A/N: Quick update, not because I wrote that quickly, alas, but because, right now, I'm experiencing chapter overlap. I'm trying to write faster to try to avoid a huge lag in between chapters. It should work out ok. crosses fingers
Thank you Curley Green, Avain, Keladry6, xXx Silver Star xXx, HP Girl 28, cocopops, and Starry Gazer.
/The room is small, unadorned, and poorly lit. The air is heavy and positively crawling with wards to prevent any kind of magic being used. In the center of the room is a table with two chairs. One of the chairs is occupied by a man in black robes and a white mask. The door slams shut behind Harry, who smirks. "Mr. Malfoy," he says. The mask comes off- the face underneath as pale and smooth as the one laid upon the table. Lucius nods and with one of his perfectly lovely, perfectly useless, perfectly lethal hands makes a motion to the empty chair.
"Mr. Potter, so glad that you could join me. Won't you have a seat?"
Negotiations with Lucius are long and difficult and, deep down, Harry loves them. It is a game the man and the boy play. The rules are simple: be civil and be subtle, say one thing with your voice and another thing with your eyes, say what you mean but never ever mean what you say until he agrees to it. Everything depends on him- the man in the other chair. Everyone else is irrelevant. Voldemort doesn't matter in this room. Dumbledore doesn't matter in this room. God doesn't matter in this room because you are God. You are bargaining for lives and he is the devil trying to take them away.
Harry knows that a large part of the excitement he gets from negotiating prisoner release is due to the fact that he's negotiating with Lucius Malfoy. He refuses to negotiate with anyone else. Likewise, Lucius doesn't negotiate with anyone but Harry. They hold their game too dear. It is the breaking point-the part of the battle that feels most like winning or losing.
Grudgingly Harry begins to respect Lucius as their negotiations go on. He knows Lucius begins to respect him as well because Lucius' sneer is replaced by something with less contempt. But for all the mutual respect that is flowing between them, Harry cannot bring himself to like Lucius. When their eyes meet, there is always a part of Harry that flinches instinctively and says, "Monster." /
That part of him is whispering that same word over and over again-in reference to himself. Nicholas stirs beside him, his arms pulling Harry close. It is amazing that even in his sleep, he manages to find Harry's tattoo and trace the coils of the serpent along Harry's spine. It is an endless source of amusement to Harry-his lover's obsession with his tattoo-but tonight it makes Harry sad. Nicholas, for all his deviltry, looks innocent in his sleep and he is. He has never known death, fear, failure, pain, despair.
He has never said the words "I love you" to Harry, but he doesn't have to. Harry knows. He knows by the looks that Nicholas gives him. He knows by the way those pale blue eyes soften momentarily when they land on him and by the little smile that never fails to flit across Nicholas' lips when he and Harry meet. He knows it by the sheer effort Nicholas puts into Divination, never expecting Harry to lower the bar for his lover. He knows it by the way Nicholas sighs contentedly in his arms and by the gleam of pride in Nicholas's eyes when Harry delivers a snappy retort to an impudent student and by the way Nicholas hands tighten at his sides when someone dares to make a pass at Harry.
There is no doubt that Harry is fond of Nicholas. He adores the way Nicholas pouts when he is insulted and the deadly smile that spreads across his face before he makes a devastating reply. He likes to hear Nicholas' voice- whether it is simply asking a question or loaded with meanness or low and breathy in Harry's ear. Nicholas' skin is the softest thing Harry has ever known and the boy smells good enough to eat. He loves the look of impish delight that crosses Nicholas' features when he knows he is being a brat. He is in awe of Nicholas when he looks thoroughly fucked- hair mussed, skin flushed, lips swollen and utter contentment stamped upon his face.
Yes, he is very fond of Nicholas, but for all the delight and adoration Harry takes in Nicholas, he does not love him. It is missing that raw, sucker-punched, gasping for air, drowning in a deep well, dying without you, "I'm sorry. Are there other people on the planet? I saw only you," quality Harry associates with love. Harry admits that maybe he has just seen too many Muggle movies and read too many books and has no real concept of what love actually is, but he does not think this is it. The form beside him is not love, but Harry hurts for him very much. Harry aches to think of how is going to tell Nicholas, dreads the possibility of seeing the hurt on Nicholas' face. He knows that Nicholas will never admit to being hurt, just as he may never admit to love. He is too proud for that, but Harry would know it regardless.
It is a decision in which both options suck: live with the guilt of participating in a lie or live with guilt of having inflicted pain.
Nicholas turns, his lips brushing Harry's chest, the contact sending electric shocks across the surface of Harry's skin. The hands absently tracing Harry's tattoo grip Harry firmly, and in one smooth motion, Nicholas manages to turn Harry over and slide under him. Harry laughs softly. "'Lo."
"Mmm. Again?" Nicholas asks, his voice is thick with sleep and something else that makes Harry's pulse quicken.
"You're not even awake yet," Harry replies, incredulous.
"What better way is there to wake up?" Nicholas says, wrapping his legs around Harry's waist.
Harry has to admit that Nicholas' argument is flawless.
"Teenagers," he snorts. Nicholas grins, looking completely worthy of adoration with his eyes still half-closed.
"What's the matter? Did I wear you out?" he teases. He grinds his hips against Harry's. "It doesn't feel like I've worn you out."
"Oh, really?" Harry asks, raising an eyebrow.
"You know what your problem is? You're spoiled. You don't know how lucky you are to have a sexy blonde in your bed, naked and begging you for sex," Nicholas says solemnly. Harry looks thoughtful.
"Perhaps," he agrees. He kisses Nicholas, drawing little sighs from the boy as their tongues intertwine. He pulls back, eyes sparkling. "Or perhaps I just like to hear you beg." Nicholas' eyes widen. "And maybe if you beg nicely, I'll spank you." Nicholas' laugh is both astonished and delighted.
"Well-remembered," he chuckles.
An eternity passes. Harry holds Nicholas in his arms, nuzzling his neck and shoulders, ignoring Nicholas' pressing need, wondering if he can make Nicholas come from just this. But Nicholas seems to have caught onto Harry's game. He wrenches away from Harry's lips. "You are a very wicked man, Mr. Scryer."
"Am I?" he says, grinning evilly. Nicholas pouts.
"Yes, you know I'm leaving tomorrow for Romania and you insist upon being a tease."
"Romania?" Harry asks, confused.
"Yes, Romania. For spring holiday? I'm staying with my aunt Camilla." Nicholas' eyes narrow. "I told you this before, didn't I?"
Harry struggles to remember. He recalls something about Romania, but he cannot make the connection between Nicholas and Romania. "No, you didn't," he says, still trying to remember why Romania is important.
"H'm. Between the sex and the witty repartee, it must've slipped my mind." Nicholas replies, freeing himself from Harry's arms.
"Leaving so soon?" Harry asks, sitting up.
"Don't want to, but I have to. Aunt Camilla will be here at the crack of dawn and I haven't even packed yet," Nicholas replies while getting dressed.
"It's not like you to procrastinate," Harry says, pulling on his pants. Nicholas buttons up his shirt and smiles.
"No, but like I said, between the sex and the witty repartee-"
"Yeah, I got the idea," Harry says, pulling Nicholas into his arms.
"Kiss me good-bye?" Nicholas asks sweetly. Harry does so, kissing Nicholas tenderly. Nicholas smiles up at him. "Mmm. I love you."
He is gone before Harry can make a reply. It is almost like he planned it that way to give Harry time to think about it. The unexpected thoughtfulness makes Harry smile and feel very bad all at once. But something else contributes to that jittery, uneasy feeling that 's stirring in the pit of his stomach.
The day Draco died, he woke Harry up without ceremony, grabbing his shoulder and shaking him hard. "Wake up, Potter. It's going to be a bad day."
"How can you tell?" Harry muttered into his pillow.
"I can always tell. For instance, the day I met you it felt like someone was brewing a potion in my stomach. I had the same feeling the day my mother died. I have the same feeling now," Draco explained. Harry groaned.
"And that's supposed to encourage me to get up?" he asked. Even with his eyes closed, Harry could feel Draco smirking.
"If you are awake when bad things start to happen at least you can mitigate them," the blonde said, yanking the covers off Harry. "For Merlin's sake, Harry. You should always sleep fully clothed. Wouldn't want Voldemort to catch you in your Snitch boxers, would we?"
Several days letter, a large black bird delivers a message to McGonagall. She looks stunned, passes the letter to Hermione, who glances at it briefly and then passes it very hesitantly to Harry. Harry searches Hermione's face, tries to comprehend the emotions written there. She looks- Harry swallows before continuing that thought. She looks like someone died.
He reads the letter. The handwriting is shaky, but elegant.
Dear Headmistress,
It is my sorrow to inform you that Nicholas Hornby will no longer be in attendance at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. As you know, he was staying with his aunt Camilla in Romania. It was his father's idea and despite my initial reservations, I acquiesced. Unfortunately, there was a territorial battle; Nicholas, his aunt, and everyone in the disputed territory was either killed or turned.
I will come to collect Nicholas' school things personally. I would be eternally grateful if you would pass along the following to interested parties: A funeral service will be held at our residence, Rose Hill, this Sunday at noon.
Anna Lynn Hornby
It takes many minutes of mute shock before the letter's contents began to sink in. Of course…Romania. There is a war in Romania between the vampires and the werewolves…some sort of territorial quarrel. How could he be so stupid as to forget? How could he just let Nicholas go like that? Harry looks at Hermione, who is fighting back tears. He is oblivious of his own tears building until he feels them slide down his cheeks, hot and bitter. Hermione reaches over and squeezes Harry's hand. He squeezes back, breathes, tries not to sniffle, tries not to sob, tries not to think. He fails at all three.
He rises, leaving the letter on the table. "Excuse me," he mutters. Before he reaches the doorway, he hears McGonagall tap her glass to get everyone's attention. Harry panics, knowing that he won't be able to hear the announcement without breaking down. He hurries through the doors, then breaks into a dead run for his rooms. No sooner does the door shut behind him then do the sobs break upon him like waves.
The knocks on his door grow increasingly impatient. "Jonathan?" Hermione's voice is worried. No answer is forthcoming. She pounds on the door again. She huffs her disapproval of such theatrics. "Jonathan H. J. P. S. Scryer! If I have to break down this door, you will be an extremely dead young…man." She trails off as the door swings open.
"Wow. You look awful," she says, taking in her best friend's disheveled hair, pale face, and red eyes.
"Nice to see you too, deary," Harry grumbles.
"I didn't say you don't still look perfectly shaggable, but you look like the very thought of shagging would kill you," she replies matter-of-factly.
"I don't look that bad, do I?" he asks, stepping aside to let her in. She plops down in an armchair by the fire.
"No, just like Death warmed over with allergies." Harry blinks. "That was a joke," Hermione clarifies.
"I know. I was just trying to picture Death complaining about pollen."
"How'd that work out?"
"Not very well," Harry admits. Hermione does not smile.
"Are you okay?" she asks. She knows what the boy meant to Harry, has done her best to make everyone else look the other way.
"Do I look okay?" Harry replies sharply, taking the seat across from her. Hermione cringes.
"No," she answers.
"Well, then no, I am not fucking okay." Hermione is silent. Harry buries his face in his hands, sighs. "Oh, God. I should never have let him go. But then why am I talking about God? God's got his phone off the hook. He hasn't answered me in ages."
"How were you going to stop Nicholas?" she asks quietly. There is a trace of bitterness in Harry's eyes. She is unused to it.
"I had him in my arms. I should've-I should've done something." A hand rests upon his arm. He looks up into Hermione's eyes, soft and warm.
"It is not your responsibility to save everyone," she says. Harry laughs and it is hard and bitter, containing the darkness he tries so hard to hide.
"It was. It was my responsibility to save everyone and I couldn't save Draco. I couldn't even save you and Ron on my own. Now I couldn't save Nicholas. What good is it, Hermione? What good is any of it if everyone I care for dies?" It is a question no one can possibly answer.
"Did you know that we slept together? H'm?"
"Ssshh," Hermione says, stroking Harry's hair.
"He was my first. He was so soft, so beautiful and so damned snarky. He could've been born a Malfoy."
"Harry," she says. She is beginning to get alarmed. There is an edge to Harry's voice she doesn't like. Harry fights back a sob.
"Did you know that he loved me?" Harry's eyes are wide. "He loved me. He told me so right before he left. And I thought that I didn't love him. I thought that I adored him and wanted him and would have died protecting him, but I would have died to protect anyone. I never thought I loved him." Hermione is certain that Harry is hysterical by now. He hold her hands firmly, one knee on the ground as he talks, not really talking to her, barely even aware that she is in the room.
"But I did love him. I must've loved him. Otherwise it wouldn't hurt so much now that he's gone, would it? How is it that you can't tell when love is there, but you recognize it immediately by its absence? I loved him, Hermione! I loved him and I didn't get the chance to tell him and now he's dead and he'll never know. He'll never…" At this point Harry breaks off and goes back to crying. Harry is not a pretty crier. His face turns red as tears course down his cheeks and his chest heaves and the sounds that escape his throat are sounds no human should ever make. Hermione is bewildered. She has never seen him cry like this, but that is because she never saw Harry cry over Draco. She didn't see the tears he shed before wrapping the body in a shroud and delivering it to Lucius personally.
She doesn't know what to say to comfort Harry, so she settles for saying what is practical and obvious. "The funeral starts in a few hours, Harry. Let's get you dressed."
Nothing to say for myself... except I'm late! Reveiw!
Love,
J. Silver