Written for Round 6 of QLFC.
Each position will be given a song with which they may write their story. You can use your song however you see fit. BEATER 2: Dance of the Dragons from Game of Thrones. (I recommend listening to the song as it is a stunning piece of music.)
Opt prompts: (dialogue) "You stab them with the pointy end." and (weather) rainy
This prompt was ridiculously hard to write for. Bless my teammates for helping me brainstorm and Autumn for beta-ing.
Word count: 2985
This story meets the criteria for a T-rating, but for reader discretion here's some TW: depressive mood states, panic attacks, references to alcoholism, recreational drugs
A Dragon's Requiem
Harry squinted at his half-open blinds, watching dust motes dance in the morning light.
Another sleepless night. Fantastic.
With a worn-out sigh, he closed his eyes. The weight of exhaustion was overbearing. It smothered him until there was no breath left in his lungs—until he had to gasp for air and remember he needed oxygen to stay alive.
Living had gotten harder the older he got. Oh, how he missed those days of ignorant, bull-headed youth where near-death experiences were a thrilling challenge he sought instead of lifelong trauma he was burdened with. When had the rose-tinted glasses fallen off and been replaced by his very boring, broken ones?
It sounded deranged if he said it out loud, but he sometimes craved the danger—the thrill. He yearned to cling onto life like it was fleeting, too precious to be wasted, every moment a blessing to cherish.
With a groan, Harry rolled off the bed and trudged to the bathroom. He got dressed in a daze, stared at his empty fridge in a daze, donned his coat in a daze, and stepped out. It was raining, but rain in England was as unsurprising as his insomnia.
He barely registered arriving at the Ministry and travelling to the Auror Office. All he could feel was the cold seeping through his coat, clinging to his bones, numbing him from inside and out.
When he got to his desk, Ron was waiting with an agenda for the morning meeting, and Harry fell into the familiar routine with a mixture of resignation and relief.
Work ended later than usual but still too early for Harry's liking. After declining another invitation to dinner with Ron and Hermione with a feeble lie, Harry decided to kill time at a local pub.
As any other patriotic British citizen did, Harry took his commitment to the bottle very seriously. While he chose to spend most evenings in rambunctious pubs whose sheer volume drowned out any thought, today Harry felt like something different.
It took some wandering in the rain to find the hole-in-the-wall Muggle pub he finally decided on—something small and sparsely populated. He picked the darkest corner along the bar counter and ordered himself an Old Fashioned.
Harry noticed a small group setting up equipment by the far wall. Normally he would drink in brooding silence, but today he decided to strike up conversation with the young-ish man behind the bar.
"What's going on there?"
The bartender practically leapt at the chance for human interaction, bending over the counter as he said conspiratorially, "That's the boss man's niece's band. She quit med school to pursue music, but here's the catch—she opted to join a classical band! Should've just joined the church choir and called it a day."
Harry was stunned by the onslaught and responded with a timid, "Oh."
Even such feeble encouragement seemed enough for the gossip-starved bartender. He continued, "They claim to be an alt-rock classical band, to boot. Have you ever heard anything more ludicrous? Rich kids, I tell you—they're cut from a different cloth. Just get a job like the rest of us! Right?"
"Er, right…"
The man seemed jubilant at this newfound camaraderie that Harry had been forcibly drawn into, and to celebrate that, he pushed a shot glass across the counter.
"On the house!" Harry looked at the cement-coloured liquid and licked his lips, nervous. The bartender was chattering away without concern. "You're lucky—nobody ever gets to try one of my signature concoctions!"
Harry tried to talk his way out of it, but he barely had the energy to sit upright, let alone argue with the lively man. So, with a prayer to whichever gods would listen, he threw the shot back and grimaced at the intense burn on his tongue and down his throat.
As the bartender brought over his drink, a loud screech pierced the quiet space. The bartender rushed away, swearing loudly, as the band finished setting up.
Harry drowned the taste of the murky shot with the Old Fashioned, belatedly realising he'd eaten very little that day. The band began to play without an introduction, and Harry turned to watch.
Despite being a quartet composed of two violins, a drum, and a piano, they managed to produce some intense sounds that were borderline deafening. Harry opened his mouth to object to the volume, but his words melted on his tongue when the two violins launched into a heated symphony.
The intensity and pace with which the song began took Harry's breath away. His heart rate increased, matching the beats of the deep gong of the drums and the sharp, piercing piano notes. Moments later, the crescendo dropped off as abruptly as it had begun, and Harry gasped, not having realised he was holding his breath.
A shaky exhale escaped his lips at the exact moment the violins quivered back to life. The tumultuous ascent began once again, the rhythmic beating of the drums echoing Harry's racing heart. Mournful piano notes cut through, haunting and tantalising, before the violins interrupted again with their angry war cries. A battle seemed to unfold, the violins growing rapid and urgent while the piano grew fervent and insistent. Cymbals crashed at every pause, and Harry clung to his seat, heart skittering and leaping as the crescendo swelled.
Immersed in the intensity of this orchestrated wonder, Harry could hardly contain himself. His heart thudded with the bass of the drums and skittered away with the ringing notes of the piano. There was a desperation from the piano—a shrill cry to be heard, rescued—and every time it came close to being acknowledged, the droning violins cut off its pleas with resounding refusal.
Harry felt his own emotional turmoil overlap the music, melding themselves to every raised note and fastened beat, taking a shape and form of their own making, forcing Harry to finally, finally acknowledge his long-repressed feelings.
The battle continued, punctuated by the cymbals' mocking crashes, and Harry's nails dug into his palms. He could barely breathe, overwhelmed and overcome, his emotions overflowing…
Then the cries quietened with a languorous acquiescence from the violins and a gentle but clear acceptance from the piano. Harry exhaled shakily, closing his eyes against tears and belatedly registering the bartender standing over him with concern.
"What happened?" Harry mumbled as he drank the offered glass of water, the sorrowful whine of the violins accentuating the wave of sadness that washed over him.
"Looked like a panic attack if I ever seen one," the man replied, seeming sympathetic.
"Oh," Harry said and sighed, taking his head in his hands. The piano's gentle ministrations soothes him, settled his breathing, almost apologetic in its delicate warbling.
A clear cling of a triangle echoed over the hum of the violins, lamenting the emptiness of the aftermath, the hollowness of those lives left behind. Then the violins picked up pace, insistent, desperate to move forward, while the piano lingered, taking stock, making peace.
It was the song of hope born from devastation—light found in ruin—filling Harry with the urge he'd yearned for so long, to be in awe of life in all its fragility and power.
A sob escaped Harry's lips. Tired to the bone, so close to giving up while clinging on so desperately… He whimpered as the violins soared, breaking through the stormy clouds, sending pillars of sunlight darting across the rain-streaked ground, a gentle reminder of the lives lost at war and the lives left behind. The piano echoed the laughter of children as they frolicked through the buds growing anew, of life reborn where it was lost, of wonder and hope replacing the ravages and ruins of death…
With a final surge, the song ended, like wind blowing off a cliff, leaving behind swirling grass and leaves in the same way Harry's emotions tumbled over themselves before finally settling, quiet and soothed.
Without thinking, Harry reached for a glass and downed its contents, realising too late it was whiskey, not water. With a groan, he stumbled to the smoking area at the back and slid to the ground. Eyes closed, head pressed against the cool brick, he focused on the light drizzle splattering against his cheek and the cool night air.
The alcohol was kicking in faster on his empty stomach, and he grimaced, trying to keep the world from spinning. A group came out for a smoke, then forgot to shut the door on their way in, so Harry could hear the band. He singled out the clear piano notes and focused on them. Together with the rain and the cold air, it was refreshing.
He wasn't sure how long he'd sat there, but at one point he'd dozed off and came to with a start. It was quiet—the band was no longer playing—and he willed himself to move, but his worn-out body refused to budge. With a sigh, he stared off into space, dipping in and out of consciousness.
At some point he heard voices and the sound of car doors opening and shutting. Someone shouted, then the voices sounded closer. Harry focused and made out they were speaking about him.
"Leave it to Matt—I can't be bothered."
"Don't be an arse, Jamie. Dray, go wake him."
"Why me?"
"Just bloody do it!"
"Here, take this stick. You stab him with the pointy end."
There was laughing and a girl's voice swearing.
Harry heard the crunch of gravel as someone walked over to him, and he looked up, bleary-eyed. A pale face came into focus with gaunt cheeks and hooded eyes. Long, silver hair fell over the man's face as he bent over Harry. He looked both familiar and unfamiliar, but Harry couldn't place the man.
Apparently the blond had better luck recognising Harry as he said, "Bloody hell. Fancy running into you here."
"The fuck? You know him?" someone said, and the blond nodded.
"Can you stand?" he said, pulling Harry by the arm. Harry grunted and fell back onto his behind. "Ah, bollocks." The blond turned to his friends. "You lot head off—I'll get him home."
"Aw, man. What about the after-party?"
There was a loud smack and the girl said, "You're such a moron, James. We'll see you later, Dray—get back safe!"
Harry zoned out for a few moments in his drunken haze, and when he came to, he was standing up and someone was speaking to him.
"Get a grip, Potter, or I'm leaving your sorry arse behind!"
Harry squinted at the man before him. "Mal…foy?"
Malfoy rolled his eyes. "You have not aged gracefully, have you?"
"Git," muttered Harry, as Malfoy straightened him and gripped his elbows.
"You better not lose an arm or I really will abandon you on the street," Malfoy said.
Before Harry could comprehend what the blond said, let alone respond, the familiar twisting sensation of Apparition took over. They landed abruptly, and Harry stumbled, pulling Malfoy down with him. He dry-heaved, laying on his side, and saw Malfoy looking down at him in disdain.
"You are one fine mess, Harry Potter."
"Thanks," Harry mumbled, and the blond rolled his eyes.
After some swearing and clattering, Malfoy returned with a mug full of steaming soup-like liquid and forced it down Harry's throat. It went down better than the shot had, and before he knew it, Harry was falling back onto something soft and swimming into unconsciousness.
When Harry came to, he braced himself for the familiar sensations of a hangover, but to his surprise, he felt fine. Well rested, even. He sat up and looked around at the sparsely decorated, monochromatic flat and recalled the previous night with a grimace.
Malfoy was bustling about in an open-plan kitchen, and Harry watched the blond in his white silk robe, white pyjama bottoms, white slippers, and white surroundings. Everything was so stark and devoid of any warmth—befitting of the man, Harry thought.
"I see your habit of staring hasn't left you," Malfoy said without turning around.
Harry flushed and turned away, looking up only when the blond appeared with a mug of steaming coffee. He watched Malfoy walk over to a grand piano, which was—surprise, surprise—also white, with silver trimmings. The blond sat down and began to play a melody that was strangely familiar. It took Harry some time to place it, and when he did, he gasped.
"The band from last night!" he exclaimed. "You were in it!"
Malfoy side-eyed him and scoffed. "What astonishing powers of deduction."
Unfazed by the heckling, much too absorbed in the piano sonata, Harry sat listening to the familiar dulcet tones. When the melody dropped off as it had before—like wind blowing off a cliff—Harry exhaled and looked up at the blond.
"What's it called?"
Malfoy picked up an engraved silver pipe modelled after a dragon and inhaled. He blew out a plume of orange-red smoke that swirled upwards like—
"Is that what I think it is?" Harry said, frowning.
"You ask too many questions," Malfoy replied.
"Dragon's Breath is illegal. I have grounds to arrest you right now for possession."
Malfoy looked at Harry with a challenging expression as he inhaled deeply and exhaled another red plume. Against the white of the room and the man himself, the red was quite beautiful. Too bad it was an illegal drug.
"Why don't you try," Malfoy dared, placing the pipe on its stand and returning to his playing.
The piano whined dolefully, every note crying a sorrowful song of its own. Harry found himself tilting his head back against the sofa and closing his eyes without meaning to. There was something magical about Malfoy's playing—it captivated Harry and forced him to do its bidding. He realised with muted annoyance that his need for the music was greater than any moral duty.
Easing into the lull created by those notes, he exhaled in relief, feeling a weight lifting off his shoulders, feeling respite from his suppressed emotions after years of battling them. The notes split into clear, ringing high tones and reverberating, soothing low tones, and together they danced across the barren hellscape that was Harry's mind, painting it in full colour, bringing it back to life.
The music stopped abruptly, and Harry realised tears were rolling down his cheeks. He took his head in his hands, no longer embarrassed to be crying in front of someone. He heard Malfoy walk up to the sofa and sit down beside him.
"I hardly imagined I'd play this song for you, of all people, let alone get this response."
Harry sighed and looked at Malfoy, who was holding out his pipe. Harry raised his eyebrows. "You're joking, right?"
Malfoy shrugged.
Eyeing the pipe, Harry asked himself who he was just then. Auror Potter, or just Harry? With a sigh, he took the pipe and inhaled deeply. The familiar feeling of warmth clouded his throat, and he exhaled a red plume, watching with satisfaction as it rose to the ceiling.
"You did that with far too much familiarity for a cop," Malfoy commented.
"You have your secrets, I have mine," Harry replied, handing back the pipe.
"Fair enough."
Malfoy rose and walked over to what looked like a giant cassette player. Harry couldn't remember what it was called.
"For so-called low-borns, Muggles've created some very interesting things," Malfoy said, fiddling with the large box. "This stereo, for instance. It lets me record separate pieces of music and mix them together into one."
He pressed a button, and the familiar gong of drums echoed through the room. Harry settled back in his seat and let the music wash over him once again. When the piano started up, Harry opened his eyes to see Malfoy match the pace of the recording without missing a beat.
Watching him play was mesmerising. The unadulterated passion and sheer talent was breathtaking. The battle of the violins and piano was coming to an end, and Harry waited with bated breath for the cliff-hanger ending. Malfoy's body swayed with the notes, his fingers flying across the keys, then off them with a flourish. He arched his back and threw his hands in the air, then crashed them back down as the final notes echoed through the room.
Harry exhaled shakily, on tenterhooks, his heart racing. Malfoy looked up, and their eyes locked. So much was said in the silence that followed, so many unspoken regrets and sorrows and sins laid bare in the space between the two.
Then, the recording started up again, and both men were startled back to reality. Chuckling drily, Harry walked over to the piano and pressed down on a key, listening to the sharp, tinkling sound.
"Dance of the Dragons," Malfoy said, his voice barely audible over the music. "I originally wrote it for the piano, but it manifested into what it is now."
"I can hear it," Harry said, "the piano's sorrowful cries. But with the violin and drums, it somehow ends up sounding…hopeful."
Malfoy smiled down at the piano with a bittersweet expression. "Sometimes that's harder to handle. The hopefulness."
"Yeah."
The man ran a hand through his long, blond locks. "Never thought I'd be saying all this to you, but here we are."
Harry pressed down on the key again and listened until the note faded away. "Life is strange like that."
"Wise words."
Harry smirked. "I may not have aged gracefully, but I reckon I'm definitely the wiser of the two."
"Oh, so you do remember last night, then?" Malfoy said.
The two men paused, then laughed.
Harry eyed the piano. "Can you play it for me again?"
"You're insatiable, aren't you?"
Harry grinned at Malfoy, waggling his eyebrows. The blond rolled his eyes and shooed Harry away.
"You better not arrest me after all the trouble I've gone to," Malfoy said.
"Is that a threat?" Harry asked as he sat back down.
The corners of Malfoy's lips quirked upwards. "Always."