Warnings: slash, rather dark at times, au, not reviewed by a beta
Disclaimer: I don't own them and am making no money of my use of them.
Author's note: Thanks for the reviews! This is a little longer than the last two chapters and dives a little into a type of magic I have created for Draco. You also learn a little more about this story's version of Harry. Constructive criticism is welcome! Hope you enjoy!
A young man- pale locks escaping from a black bow to obscure his eyes, gently trailed a long digit across prominent cheekbones and then down along the jaw of the prone figure lying at his feet. Almost reverently he rested two fingers against her eyelids- drawing the thin skin over orbs that would never again look with any emotion upon the doings of men. Her soul had forsaken its mask of mortal flesh; it had risen to embrace the ethereal world whose inhabitants were all those who had moved on. She was so cold. For a moment he let himself wonder if the haunting sightless eyes had once shone with laughter, if her now stiff cheeks used to reveal dimples when her lips curled upwards in a genuine smile, if now icy hands had ever clasped another to her bosom in love, if the salty swell of tears had ever before that fateful night marred perfect skin. How many wonderful moments had he stolen from her simply because the wrong sort of blood had flowed through her veins. Running his hand through her flaming red curls he questioned if this was regret and wondered silently what her name was.
Suddenly shadows were pressing forwards- reaching, twirling, searching, suffocating. Then it was over. They were we in a cell now, and no longer alone. Her eyes where open again; they were green- the most vibrant emerald one could ever imagine, and her blood-less lips were moving. She was saying something. Then his concentration was broken; a flesh-less hand was drawing bleached bone fingertips from his cheekbone to his jaw- almost the exact same gesture he had earlier preformed. Black rags pooled around the figure's wrists and the scent of rotting flesh permeated the area. It was getting stronger; the form was coming closer- leaning forwards intimately as if for… a kiss. The figure was so close all he could see was blackness; the smell forced its way through closed lips- every tiny breath full of the odour of death. She was talking again; her name, she was saying her name.
Draco clawed his way into consciousness- fleeing his sins and the fate he had so narrowly cheated. Using his undamaged forearm he wiped away tears he hadn't even known he was shedding, blinked, and looked slowly around the room for the flat's other occupant. He and Harry had found themselves falling into a sort of routine the past few days. Draco would sleep, wake, look around for Harry- if the other was there they would eat or sometimes just sit calmly conversing about absolutely nothing. It was a good routine; Harry never asked why Draco sometimes cried in his sleep and Draco never commented on the sounds he could sometimes hear coming from the other side of the wall in what he assumed was a sort of main room/ kitchen.
In fact he could hear them now- soft moans and ragged breathing punctuated by the occasional breathy feminine whisper of "Harry." The tone of the second voice had a tendency to change with the day. The first time Draco noticed- it was a deep masculine purr that sounded as if the owner had a few years on his black-haired partner, then there was a female voice with the hints of culture and old money, not to mention the slightly nasal pronunciation that brought to mind the French, next came someone with a thick Texan drawl- he was a moaner, thankfully yesterday's flavour had been quiet; he hadn't woken up.
Stretching and turning over a little more loudly than was absolutely necessary Draco summoned all of his magical strength and made a subtle motion with his hand; the window replied- opening with a "swoosh." Then he started to sing. The song was evocative; his quiet voice rising and falling in a sad melody with no happy ending. He was calling- asking the wind upon whose power he had come to rely to answer his summons. It was an old magic, the song, and one very different from that which Harry had learned to employ. The element itself choose the magic's wielders, and though in times of great need it would sometimes intervene and attempt to set its chosen on the path to righteousness- mostly whether sinner or saint it only aided, never judged.
They came as the background noise of human passion died down to nothing. Draco had seen them sometimes as a child- moving shapes he fancied were his imagination. As he grew older they appeared more often, gained more substance. When he left Hogwarts as a young adult he had begun to think himself crazy; then he joined the Death Eater's, and they began to talk. They taught him the song.
He held out his hand for the miniature form of a scantily clad woman to perch upon. To most of those who could see her- she appeared translucent- as if shaped from summer mists; to the best the haze that was her being was tinted with pastel hues, and to Draco she was outfitted in a wrap of vibrant though lucent red that matched her swirling almond eyes almost perfectly. He was more gifted in the art of calling than any had been for centuries.
She pointed- unwilling to talk where one might be so easily overheard, and he lifted her closer to his other arm. Though viciously pointed nails and teeth were not for show- she and her mate- who was watching intently from the foot of the bed, were renowned among their kind for their ability to heal. Reaching towards the poisoned flesh she immediately recoiled in horror. Shaking her head-full of midnight blue locks she bent down to rest a hand reassuringly against his wrist and then they were gone.
Harry opened the bedroom door- not surprised to find Draco already awake.
