Story Title: Legend of the Draconis
Chapter Title: A Mere Grain of Sand in the Desert
Disclaimer: I am a mere worshper at the Temple of J.K. Rawling and own NOTHING! No money is made for the insipid ramblings of said unworthy fan. All I have is a pocket full of lint and buttons, thus suing would be pointless, unless you have a lint fetish!
Author: Erati
Beta(s) None (or me, in other words. Sad, huh?)
Summary: Haunted by flaming emerald eyes and a seconds-long connection that left his soul open and longing, Draco Malfoy, the infamously devilish Prince of Slytherin is back at Hogwarts for his seventh and final year of school several months after the end of the second war with Voldermort. He thought the hardest battles of his live were long over. Little does he know, he'll have to find the courage and cunning not only to fight for his heart, but also the soul of magick itself.
Draco watched as Harry made his way across the floor of the Great Hall of Hogwarts, smiling and blushing, as usual. The other students clapped, laughed, and murmured appreciately at their hero's apparent bashfulness, even after having been so long in the spotlight. It seemed the only person who noticed the slight, careful blankness in Harry's eyes and the plaster around the edges of his smile was the ex-spy for the Light himself.
Draco's features froze like the lake in Winter, hard and unyeilding. He made himself stare at Harry, not an unpleasant task in itself, knowing that if he looked away his control, unusually fragile when near the Gryffindor, would snap and he'd find himself screaming at the oblivious fools, or hexing them into oblivion, before grabbing Harry and storming our of the Hall. Though the image accompanying that thougth made his cool, grey eyes twinkle with silent mirth, the knowlwdge that the scene was a real possibilty sent a slight shiver down his spine.
He watched Harry nod to Dumbledore before continuing his, intentionally, somewhat awkward progress to his house table. Before long, Draco found himself, again, reluctantly reliving the moments he had realized that what had started as intense curiousity in the course of the short, yet brutal war against Lord Voldemort, had turned into something else, something dangerous, something he was still hesitant to name
They had participated in many battles together, either as allies or adversaries. Draco, along with the rest of the Wizarding World, had watched Harry grow from stumbling determination, to magickal force of nature. His power became easily the stuff of legends, sending out low-level electricity whenever his control was less then total, which had become rare. Draco watched it crackle around him like vigilant lightning as he attacked two and three Death Eaters at a time, incapacitating them with a single spell during that battle.
In a bid to maintain the upper hand, Voldemort had called squibs to him in droves, arming them with magickally warded blades and teaching them the skills needed to use them. Fortunately for the Light, Draco, an accomplished swordsman, had been directed to train most of them, thus not only indirectly informing the Order and Ministry of the shift in strategy, but allowing Draco to pass on a few, slightly inaccurate manuevers into thier repetoire. Every little bit, as they say.
The battle that changed everything, irrevocably shifting Draco's perception, was the first time the forces of the Light had gone up against the new Death Eater brigade. The battle had already been in full swing, Malfoy himself watching from a nearby rock outcropping, when a series of almost silmultaneous 'pop's could be heard echoing across the foothills. Very few could afford the luxury of being distracted, so few saw the witches and wizards apparate into the battle with the squibs, a dangerous endeavore with hexes and curses flying recklessly through the air. The squibs immediately began a merciless attack on thier enemy, swords flashing with violently bitter glee.
But the Light had been warned, as was evident when many unsheathed thier previously hidden swords, Harry himself clasping Godric Gryffindor's itself as he and his comrades confidently met this new threath, steel for steel.
Harry swept through the Death Eaters, sword cutting a bloody path, leaving pain and death in his wake. Wands rose against him, only to shutter violently like the string of a hastily plucked guitar at his mere glance.
It was while watching Harry, covered in blood, his boot firmly planted on the chest of a squirming, begging Death Eater, coward, Harry's wand pointed at his head, eyes blazing like emeralds set afire that the nickname came to Draco, unbidden: he wasn't looking at Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, he thought, but Mars, the God of War himself! Though he had long ago chosen his path, it was at that moment that he knew Voldemort's demise wasn't just a happy possibility, but merely inevitable. Draco almost pitied him and his futile ambition.
Almost.
After hexing the Death Eater into unconsciousness, Harry'd looked up, straight into Draco's eyes. The shock of that connection had coursed through his blood like distilled dragon fire setting his blood to boil and his head to reel. A savage rhythm pounded his brain like drums. He realized, with a jolt, that the pounding was his own heart.
It was all he could do to remain standing while teasing embers of flame licked his skin to life, a blazing salamander curling low in his stomach, let alone pretening a calm and poise he was far from feeling. He had no idea what showed on his face as the feeling of a frayed end of rope that was himself reached out and, with a blaze of fire, tangled with a similar bit a rope that leaped forth from the vision of god-like power and righteous fury that was once his childhood rival. They stared at each other as seconds stretched into eternity, neither willing to move.
Someone yelled for help and Harry turned, their stare broken, but thier connection lingering on, stretching between them like warm taffy in the stubby fingers of a child as Draco disapparated, petrified by the image conjured in his mind, an image of himself standing on the edge of a cliff, a cliff overlooking a field of emerald green flames, and preparing to leap.
Barely maintaining his composure, he had given his report to Lord Voldemort, not surprised that the news of imminent failure left his 'lordship' in a rage, many of his own suffering from his ill temper. As soon as absolutely possible, he'd taken his leave, returning to his room's in Voldemort's new base of operations. He immediately headed for his private bath, bracing himself against the sink while splashing his face with chill water before grabbing a towel to dry off. He stood fully, towel poised, before looking at himself in the mirror hanging over the sink. What he saw rocked him to his core.
The Malfoy genes had alwasy ensured that each new generation had eyes the color of storm clouds, grey and piercing. But that's not what Draco saw when he looked at his reflection, a reflection that had remained barely changed in many a month now.
Though his right eye was the same steely grey, his left eye was a swirling, glittering mercury. It shone silver as muggle Christmas tree tinsel in the reflected candle light.
It was the closet Draco had ever come to fainting.
He quickly decided to hide the color behind the strongest glamour he could muster until he could figure out how to change back permenantly. Though it returned his eye to the usual grey, if his emotions became too erratic, which happened with alarming consistency if his terrifying control slipped but a second, the glamour would weaken and the silver shine through.
Though he didn't know how or why, Draco knew it had something to do with that moment he had shared with Harry, both his eye color and his erratic emotions. The connection, that stubbornly remained steadfast, despite his enormous efforts of will, had been stretched, but had never wavered. He spent weeks remaining in Harry's company as little as possible. However, they had to work together, so avoiding him was not only impossible, but childish, as well.
Instead, he watched him and waited, that rope of simmering emotions so strong, at times he wondered why no else seemed to see it, humming between them in the air like the tongs of a tuning fork. During the War, Harry hadn't seem to notice his attentions and had never mentioned the incident on the battlefield. After the war, the glances that passed between them turned into a unique, wordless communication that, he admitted, if only to himself, he missed on those rare days they didn't happen to see each other.
Thinking himself completely invisible to the Gryffindor,at the moment, it was a shock to come back to himself and realize he was staring into the same jewel-toned eyes that had been haunting his dreams, both awake and sleeping.
So much for not staring, Draco thought, suppressing a slightly frantic laugh.
Why did my curiousity have to plunge into obsession?
To Be Continues
A/N- This is my first attempt at fanfiction, so I'm in desperate need of feedback! reaches down and plugs in big neon "REVIEW PLEASE" sign Thank You!