle hands tenderly lifted a glass of cool water to his parched lips- exposing the gruff voice for what it was…a lie (though a good one). Clouds slowly transformed themselves into feather pillows covered in crisp cotton cases as he gulped the revitalizing liquid- a little trickling from the corner of his mouth only to be whipped away by a calloused thumb.
"Where am I?" The blond man was relieved to find he sounded slightly more human- even though his throat still felt scratchy and sore. In fact, his entire body ached the dull ache of flesh bruised and broken until it no longer had any belief in its own ability to heal, and as the water dulled the immediate soreness of his throat he realized that the throbbing centered around his left forearm. Gathering the shreds of his courage- he lifted his head just enough to examine the offending limb.
"Why hell of course." The gruff voice stated softly near his ear- with only a hint of sarcasm.
Without replying he slowly took in the sight of his arm…and a sight it was. It took all of his self control to tear his eyes away from the mess of ruined flesh and bloody bandages and focus on the other occupant of the room.
"It's both magic and muggle…neither can help."
The blond inclined his head in an almost indiscernible nod before letting it droop tiredly to rest once again against the soft pillows- escaping the reality the raven-haired man had so aptly dubbed and returning to a purgatory more dear to his own heart- one of his own mind's making.
Harry Potter trailed one hand through his wayward locks while using the other to rub sleep-deprived eyes. He had pulled every string he knew in and outside the ministry- called in old favors, begged and pleaded, bribed and blackmailed…and he had won. Draco Malfoy was sleeping in his bed. Even so, the pride he felt at that statement was easily eclipsed by the knowledge that the emotionless affirmations and vapid stare of formerly striking gray eyes could mean only one thing. Azkaban had broken the blond man. He may have won…but it had taken too long.
