Title: The Defense of Light and Dark
Author: Prentice
Rating: R
Pairing: Draco/Harry
Spoilers: Post-HBP; During/Post-Hogwarts
Warnings: This is a work-in-progress, therefore completely unedited save for spell-checking and a read-through. Once the story is done, this will be corrected.
Feedback: is cherished and appreciated.
Summary: Desperation is the raw material of change.
Author's Note: This story is very much set after the events of Half-Blood Prince, however, those events will be heavily glossed over and there is a slight fork from canon (that will be explained as the story progresses). Please be sure to read the end notes at the bottom of the page after reading each chapter. They will explain certain aspects of the story that may not be perfectly clear.
Chapter 1: Diagon Alley
"Desperation is the raw material of change. Only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape." – Burroughs, William S.
Early December, 2008
Diagon Alley in winter. Cheerful by most anyone's standards. Cheerful and cold, that is. Not that anyone seemed to notice the latter beyond an uncontrollable shiver here and there. They were too busy smiling, shopping, and laughing. Blissful in their ignorance powered peace.
Draco Malfoy scowled, pulling his worn dragon-hide cloak around himself tighter. He hated winter. He hated everything about it. From the crisp air that burned his lungs and stung his cheeks when he inhaled to the blinding holiday cheer that sprang from every corner nonstop since the beginning of autumn.
It was ridiculous. Completely and wholly asinine and here he was in the thick of it, being jostled about by joyful passersby. His frown deepened, brow wrinkling in disdain, before he was pressing forward through the crowd, ignoring the disapproving glares from mother's herding their children from one store to the next. Like he bloody gave a damn what they thought. Wankers, all of them.
Side stepping through a gaggle of twittering young witches, all of whom were staring starry-eyed at an advertisement of Wizard Wireless Network's latest poster boy, the blonde lifted a hand to his face and scrubbed irritably, barely noticing the scratch of his trimmed beard against his palm.
It was not a new guise, the beard. He'd had it for well over a year now - longer in fact, if you counted the years in which he'd lived without being able to trim or shave it, which he didn't. But now, he hardly noticed it other than the occasional glance in the mirror in the morning to make sure it hadn't grown out overly much.
It was peculiar look for him. Much darker in contrast to the white-blonde hair on his head; his beard grew heavy and thick unlike the thin almost silk-like strands of the rest of his body hair. It swathed his chin and jaw like a blanket, covering his pale features in a golden hue half way down. Light meets dark. Dark meets light. Even on his face. The irony of nature's natural hiccup was not lost, even on him.
Dropping his hand to the edge of his cloak, Draco curled his fingers around the swaying material, gathering it close to his body and out of the way of a hapless passerby. The last thing he needed was a confrontation and Merlin knew he'd have one if someone happened to brush up against him just so, exposing what lay beneath his robes:
Knives, an unsanctioned and untraceable wand, spell protected potion bottles, a talisman, and a deadly viper's fang pendant he wore on a sterling chain around his neck. That was not to mention if someone were to notice the state he was in, the blood on his robes, or the way he seemed to be flitting through the crowd, never meeting a single persons eye for more than a moment or two.
He glanced around, seeing the smiling faces everywhere. No, he definitely didn't want a confrontation. It would only end him in Azkaban. Again. That was not an option.
Scanning the crowd, he managed side stepping of yet another group, young boys this time, whom were staring through a window with gleeful reverence. The latest Quidditch broom, then. It had to be. Only that would inspire such pulling of ranks and glazed wonderment.
The twenty-eight year old shook his head, eyes going back to the swarm of bodies moving around him. Could he ever have been that young? That naïve? That…carefree?
No, probably not. Malfoy's were not raised that way. No contact with the unwashed masses. If he had wanted to see the latest model of racing broom, he would have had to arrange a special viewing after hours or sneak a look while his father or mother was otherwise occupied. No contact with mere mortals for Lucius Malfoy's son.
Bitterness swirled, black and ugly in the pit of his stomach, before he shoved it away, locking it in the recesses of his mind. He would not live in the past. He would not live in the future. He would live now and only now. Always.
Hastening his pace along the bustling cobbled path, he moved with smothered grace, gray eyes scanning in constant vigilance. He was an indistinguishable wizard among other indistinguishable wizards, none of who knew what danger they were in or who he was. That was exactly the way he wanted it.
Early December, 1998
The Three Broomsticks was near to bursting. Normally warm and inviting, strained laughter and semi-whispered conversation rang out from every corner in a synchronization of noise that managed to be both unsettling and unpleasant all at once. Anxiety and frayed nerves hovered in the air thick as goblin's pipe tobacco, making all present acutely aware that times were not as they should be.
Harry Potter sighed, shifting in his seat as he stared blankly into the depths of his half drank butterbeer, shaggy dark bangs laying flat against his forehead, for once managing to obscure his jagged lightening bolt scar. It was better to stare into the amber colored depths than to listen to the frightened whispers around him.
He knew what they would be about, anyway. He always did. There were only a handful of possibilities these days. When they weren't discussing Death Eater attacks in fearful panicked whispers, mourning the loss of those who did not live through them, they were talking about one of three things: The-Boy-Who-Lived, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, or….Dumbledore.
Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.
September, 1840 – June, 1997
Headmaster of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Beloved brother, friend, and mentor.
Champion of the Light.
'Only in Darkness, will the Light truly guide us.'
That was what his memorial, the plaque of shinning gold, said above the bar. The Gryffindor knew it word for word. Letter by letter. It was imprinted in his heart just as surely as it was in his mind.
A great shuddering sigh escaped his lips, the ever present, ever persistent ache in his chest burning and making his throat tight. Madam Rosmerta had the plaque arranged and gilded less than a month ago, securing it high above the bar, in a place of honor, for all to see. Many a Hogwarts student and teacher silently toasted the plaque now, faces mournful and eyes a sea of grief. This war, this Dark Age, was taking away their hope, their light, and leaving them with just this…a plaque on the wall.
Another shift and Harry was pulling his stinging, blurry eyes away from the tablet, forcing him self to glance out the window. Torrents of icy rain splashed the cobbled streets, pebbles of sleet pouncing off warded vendor tables harmlessly. The few witches and wizards that were left out braving the winter storm all moved quickly, despite the fact that a quick casting of umbella would keep most, if not all, of the freezing downpour away.
Harry didn't blame them. Who would wish to be out in a storm? One that so clearly reflected the gloom that hung heavily over everyone nowadays?
He shook his head. Hermione was right; he shouldn't have come here today. He should have stayed away, should have listened to her even as she had scolded him for calmly casting various glamour's upon himself so he could go out for a while, get away.
'It isn't safe, Harry', she had admonished, brown eyes glaring and pleading all at once, 'you could get hurt. You could get worse than hurt!'
'I'll be fine, Hermione. I just need to…get out for a while.' He remembered saying, carefully slipping his wand into his robes and looking at himself in the mirror. A stranger, dark skinned and a tad overweight, stared back at him. The image frowned, lifting a hand to try to flatten his hair over the lightening bolt scar that not even glamour could hide. Harry had done the same, carefully arranging his hair.
'Harry-' Hermione had begun but he cut her off, already knowing what she would say.
'I need this, Hermione. I need this. I need to get away. I need to…to have a moment where I'm not here, where everyone isn't following me around, where Ginny isn't always staring and I don't…there isn't…' his voice had failed him then and he had looked at her helplessly, lifting his shoulder in a half-hearted attempt for her to understand.
Silent moments had passed, his best friend face a mixture of disapproval and empathy. Finally, 'promise you will only go to the Three Broomsticks and back.'
Relief and gratitude surged forth and he couldn't help but hug her, letting out a shaky breath as he felt her arms close around him, squeezing him once, gently in understanding. 'I promise. I'll be back soon.'
'I'll tell everyone you're taking a nap. No one will come looking for you, then. If they do, Ron and I will cover for you.' With that, she had slipped out the door, closing it quietly behind her as though he really were asleep, and leaving him to do as he needed.
Closing his eyes for a moment, Harry sent silent thanks out into the cosmos for whatever he had done to garner such loyal friends. They were definitely one of a kind. He only hoped he deserved them.
TBC
1. Umbella is the Latin form of umbrella.
2. The first half of this story is set a decade in the future (obviously), the second half is set about six-seven months after the events of the Half-Blood Prince.