Of Wizards and Duelists …
XO'MagickMoon'OX
A/N: More OotP dialogue. -sigh- Pretty soon, though, I'm going to stop referring to the OotP. -does a little victory dance- My fic shall be completely my own!
Okay, thanks again to everyone who's reviewed so far! And thanks to all those who don't particularly like yaoi that have stuck with this fic. -huggles- I think it's only fair that I warn you that this chapter is pretty much centered around the relationships between the characters, so, needless to say, it involves a LOT of slash. Hehe, sorry. But, anyway, those who wanted more HarryxDraco (and I don't blame you) there's some more in this chapter, and from here on there'll be at least some (hopefully) in almost every chapter.
Oh, and I wanted to talk to you peoples about the way I spell "magick". No, I do know how to spell, and there's a specific reason I spell it that way. If you look up the word "magic" in the dictionary, one of the definitions will be: "The exercise of sleight of hand or conjuring for entertainment," which is the thing you go see where people in flashy costumes stand on stage and trick everyone into believing that they're doing supernatural things, when in reality, it's all just an illusion. Now don't get me wrong, I love watching magic shows just as much as everyone else, but it's not real magick. If you look up "magick" in the dictionary, it'll have ONE definition, which is: "An action or effort undertaken because of a personal need to effect change, especially as associated with Wicca or Wiccan beliefs." Now, I know that Harry Potter doesn't really have anything to do with Wicca, but the magick they do in HP is supposed to be "real" magick, not illusions and tricks, and therefore I spell it "magick" instead of "magic". Ta-Da! Cower before my logic ...
Oh, and I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to update! I honestly think that this is the longest I've gone without updating. I just have so much to put in this story, and so it takes a while to get all of my thoughts together. Okay, now on with the chapter! Enjoy!
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Draco peeled his green and silver Quidditch robes from his tired body, wincing with each movement. What had he been thinking, provoking the hot-headed Gryffindors? Ah, but it had been worth it, even though he'd been beaten nearly senseless, it had been worth it ...
How pathetic, Draco groaned inwardly, that the only way to even get close to Potter is by goading him into beating me up. When did I sink so bloody low?
Draco pulled off his padding and quickly headed over to the showers to rinse off, removing the rest of his clothing behind the curtain. The hot water felt good on his tender and frozen skin, and the smell of blood was washed away from above his upper lip. He took a little longer than was necessary to shower, not wanting to face his teammates any more than he had to. Failure to catch the Snitch and a Gryffindor beating? Any more humiliation and he'd rather lose himself in the Forbidden Forest than confront his friends.
Finally, once he was pretty certain the changing room was sure to be abandoned, he stepped out from the shower and dried off before heading back to where he'd laid his school clothes to change. Just as he'd thought, the rest of the team was long gone, leaving him completely alone in the changing room. As he was pulling on his pants, however, he felt someone grasp his shoulders.
"AH!" Draco nearly fell off the bench in surprise as a warm laughter sounded behind him. The blonde scowled. "Dammit, Blaise!"
Said boy walked around to stand in front of the other, laughing all the while. Blaise clutched his sides and fell to his knees on the tile floor, much to Draco's annoyance.
"Shut it, Zabini," Draco growled threateningly.
"Calm down, Malfoy," Blaise crooned tauntingly, rising to his feet. "It was all in good fun."
"What do you want?" Draco prompted as he finished putting on his pants and moved on to his shirt.
"Just to check on my friend, is there anything wrong with that?" Blaise inquired innocently, his blue eyes swimming in false concern.
The blonde rolled his eyes, buttoning up his white shirt and then grabbing his black sweater to put over it. Winter may have been his favorite season, but even he was no match for the relentless, icy wind outside and required a decent bit of coverage.
The two were silent for a moment before Blaise finally spoke. "So how did you survive it, being so close to Potter and all?"
Draco's head snapped up, and his hands froze over his boot laces, his metallic eyes flashing menacingly. "Come again?"
"You know what I'm talking about, Draco," Blaise said, blue orbs glinting. "Come on, you know I know how you feel about Potter. I saw you, flying all close to him and everything. No wonder you didn't catch the Snitch; that must have been hell."
Draco's eyes dropped back to his boots, but he didn't resume lacing them. A shadow seemed to have descended upon his features, his expression one of great pain. Blaise had known about his feelings for Harry for almost as long as Draco had, and Blaise had never told a soul, as he'd promised he would. Good friends since second year, there was nothing Draco felt he couldn't tell the slight, dark-haired boy.
"I mean really," Blaise continued, "this is the boy you'd give your right arm to fuck and you're flying right alongside him, so close you could probably feel the heat from his body. Would've distracted me, too."
Draco looked up again, aghast. "Blaise!" he cried. "Do you have to be so crass?"
"Well, it's true!" the dark-haired boy said with an impish grin, sitting down on the bench beside the other. "Just picture it Draco, Potter writhing beneath you, his body glistening with sweat, every nerve tingling with insurmountable pleasure, him screaming your name –"
"BLAISE!" Draco whined exasperatedly, his pants feeling uncomfortably tight. He hurried to pull on his robes, drawing them around him to cover himself up, but Blaise had already seen. His smile widened as he stifled a laugh. Draco glared at him. "If you weren't my friend, I'd curse you in a second."
Blaise just sat there, grinning wickedly at his flustered companion.
Draco finished dressing and tied his boots. Then he turned to Blaise and said, "You make it seem like I feel nothing but lust for Potter."
Blaise shrugged nonchalantly. "Yeah, well ..."
"Blaise, you more than anyone should know that it's more than that. I love him ..." Draco blushed and stared fixedly down at the tile floor.
Blaise's smile faded then, and he put a hand on Draco's shoulder. "Yeah, I know," he said softly. Then, he stood, and announced, "Well, we better get going."
Draco stood, too, and nodded, pulling on his scarf and hat, and shouldering his bag before following Blaise out of the changing room.
---
Later that night, Harry and Hermione sat alone in the Gryffindor common room, Harry still fuming from the ban Professor Umbridge had place on him, Fred, and George. Banned from ever playing Quidditch again? What sort of punishment was that, just for a fistfight? She was insane! No, she was evil, now Harry was sure of it.
Yuugi had gone to bed, just like everyone else, Ryou had gone to visit Malik at the Ravenclaw tower (and hadn't returned yet, despite the late hour), and Ron was still out somewhere, wallowing no doubt. Harry and Hermione were sitting beside the hearth, the roaring flames mirroring Harry's passionate hate for Umbridge. I HATE her, he thought heatedly. I hate her just as much as I hate Snape … and Malf – He paused. … as much as I hate Ma –
I hate –
I ha –
I …
Harry frowned, panic beginning to stir within his chest. Why did he find himself unable to finish that statement? He hated Malfoy, so what was the problem? He hated him …
Didn't he?
"Harry?"
Harry snapped out of his disconcerting thoughts to find Hermione watching him.
"Are you okay?"
It was then that he realized that his brow was furrowed into a puzzled frown, and his fists were clenched tightly upon the tabletop. He relaxed and murmured, "'S nothing."
Hermione regarded him skeptically. "There's something bothering you, besides Umbridge's punishment, isn't there?"
Harry thought for a moment. Pushing Malfoy and Umbridge from his mind, he remembered something that had been bothering him … bothering him greatly … before the match. With a start, he remembered Cho and Malik, and his heart began to sink. Hermione had known that there was something bothering him for a while now, ever since Malik, Ryou, and Yuugi had joined "Dumbledore's Army". He remembered her prodding him once about a week ago after their most recent meeting, and he had dismissed her concern. Now however, he felt the need to get his worries out in the open.
"It's about Malik," he began softly.
Hermione leaned forward, listening intently.
"I think Cho fancies him."
The bushy-haired girl caught herself before she burst out laughing, and only a smile betrayed her amusement. "That's what's been worrying you?" she asked, still grinning.
Harry's brows knit into an irritated frown at the sight of her reaction. How could she find anything funny in what he thought was a very disheartening matter? "Yes," he replied tersely. "What's so funny? You know I fancy her. How would you like it if you found out that Ron fancied someone else?"
Hermione's eyes widened, and her face paled. Up until now, she hadn't thought that her crush on the redhead had been obvious, and wondered fleetingly if it was as evident to Ron as it was to Harry.
As if catching her thought, Harry said, "He doesn't know."
Hermione visibly relaxed, sitting back and watching Harry with a curious twinkle in her eye, a glint the raven-haired boy was sure wasn't a reflection of the fire. "Maybe you should just tell Cho he's gay; I'm sure she'd lose interest pretty quickly."
Harry rolled his eyes. "That still won't make her like me any more than she does now. And I don't make a habit of going around and telling people about my friends' personal matters. I just … I really liked her, you know?"
"'Liked'?" Hermione echoed. "You mean you don't like her anymore?"
Harry froze, replaying what he'd just said in his mind. "Uh … no, I do still like it her … it's just … uh …" He turned to Hermione. "I do still like her, don't I?"
His friend giggled. "Why on earth are you asking me?"
Harry shook his head. "Forget it. The point is … I just … I feel betrayed, like Malik stole her from me. She's the first girl I've ever really felt so much for."
"Well, you can't blame Malik for being attractive; all the girls fancy him –"
"I know."
"– and I think that maybe … Cho just wasn't meant for you. Maybe … Maybe there's already someone out there who … fancies you, or perhaps even loves you."
Harry looked inquiringly at Hermione. "Loves me? In this school? Who? You don't mean Ginny, do you, because she already has a –"
"No, no, not Ginny," Hermione said, waving her hand dismissively.
"Then who? Who else could there be that would be in love with me?"
Hermione shrugged unknowingly, but Harry wasn't fooled. This was Hermione, she knew everything.
"What are you hiding?" he demanded.
Before he could press her any further, Ron walked in.
Hermione turned her sights on him, jumping up. "Where have you been?" she cried worriedly.
"Walking," Ron replied. To his friends' great surprise, he was still wearing his Quidditch robes, which were damp from the snow that was swirling through the blackened sky outside.
"You look frozen," Hermione said. "Come and sit down!"
Ron did as he was told, choosing the chair by the hearth that was farthest from Harry.
He looked guiltily down at his boots. "I'm sorry."
"What for?" Harry wondered.
"For thinking I can play Quidditch. I'm going to resign first thing tomorrow."
"If you resign," Harry said as Umbridge resurfaced in his mind, "there'll only be three players left on the team." Ron passed him an inquisitive look, and Harry explained, "I've been given a lifetime ban. So've Fred and George."
Ron looked aghast. Hermione recounted everything that had happened after he'd left the Quidditch pitch. Harry just sat, sulking in his chair, staring into the flames as if it were all their fault. Once Hermione had finished, Ron looked horrified and more guilty than ever.
"This is all my fault –"
"You didn't make me punch Malfoy," Harry snapped.
"– if I wasn't so lousy at Quidditch –"
"– it's got nothing to do with that –"
"– it was that song that wound me up –"
"– it would've wound anyone up –"
Hermione stood and walked to stand beside the window, gazing out its frosty pane at the snowflakes falling from the inky sky, coating the ground in a white powder.
"Look, drop it, will you!" Harry nearly shouted. "It's bad enough without your blaming yourself for everything!"
Ron said nothing for a moment. He just gazed fixedly down at his robes, fingering the damp material. Then, he said, "This is the worst I've ever felt in my life."
"Join the club," Harry mumbled.
Hermione's wavering voice broke the tension in the room. "Well," she said, turning from the window. "I can think of one thing that might cheer you both up."
"Oh yeah?" Harry said skeptically, looking up at her.
"Yeah," said Hermione as her lips curved up into a smile. "Hagrid's back."
---
Ryou and Malik were situated on the cobalt blue sofa in the deserted Ravenclaw common room. It was dark, the only light emanating from the dying fire, the coals of which burned bright orange in the hearth. Malik lay behind the other boy, his arm wrapped around Ryou's waist, the white-haired teen snuggling into Malik's embrace. Ryou gazed down at the floor at their discarded robes that were splayed like shadows across the carpet alongside their uniform sweaters and ties. This left them comfortably in their white, button-front shirts and neat, cotton pants. The buttons on Ryou's shirt were undone down to his navel, and his hair was somewhat mussed, as was Malik's blonde mane. Anyone who was to walk in on the two might be able to speculate as to their recent activities. Luckily, everyone had retreated for some reason or another to their dorms for the night, leaving the couple in peaceful seclusion.
Malik twirled a lock of Ryou's snowy hair around his finger, breathing calmly the scent of the other boy, which was sweet and tranquil, like rain. "You smell nice," he murmured in Ryou's ear.
Ryou turned his head a little so that he was looking over his shoulder at the blonde. "I do?"
"Mmhm. I like it. I like everything about you." Malik pecked the white-haired boy affectionately on the cheek.
Ryou smiled. "… Thanks." He turned his head back so that he was looking again at their clothes on the carpet, the orange glare of the embers dancing across the floor. After a moment of silence, he said, "You know, no one's ever treated me like this before."
"Like what?" Malik asked.
"Like they care about me, like I matter."
"Of course you matter!"
"Not to Bakura, I don't."
Malik blinked. "Why do you care what Bakura thinks? He's never treated you nicely."
"I don't know," Ryou said softly. "I just … I don't know why he hates me so much."
"He hates everyone."
"But he hates me the most. He always hurts me, and I'm afraid that he'll hurt my friends. That's why I've never gotten close to anyone, why I keep to myself. I don't want him to hurt the people I care about."
"He hasn't hurt me yet," Malik pointed out.
"… That's only because Yuugi's yami is holding him back. I know he'd love to rip you apart if he got the chance," Ryou said darkly, his expression pained at the thought.
"I won't let him touch me," Malik said definitely. "And I won't let him hurt you."
"You can't stop him from hurting me. Although ..." Ryou thought for a moment. "… he really hasn't been hurting me … lately. He's not even in the Ring, most of the time. He's always out talking with the Pharaoh or floating around the school. And whenever he is in the Ring, he closes himself off from the mind-link so I can't tell what's going on with him. It's as if he's hiding something." Ryou frowned. "It's rather odd, really."
Malik was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Ah, don't worry about him. If he's staying away from you, then I say you should take it as a blessing." He pulled Ryou back and rolled over on top of him, meeting his chocolate gaze squarely. "I know I do." Then he leaned down and captured Ryou's lips with his own.
Ryou felt himself melt into Malik as the blonde moved his soft lips against Ryou's, and again he had the sensation of soaring as he had had earlier, soaring above every problem and every woe into a simple paradise of chaste bliss, a paradise held behind his closed eyelids, where the darkness that normally filled one's vision was muted by beautiful light that radiated from his heart. Even the weight that should have been Malik laying on top of him was reduced to nothing by the sheer emotion of the kiss. Instinctively, Ryou wrapped his arms around the blonde's waist, pulling him closer, as if he could absorb the boy into his body and they could become one. As Malik slipped his tongue between Ryou's lips, Ryou felt an almost scalding warmth drip down his throat and melt over his racing heart, searing pleasurably through his chest and spreading down his body like the rosy fingers of dawn stretching through the nighttime sky, glowing tendrils reaching down through his stomach to his waist through his legs to the very tips of his toes, making him feel warm and serene all over.
Finally, Malik pulled away, breathing deeply and smiling down at Ryou, who dreamily smiled back. Malik leaned down and pressed his lips against the soft, ivory skin of Ryou's neck, sliding his hands in between them to caress the boy's exposed chest and ghosting his fingertips over the heated flesh down to his navel. Ryou felt his spine automatically arch under the touch, though the action was very much hindered by Malik's weight on top of him. Ryou clenched his fist around a lock of Malik's pale-blonde hair, his head rolling back to expose more of his neck, which Malik was drawing his tongue across in a most sensual way that made Ryou's heart, if at all possible, beat faster and his breathing become shorter and more erratic. The embers in the hearth suddenly flared in a brief bout of life, as if spurred by the boys' growing passion, temporarily illuminating the room in a soft orange before dying completely, plunging the room into almost-darkness. The only light came from the window, where the waxing moon was hanging outside in the black velvet stretch of sky.
Malik alternated between kissing and licking Ryou's flushed skin as the blonde trailed down the other's neck, moving to his collarbone, and then further down to his chest. Ryou had never felt so pleasured before, so hungry and desperate, so at the mercy of another yet not frightened a bit. He wanted Malik, and knew that Malik wanted him; he wanted Malik to have him, wanted so badly to stay with Malik and never have to be in anyone else's company, never have to face the world again. He wished the moon outside would encase them in its light and lock them away in time where moments like these would never fade, where he would forever feel safe and loved.
Finally, just as the blonde reached the end of his ministrations at Ryou's navel, where he refused to go further, he crawled back up to the white-haired teen's mouth and planted one last, chaste kiss on Ryou's soft lips, which immediately turned up in a smile. Malik took a moment to catch his breath, resting his head on Ryou's slightly heaving chest. Ryou absentmindedly twisted locks of Malik's stardust-blonde hair around his pale, slender fingers.
Then, Malik sat up and dug his elbows into the couch on either side of Ryou, propping his face in his hands so he could meet the smaller boy's half-lidded gaze squarely. His violet orbs roved over Ryou's face, taking in every detail, memorizing every contour with the loving scrutiny of one who never wanted to forget the person at whom they were looking, one who wanted that face burned into their retinas, wanted that face to be imprinted behind their eyelids so that every time they closed their eyes all they saw was that face. And Malik was one such person.
Malik then shifted, rolling to the left onto his side so that Ryou had to roll to the right, putting them in the same position they had been in earlier, with Malik lying behind Ryou, his arm wrapped around the boy's waist, nuzzling his nose into the back of Ryou's neck, and Ryou staring into the black void of the Ravenclaw common room. Ryou closed his eyes and felt nothing but a comforting warmth all around him as sleep began to overcome him.
"Did you know, Ryou," Malik said after moments of silence, "that you are the most beautiful person I've ever seen?"
Ryou opened his eyes halfway, a smile making its way across his lips. He sighed in response.
Malik continued, reaching over Ryou's shoulder to caress his cheek, "Not only are you beautiful here," his hand slid down from the smaller boy's face to his chest, where the blonde could feel the steady beating of Ryou's heart pulsing beneath his fingertips, "but you're beautiful here. And that," he tightened his embrace around the boy, "is why … I love you."
" … "
"Ryou?"
" … "
Malik let out a small, amused chuckle. Apparently the white-haired boy had fallen asleep. He rubbed his cheek against Ryou's soft, white mane before murmuring, "Goodnight."
Ryou's brown eyes bored into the black hearth as Malik's breathing became deep and steady, sleep taking the Egyptian into its arms. Malik believed Ryou to be asleep, but after Malik's confession, Ryou was anything but. And though it only seemed fitting that Ryou return the admission of love, he found the words stuck on the tip of his tongue, refusing to leave his lips.
---
He was cold … very cold. The wind swept in great gusts over the desert, over him, sending goosebumps all over his exposed body. The sand blew into his face, miniscule grains pelting at his arms and chest and stomach and thighs and legs … he was naked. Almost. Well, no, he was naked, as the shackles clamped around his wrists, neck, and ankles couldn't count as clothing. No, he was naked. The heavy, iron chains hung limply from the metal clamped tightly around his pale flesh that was raw and bleeding. Yes, bleeding … profusely. The bittersweet, liquid scarlet ran down his chest from the shackle around his throat, trickled down his wrists, pooled around his feet as the cold iron bit painfully into his skin. And he was crying. He shouldn't have been, though …
Because Malfoys never cried in the face of physical pain.
But, nevertheless, the tears fell down his wind-bitten cheeks in crystal trails, stinging the tender flesh of his face. The sun that hung over the desert was veiled by thick, pearly gray clouds, covering the dunes in shade and leaving the wind to cool the area. The wind howled across the sand in mocking patterns, gusting around Draco and spitting the sand in his face. The tears fell heavier, placing him on the brink of uncontrollable sobbing. He would've raised his hands to his face to cover his shame, but the shackles were unbearably heavy, the chains weighing his wrists down, pain shooting up his arms from the stinging welts rubbed into his raw flesh. But it didn't matter; there wasn't anyone around to see him in all his wretched glory.
The wind suddenly abated, though only enough to cease its taunting howling and gusting, quelling down to a cool breeze coasting over the desert sands. The hairs on the back of Draco's neck stood on end in warning, his skin turning to ice, as if his heart had frozen and was chilling him from the inside out.
He wasn't alone.
He looked up, willing his tear-blurred vision to clear. Then, his heart jumped, sending blood pounding through his body as it simultaneously drained from his face. His silver eyes widened as they met the emerald gaze of …
Harry Potter.
Draco whimpered, immediately folding his body and dropping to his knees to cover himself as much as possible. Though, as he looked back at Harry standing in the sand naught but six feet from him (fully clothed, the blonde noted enviously), he noticed that the boy didn't seem bothered in the least by Draco's nudity. It was as if he didn't even know that Draco was naked. Maybe … Maybe he wasn't, in Harry's eyes.
Despite Harry's sudden presence, Draco couldn't stop his tears from falling, couldn't hide his shame and wretchedness … his body covered in blood, his iron binds cutting into his skin, his sobbing, his pain and fear and self-loathing, his distress and anguish. Everything was laid out before Harry's eyes, and yet the raven-haired boy didn't seem fazed. He took a few more steps towards the crouching blonde, stirring the grains beneath his feet as he did so. The wind tousled his dark locks, blowing them this way and that, and the pale light graced his features with an almost ethereal demeanor, making the boy all the more …
… beautiful … at least, in Draco's eyes.
The blonde was barely breathing as Harry simply stood there before him, staring down at him with unchanging, emerald eyes void of any intense emotion. "Why are you sitting like that, Malfoy?" he asked, sounded genuinely curious.
"What are you …? You mean … you can't see …?" Even through his tear-thickened voice, his wonder was evident. Harry really couldn't tell that he was bare? A strange sense of relief flooded him then, but was quickly replaced with another worry.
Why was Harry here?
This was bad. Draco was here, Harry was here, and they were all alone, and Draco was naked, goddammit! Who's twisted idea was this? It was clear that day by day, Draco's longing grew. His longing to show Harry how much he loved him and his longing for Harry to return that love. And not all of his longings were simply for chaste love, but for things darker and more passionate. Every time he saw Harry smile, Draco wanted nothing more than to drop what he was doing and pin the boy up against the wall, to claim that mouth that smiled in a way that affected him so. But it was hopeless, it was all hopeless … Harry didn't love him, and, as far as Draco knew, he never would. The blonde would live day by day, year by year, always thinking about Harry, always yearning for his touch, for his kiss, for his love … but never getting it.
"Hopeless …" Draco whispered, his word carried away on the gentle breeze sweeping through the desert.
"Pardon?" Harry looked confused.
"Nothing," Draco murmured, getting slowly to his feet. He winced as the iron shackles ground into his open wounds, blood still seeping from the gashes beneath the metal. Surprisingly, the loss of blood didn't seem to be life-threatening, however much the injuries stung. Tears were still rolling silently down Draco's face; he didn't seem to be able to make them stop, and, quite frankly, he didn't care anymore.
Suddenly, Harry gasped. Draco jumped, startled, and wondered if the green-eyed boy had finally noticed the blonde's nudity, his heart beginning to race with panic. He felt a blush start to creep beneath his face until he noticed that something wasn't right. He blinked, looking Harry straight in the eye, and realized that his normally sharp, emerald orbs were clouded, made a dull jade-green. He was in pain … and he was deathly pale … and … oh God, Draco thought.
Blood.
A scarlet drop was trickling from Harry's lip … but not from his lip, rather, from behind it, as if the blood were coming from within his mouth. The rose-red liquid trickled down Harry's chin, dripping into the sand and leaving a ruby stain on the grains. Draco watched, horrified, unable to move, unable to speak …
Then, there came a gag from within Harry's throat, his face contorted in pain as he dropped to his knees, pained tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. He clutched at his stomach, gasping.
Finally gaining control of his frozen senses, Draco knelt down next to the boy and asked nervously, "Potter … what's wrong?"
"Nnng …" Harry groaned in response, pulling his arms away from his midriff. Draco looked down and gasped. His hands and forearms were coated in thick, scarlet blood.
"Potter!" Draco grabbed Harry's shoulders, tried to get the stunned boy to look at him, but no sooner had he touched the raven-haired boy than his olive skin flaked from his face. Draco pulled back, horrified, as Harry met his metallic gaze. The blonde let out a strangled sob, his hand raising to clasp over his mouth as tears rolled freely down his face. Harry's eyes were …
Dead.
Harry was dead. The boy crumbled into dust and blew away on the wind, blood and all. Draco's heart, like a glass figurine, shattered into a million tiny pieces, the shards piercing his body, numbing him from the inside out. He had never known his heart could break so badly, never known heartache could be so … painful. It hurt, oh God, it hurt! He was left alone in the desert with the memory of those haunting, empty eyes burned into his mind, sobbing uncontrollably, each cry and gasp shuddering through his body as he clawed desperately at the sand where Harry had been. He was gone.
The pain was unbearable, the pain of the shackles grinding into his wounds, his blood flowing freely. He was now practically covered in his own blood, down his chest and stomach, his ankles, his hands and arms … it was pooling in a scarlet puddle around him … blending with the tears falling in crystal drops from his face. His throat was raw from sobbing, his naked body trembling uncontrollably.
"No," he whispered as the wind began to attack the desert once more, gusting and blowing fervently. His voice was lost amidst the howling. Sand blew into his face, his eyes, pelting his exposed flesh like miniscule bullets, stinging, burning … "NO!" he shouted, loud enough to be heard above the wind. "NO! NO! NO! NO! Oh God, NO!…"
He kept shouting it over and over again, as if the words could bring Harry back.
But they couldn't. Harry was dead.
---
"NO!" Draco gasped, eyes flying open. He bolted upright, grasping at his chest. "NO!" he repeated. "No, no, no …" He was breathing so erratically that his lungs felt as if they were on fire. His eyes stung with tears, tears that were flowing freely, shamelessly down his face. His hand flew to his mouth to stifle his cries and gasps, lest he wake his roommates.
But it was too late. Already, there were groggy murmurs sounding in the darkness of the dorm. One such murmur seemed to have come from right beside him, though it was not tired in the least, but rather, frightened and worried.
"Draco!" It was Blaise. "Draco, what's wrong?"
The blonde felt the edge of his bed dip as his friend climbed onto it. Blaise reached through the darkness and felt Draco's face, drawing a sharp breath at the warm tears he found there.
"Draco, are you … crying?" Blaise whispered.
"He's dead!" Draco gasped frantically, clutching Blaise's shoulders. "He's dead!"
"Who's dead?" Blaise asked calmly, trying to sooth his obviously distraught and disoriented friend.
"Him!" Draco answered, knowing that Blaise would understand whom he meant.
"… Oh. Draco, it was just a nightmare. Calm down," the slight boy coaxed gently.
Draco leaned back against his pillow, wiping the tears from his cheeks. His face was so wet; it seemed as if he'd been crying in his sleep for quite a bit of time. His throat was raw and sore, his breathing and heart just beginning to slow back to normal paces.
"Better?" Blaise murmured.
"Mmhm." Draco felt so pathetic. Who was he to be sobbing like this, crying like a lost child? Pathetic. "… Thanks," he whispered awkwardly. It wasn't in a Slytherin's nature to express gratitude easily, or to cry, for that matter, in which case Draco had defied two laws of the unwritten Slytherin code in one night.
Then again, it also wasn't in a Slytherin's nature to fall in love with a Gryffindor … Harry Potter, no less, the picture of pure Slytherin contrast.
"Is Draco all right?" came Crabbe's tired voice from the other side of the room.
"Yeah," Blaise answered. "Yeah, he's all right. Everyone go back to sleep."
No one argued.
"Are you going to be okay?" Blaise asked as he slipped off the bed.
"Yes."
Draco heard the rustle of pajamas and shuffle of feet across the carpet, followed by the groan of the mattress as Blaise climbed back into bed. "All right. G'night, Draco."
"G'night," the blonde responded, laying down and pulling the covers around him. Although, he didn't think that "goodnight" was the appropriate phrase for that moment, as it was most likely nearly dawn.
Nevertheless, Draco closed his eyes. Those haunting, dead, green orbs stared back at him. He choked back another sob before falling into an uneasy sleep.
---
The next morning, Draco awoke to an empty dorm. He'd obviously slept late, which wouldn't surprise him, seeing that he'd slept so uneasily after he'd awoken from his nightmare.
His nightmare …
He threw the covers off and swung his feet around the edge of the bed, raking his fingers through his pale locks, which immediately fell into place. He quickly changed into a pair of jeans and a black sweater, slipping on his socks and shoes before heading down to the Great Hall, hoping to catch the end of breakfast. He was also hoping that Blaise would still be down there; he needed desperately to talk to the boy and unburden the details of his nightmare, which were weighing his heart down like a lead ball.
As he trekked down the staircase and stepped into the Slytherin common room, he began thinking. Okay, so it wasn't the first time he'd dreamed of Harry. It definitely wasn't the first time he'd dreamed of Harry. But, it was the first time he'd dreamed of the boy dying. Draco shuddered at the thought. Although, he had dreamed before of himself naked, and he'd before dreamed of blood and chains … also deserts and howling winds … and tears. He was always crying in the dreams involving the aforementioned symbols: nudity, blood, chains, deserts, wind … it all had to mean something. He'd never really considered that before, but now that they had done dream interpretation in Divination, he was beginning to wonder if the dreams could really mean something.
Draco suddenly remembered the Defense Against the Dark Arts class of their third year, how Professor Lupin had done boggarts with them. Draco hadn't had a chance to face the creature, as pretty much was the same with half the class, after Lupin had interrupted Harry's turn and ended the demonstration straight away. He now wondered what the boggart would have turned into for him. He'd never given it much thought before, but now he was certain that if he were to face a boggart it would become Harry …
Dead.
With those same lifeless green eyes, dulled to a pale shade of green by death, their usual spark and zeal absent, the emotions gone forever … as well as Harry himself. Gone … forever … dead. Just the thought almost made Draco cry again. He didn't know what he'd do if anything ever happened to Harry, didn't know what he'd do if Harry were to die. Draco clearly remembered his heart … how it had broken … He was sure he had never felt pain such as that before … oh God, it had hurt like hell. He was sure if he was made to endure that pain for the rest of his life, it would kill him.
Draco was pulled from his thoughts as he entered the Great Hall, surrounded by the comforting, familiar, warm atmosphere, the sky above a pale, pearly gray. Just like it had been in my dream, Draco noted. Yes, he remembered, the sky that had hung over the desert in his nightmare had been a winter sky, a sheet of gleaming gray, soft and shadowed. What could that possibly mean …?
"Draco!"
Draco stopped in his tracks at the sound of his name and looked around. He blinked, turning. He had walked passed his usual seat at the Slytherin table, the whole time staring up at the ceiling. He hurried back to his friends, suppressing the embarrassed blush threatening to creep across his face. He sat down with brief "good mornings" and "hellos" before pulling toast and bacon onto his plate. He grabbed an apple from a nearby bowl, the skin a bright, healthy green.
"So what happened last night, Draco?" Goyle immediately asked.
"Oh … I just … er … had a nightmare, is all," Draco answered vaguely. He leaned to his right and whispered to Blaise, "Which I need to talk to you about later."
Blaise nodded and took a sip of his juice.
"Oh, my poor Draco," Pansy crooned mockingly.
"Sod off, Parkinson," the blonde growled, metallic eyes flashing.
Conversation drifted onto different topics, and soon breakfast was over. Students began to file out, but Blaise and Draco stayed behind, taking the advantage of weekend liberties such as lingering in the Hall between meals. Once everyone within earshot was gone, Blaise turned to Draco.
"So?" he began. "What's up?"
"I need you to help me interpret my nightmare," Draco answered.
"You want to … interpret it?" Blaise wondered.
"Yes."
The brunette took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he shrugged. "All right. Let's get up to the library."
"Why the library?" Draco inquired as they stood from the table.
"Where else do you plan to find dream interpretation texts?"
"What about our Divination books?"
"Those are a load of rubbish. I mean, come on, this is Trelawney we're talking about. No, there are bound to be better ones in the library."
With that said, the two boys headed upstairs to begin their task, Draco all the while going over his dream again. Nudity, blood, chains, deserts, wind, tears … didn't sound too promising.
---
"I tried to warn him," Hermione said with remorse. "He just wasn't having any of it."
Harry, Ron, Hermione, Yuugi, Ryou, and Malik were making their way up to the library to work on their homework. Earlier that morning, Hermione had gone out to Hagrid to warn him about Umbridge. She was keeping tabs on all the teachers and weeding out the ones that were "unsatisfactory", which, in her case, meant "a danger to the Ministry". Although, she had put Trelawney on probation; there weren't many that would argue with that decision. But now that Hagrid was back, she was sure to swoop down on him like a hawk and immediately begin picking at his flaws until he, too, was on probation. Harry, Ron, and Hermione would not allow that. Hermione had tried to urge Hagrid to pick up Professor Grubbly-Plank's lessons, which were far more … normal … than any of Hagrid's lessons had ever been. Harry and Ron had told Ryou, Yuugi, and Malik all about Hagrid that morning at breakfast, and from what they heard, he was a wonderful guy with an uncanny interest in dangerous creatures. He was also half giant, and he lived in the hut down by the Forbidden Forest. He was not just a teacher, but a friend, and a good one at that, who was always ready to help any who needed it. He had helped Harry, Ron, and Hermione on numerous occasions, and just the thought of him on probation made their hate for Umbridge flare anew.
The group reached the library and headed for the back where it was sure to be the quietest and the most secluded, a place where they could not only do their homework, but discuss topics that would otherwise land them in trouble, were they heard talking about such things. To their surprise, the area in the back of the library was not abandoned, as it usually was, but being used by two students …
Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini.
They were sitting across from one another, Blaise flipping through a book, a pile of other books stacked beside him. Draco was sitting there, looking paler than usual. He looked up as the group turned round a bookcase into the secluded area and groaned … almost wearily.
"What are you doing here?" he snapped, though his voice lacked its usual edge, which nearly startled the others.
"We'd like to ask you the same thing," Harry said, instinctively glaring at the blonde.
But Draco wasn't glaring back. It was more like … staring … and as he did so, what little color he had left in his face faded, making him look like some porcelain doll. Harry couldn't be certain, but he was sure he saw pain reflected in Draco's silver eyes.
Whatever the emotion had been, it was soon gone as Draco scowled, obviously annoyed. "What does it look like we're doing? We're researching. Come on, Potter, I knew you were stupid, but slow, too?"
Harry opened his mouth to retort, but Hermione cut him off.
"Researching what?" she wondered, trying to steal a glance at one of the book titles.
"None of your bloody business." Draco snatched the pile of books off the table, pushing them away so that no one could see the titles. "Point is, if you're looking for privacy, you'll have to go elsewhere."
Harry and Ron looked ready to say something, but they were led away before the words could escape their mouths. Hermione took them by the arms and motioned for the others to follow. Soon they were out of earshot of the two Slytherins, and she sat down at a table. It wasn't as secluded as the other area had been, but it would do.
"So what do you reckon they were really doing here?" Ron said as the rest of them sat down, too.
"I think they were … researching," Hermione answered.
"Researching what?" Yuugi wondered.
"Dream interpretation," Hermione and Malik said in unison. Malik, too, had caught one of the book titles and inferred as to what the volume was about.
"Something for Trelawney?" Ron mused.
"No, we finished dream interpretation a while ago," Ryou pointed out.
"Whatever. Let's stop worrying about those gits and get to work," Hermione suggested.
The others nodded in agreement as they took out their books, parchment, and quills.
Atemu and Bakura were standing not too far away from the group, though far enough that their hosts couldn't hear them. They had seen the entire exchange between the Slytherins and the group, and had heard the little conversation the six had just had.
"So, you think Draco's been having troubling dreams?" Bakura wondered, grinning wickedly.
"Let's find out," Atemu said with a less roguish air. The spirits drifted towards the back of the library where Draco and Blaise were still flipping through the volumes.
"Ah, here we go," Blaise said, pointing at a passage in the text. "'NUDITY'. It says here that 'When one finds himself naked in his dream and is frightened or startled, it implies that he has a secret he feels isn't very secret. He feels that everyone can see right through him, that he's as transparent as glass, that he's naked with everything laid out before the eyes of others.'"
Draco shook his head. "But, he didn't seem to be able to tell that –"
"'However'," Blaise interrupted, still reading, "'if others in the dream seem not to notice the nudity of the dreamer, it implies that he is afraid of his secret being found out or his façade being uncovered, although in reality, his secret is still a secret. No one else can see through him. It can also represent the dreamer's desire (and failure) to be noticed or found out.'" Blaise turned to Draco and said in a hushed voice, "So, I suppose it means that … well, since Potter was the only other person in your dream, you're afraid of him learning how you really feel about him, but at the same time wishing he knew."
Draco nodded, swallowing a lump in his throat.
"Okay," Blaise said, going back to the book. "What else? Chains? Okay … 'C' … 'C' … 'C' …" He began flipping through the pages again. "Ah, here we go. 'CHAINS'. 'If one finds himself chained in his dream, then it signifies that some part of him is being forcefully held back. Emotions, desires, ambitions are being suppressed'… 'feels chained' … 'locked up inside' … and so on. That's pretty much self-explanatory. Your chained emotions … Not telling Potter how you feel."
"And I was bleeding because of the chains," Draco reminded. "The shackles were digging into my skin … I was bleeding from the one at my neck, the ones at my wrists, and the ones at my ankles … It really hurt." The blonde absentmindedly massaged his wrist, as if the memory stung.
"Okay … blood." Blaise flicked a couple pages back. "'BLOOD'. 'If one is bleeding or losing blood in his dream, it implies that he is physically or emotionally exhausted and drained. He is suffering from the strain.' Well, if you were bleeding because of the chains, I suppose it means you're feeling 'emotionally exhausted' from the strain of keeping your feelings locked up."
Draco chuckled dryly. "Yeah, I suppose so."
"All right. Next? Weren't you in a desert?"
"Yeah, but what would a desert have to do with any –"
"Well …" Blaise turned to the "D's", "'Deserts represent feelings of loneliness, feelings of isolation and hopelessness. The dreamer feels like he is lost in a desert, all alone and utterly hopeless, never to be rescued.' I'd say the desert has a lot to do with this."
The words that registered most strongly with Draco were "hopeless" and "alone". Even amongst a group of friends, thinking of Harry made him lonely, a loneliness that only the raven-haired boy's company could satisfy, and the fact that Harry didn't love him, or even like him, for that matter, made a heavy sense of hopelessness settle itself in his heart. He'd come to accept both aspects of his feelings towards Harry and learned to live with them, but apparently they still bothered him, as they manifested themselves in his dreams.
"There was wind," Draco murmured.
Blaise looked up at Draco for a second before returning to the pages and flipping them back. "Wind … wind … wind … ah, 'WHIRLWIND', 'WIND', 'WINDMILL', 'WINDOW' … … just wind?"
"Yeah, really strong winds, like howling winds."
"Okay … 'WIND'. 'Blowing, breezy winds …' … er … ah, here we go. 'If one dreams of strong, gusting winds, it signifies turmoil. Stress and emotional strain, represented by the restless, relentless winds. There is some sort of chaos or distress currently in his life.'"
"You can say that again," Draco mumbled, dropping his gaze to the tabletop.
Blaise turned his blue eyes worriedly on his friend, watching him with great concern. "What else?" he prompted.
Draco thought back. "Tears …" he murmured. "I was crying … sobbing, really."
Blaise ruffled through the book again, coming to rest on the page with the "T's". "'TEARS'. 'When one dreams of himself crying, it implies that there is some sort of healing taking place in his life.'"
Draco snorted. "Yeah, right."
Blaise skimmed the passage. "Wait, here's something. 'Tears can often be forewarning, predicting a calamity. One's life might be stricken with some sort of tragedy or disaster in the near or distant future.'"
Draco drew a sharp breath. "Are you serious?" he said, his voice wavering considerably.
"I wish I wasn't, mate," Blaise replied, again flipping through the pages. "Now, you also said that Potter was bleeding, wasn't he? And he died. Let's see what it says about that." He went back to the beginning skimmed the page with all of the "B's". "Well, when you're not the one bleeding, it just says that seeing blood … well … blood symbolizes '… life, passion, love … as well as disappointment.' –"
"No," Draco interrupted. "It … Potter bleeding in my dream … it didn't seem symbolic. It seemed … normal, as if it could really happen. He was bleeding from his side … like he was stabbed, and then he died. It just … it felt … almost real. Like a premonition." The blonde felt a shiver run through his body, the thought that Harry might really die filling him with a leaden sense of horrible dread.
"Oh don't be so morbid. I think that just seeing him bleeding represented …" Blaise lowered his voice, leaning closer to Draco, "maybe your love for him."
The other shook his head, although wishing with all his heart that Blaise was right and he was wrong.
"Well." Blaise turned back to the book. "How about death? Let's see what is says about that …" He went forward a bit, flicking through the "C's" to come up to the "D's". "'DEATH'. 'If one dreams about the death of a loved one, it might imply that there is a certain aspect which the loved one embodies that you lack. One must ask himself what it is about the said person that makes them special to him or what it is that he likes about them. Whatever that is is what the dreamer is lacking in his relationship or circumstance. The death of this loved one might also suggest that whatever it is that the person represents is absent in the dreamer's own life.'" Blaise's cobalt eyes met Draco's dark, metallic gaze. The slight boy brushed a stray lock of brown hair from his face. "Well? What is it that you like about Potter?"
The blonde's gaze became suddenly thoughtful as he looked down at his hands, and his lips turned up in a slight smile. "Everything," he answered. "There's not just one thing that I can name. It's everything, everything that I like about him. I can't explain it …" He frowned. "Just like I can't explain how I know that his death in my dream wasn't symbolic. I think it was a vision, Blaise. I think he's going to die." Draco folded his arms across the tabletop and laid his head in them, pressing his forehead against his arms, all so that Blaise wouldn't see his eyes tearing. He wasn't one to cry, and here he was, on the verge of tears at the mere thought of Harry dying. It was pathetic.
He heard Blaise close the dream dictionary and set it aside.
"Draco, he's not going to die. Knowing you, you won't let him, even if he tried. Trust yourself to protect him, if you really think there's a need."
"But … But what if I … fail? What if he does die because I couldn't protect him?" The tears were obvious in Draco's voice.
"You won't," Blaise replied simply, taking the stack of dream interpretation volumes to return to the shelves. Draco heard the legs of Blaise's chair grate across the floor, but he didn't move, didn't pick his head up.
Atemu and Bakura traded questioning glances.
"Well …" Bakura said after a moment of silence. "I … uh … that sounded like an interesting dream."
"A nightmare," Atemu amended solemnly. "I can't imagine what it must be like, to see the one you love die, even in a dream. If Yuugi …" He couldn't bring himself to finish his thought.
"Yeah …" Bakura stared across the library where Ryou and his friends were sitting. Just the thought of those bright, brown eyes full of life and love and passion and innocent curiosity … to see those eyes just … dead … filled him with dread. If Ryou ever died, he … he didn't know what he'd do. He couldn't imagine what it must be like for Draco, because Draco actually had seen Harry die … in his dream at least. And the possibility of his nightmare being prophetic was … horrifying, to say the least.
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I wanted to put more in this chapter, but I figured it was long enough, so all those ideas will go in the next chapter. So, what did you think? Still TBC! Oh, and all of those dream interpretations came from a website called Dream Moods ... although I didn't copy their words exactly. I am not a practitioner of plagiarism! Anyway, hope you liked it. Oh ... and does anyone have any idea where the MalikxRyouxBakura love triangle might be going?
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