replay · and · rewind.

I fondly remember, two or three summers ago, when I was absolutely addicted to Harry/Draco. I was caught up in every whim and whammy of the dramas in Harry Potter fandom. Every fangirl fight, every deleterius flame, every new chapter posted by Cassie Claire.

Somehow, the flame went out. The joy and the sheer liveliness of HP fandom gasped and gurgled and died in various fandomer's arms. I forgot almost all about it, except maybe the annual checkup in my "HD WIP" favorites folder. Now that my loves missnhaca and allifer are addicted, I am suddenly exposed to the world of Harry Potter. Yet sadly, many fandom friends have left and authors become much too busy with his/her real lives to care. To me, it seems empty. However, as missnhaca browses her LJ, I see Harry/Draco chibis and powerpuffs that I never have seen before. Evidently, fandom is still running, authors still presiding, angstyness still abounding.

Today, I was suddenly awash with nostalgia. I went to good-ol-Schnoogle and read 'Sugar and Spice' my old fic-in-progress, then my one-shots at the Dark Arts. I read the reviews. I was filled with some sort of disquiet. I opened up my "Fanfiction related" folder on my desktop (hidden in my "Writings" folder) and read my old fanfiction attempts. They were...noble. They seemed full of hope, strings of a sail kept hidden away. Then I remembered the plot bunnies forum at FictionAlley.

And that is why you are here.

I have various first chapters, couple paragraphs, and short ideas for Harry/Draco fics. Feel free to tear up the descriptions and turn it into something totally different altogether. I guarantee no success, or even a decent fic. But I hope my work helped someone out of a miserable writer's block. All I ask is when (and if) you make a story, please give me a link, so I can enjoy :)




CHAPTERS

Dark Water
One of my angsty attempts. My idea: Draco and Harry attempt to bring back Sirius and Lucius with disastrous results. Oh - and they fall in love on the way there.

Title: Dark Water
House: Schnoogle
Summary: Harry will do anything to get Sirius back, even if Malfoy should be the one to offer him the price. This is the world that never was white and black: sometimes to feel utter reality you need to bend the borders and break down the walls. SLASH HP/DM, HG/G!Blaise
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: slash, femmeslash, language, necromancy

Chapter One: Open Your Eyes
||

It’s one of those moments
when everything is so clear
before the truth goes back into hiding
I want to decide cause it’s worth deciding
to work on finding something more than this fear

||-||-||

When Harry closes his eyes, he dreams. Always. It’s a backstabbing kind of reassurance, and Harry readily indulges. At night he dreams of death and dimmed lights and the green of Avada Kedavra. He dreams in the daytime too, but these are much more pleasant – things such as plum blossoms and lightning and the gray of fog.

Harry isn’t sure if he likes dreaming or not. He isn’t sure if he likes reality at all. It’s harsh and crisp like smooth dollar bills, and Harry doesn’t know whether he prefers dollars or galleons. Both, maybe.

He wondered, sometimes, what it’s like to enter a state where your mind is completely dull, nothing tugging on it either way. Maybe it’s nice, he thought, maybe it’s like working through whipped cream to discover the chocolate underneath. He doesn’t want to do drugs, however, so Harry just keeps that little curiosity of his nicely locked inside of him.

But it seems this curiosity would not be contained. Lately Harry finds himself exhibiting all sorts of strange behaviors. Like jogging in the cool morning before dawn rose until he was wheezing; this didn’t give him any numbness at all – only choked breaths and a squashy sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The next day he was gazing at the stars at midnight because reports said Jupiter would be out. Try as he might, Harry couldn’t find Jupiter, but he did end up with a week’s worth of gardening for breaking the telescope. No, definitely not. Next came soaking in the rain. The rain droplets dripped through his hair and down his cheek, smelling like the oil on his scalp. They clouded his eyes and stuck his eyelashes together in a sloppy fashion. Water soaked into his boots and he involuntarily shivered his toes. Finally, spitting and wet, Harry decided this is not what he was searching for.

Harry told himself he didn’t give up looking for this…phenomenon, as he’s begun to call it. He thought maybe it’s like the aurora borealis and can only be experienced once in a while.

Inside, Harry knew he was lying to himself.

||

It’s a creaky, all-wood house with a proud sign declaring it as ‘Will and Jack’s Magnificent Marvels’. The sign is wood, naturally, and chipped enough to look like it was decorated with polka dots.

Harry isn’t quite sure why he’s even here. Somehow he’d been landed with the job of babysitting a whole class of kindergarteners while Dudley’s summer-camp class tromped off to visit ‘Ana’s Groundbreaking Discoveries’.

“Welcome dearies,” called a voice that sounds uncannily like Aunt Petunias, albeit more pleasant. It turned out to be a lady, gray hair tucked into a neat bun, ushering in the kindergarteners. She looked at Harry quite fondly. “Are you watching them sweetheart?” she asked.

“Um,” said Harry. “Er…yeah.”

She beams at him.

“Right this way,” she said, opening the squeaky doors.

The room is full of all sorts of interesting exhibits. Objects such as colored-glass kaleidoscopes, 3 mirror-sided “disappear” boxes, and projected images were found in high quantities. The children were utterly fascinated, all squealing in barely-contained excitement.

Harry is about to plop down on a center bench and wait for the kids until he catches his eye on a “Tell-All” Glass exhibit. He watches one particular blonde girl – Janice, is that right? – walk over and look at it in bemusement.

The exhibit is a huge stretch of clear glass, all the way to the ceiling. The little golden sign on the side said: If you know what you want, you will see what’s inside. Oddly vague for a children’s exhibit, thought Harry.

Still, he was willing to give it a try. So Harry ducked his head and pressed his nose against the glass. He sees absolutely nothing. Harry frowned, focusing his eyes harder, enough for them to bunch him against the rim of his glasses.

Still nothing. Huh.

Harry shrugged and turned to leave; off to tell the caretaker lady one of their exhibits was broken when –
“Oh my god!” shrieked Janice. “EWWW! That’s so gross!”

Harry spun around so fast he feels dizzy. She is looking into the same glass he was a minute ago.
“What do you see?” asked Harry gently, kneeling next to Janice. Her little nose is scrunched up into a deep scowl.

“A bunch of dead rats,” replied Janice, with emotion. “That’s so nasty.” With a humph, she marches off to the projection exhibit where the rest of the girls are, oohing and ahhing over a picture of the BaywatchBabe!Barbie.

“Can I see?” an eager voice cut in. A freckly little boy this time, with clean, gelled black hair. Harry looked at him slightly enviously. Never had a mother to gel his hair when he was little.

“Sure,” said Harry generously, shifting to the right and watches as the boy looks into the glass.

“Cool!” enthused the little boy as he looks into the glass.

Harry is beginning to panic now.

“What did you do to see the rats?” asked Harry. “Did you have to go cross-eyed or…”

The boy is looking at him as if he’s grown bean sprouts on his head. “No,” he said. “You just press really hard against the glass.” He took Harry’s tanned hand and pushes it against the glass with amazing strength for a 5-year-old.

The caretaker is here now, and she patted the boy on the head. “Good job Antony,” she said, peering down at his nametag. “That’s awfully smart of you.” The boy grins up at her and dashes off, blushing tomato-red.

“If you really wanted something like these kids,” she said now, “you’d push hard against the glass like they did. It activates a light switch. Surprising simple.” She turned and looked quietly at Harry. “But you’re not a little kid, are you?”

She then leaves Harry to think through her words.

||

After at least two hours the kindergarteners are hungry and sleepy. “I wanna go,” whined Janice, tugging at Harry’s jeans. “I wanna go.”

“Alright,” said Harry, getting up. “Come on everyone, lunch!”

A hustle of feet lined up before him.

On the way out, the caretaker – Mrs. Finch: it said on her desk – gave each child a mint chocolate and pat on the head. “Enjoy,” she said.

By the time she reaches Harry, Mrs. Finch is out of candies. “I only have words for you child,” she said. Strangely ironic and contradictory to what she said before. “Do you really know what you want?”

Harry does not reply, merely nodding as if he understands and knows quite clearly.

But he doesn’t, and he feels unsettled for the rest of the day.

||-||-||

It’s morning, and the birds are chirping incessantly above Draco’s bed. The ceiling automatically turns to mirror the outside – unbearably colorful and swelteringly sunny.

But he gets up, even though his eyes are still half-lidded from dozy sleep and his body is tingling in complaint, because that’s what he’s supposed to do and because Narcissa would be angry if he didn’t. His clothes are hanging from midair, freshly ironed and smelling like pine leaves.

Draco hates pine leaves.

But he gets dressed anyway, taking time to smooth down his shirt and clasp his cloak neatly around his neck. When he looks in the mirror, Draco thought he looks hauntingly grand.

He then orders the house elves to cover up his mirror.

||

Breakfast is served at half-past six in the Malfoy Manor. It consists of a silky M-shaped pancakes decked with mulberries, lightly-toasted hash browns, fluffy eggs, and pumpkin juice. It’s shockingly informal.

But Narcissa likes it that way, especially the mulberries, and Draco doesn’t want to upset his mother. His mother whose been holding back her tears so well.

He saw her cry once. It was a long time ago, and Draco doesn’t remember what triggered the incident. All that matters was that he knew Narcissa could, and would, cry.

Today Narcissa is shining in her silky green cloak, hair parted so it ran down her shoulders. She is talking animatedly with Mrs. Zabini, a thin and tanned woman of perhaps forty. Next to her is Blaise, disdain crossing her face, barely veiled by her hair.

“Blaise,” said Draco as he takes her hand and kisses her knuckles. Her skin is so smooth Draco sees it as somewhat slimy; snake-like. “Glad to see you.”

“Draco,” she replies in common courtesy. She curtseys and brushes her lips against his cheek. “You do realize our mothers are talking about– ” she looks at him narrowly “ – our marriage.”

Draco holds back his fake-smile because Blaise has already memorized it. “Yes,” he says as somewhat of an afterthought.

Blaise closes her eyes and her eyelashes dust against her skin. It is only on close inspection that Draco notices how little sleep she’s been getting lately, how her dark lashes seems to blend in with the dark circles she has under her eyes. “I don’t know Draco,” she said. “You and – me –”

He sighs gently against her ear because he can sense her hesitance and her fear. “It’ll work out,” he said easily, but there is no confidence in his voice.

Draco wishes Lucius was there.

||

Later Blaise pushes Draco into a room so they can talk.

Draco thought they’ve talked enough. He’s tired of talking and tired of listening and tired of thinking at all.

Blaise likes to figure things out. Draco knows as much. She was adamantly clever, and she was sneaky and witty and that was why Draco liked her. She was so Slytherin, she was safe. So when he and Blaise began dating everyone saw it as forthcoming. They grinned at him and raised an eyebrow as if to say, “Told you so.”

Draco wanted to throw pointy objects in their direction.

“I don’t want to marry you,” says Blaise straightforwardly.

“Ouch,” says Draco.

Blaise glares at him. “Well, Draco, what are you going to do about it?”

Draco looks at her. “Nothing,” he says, voice very thin. “Nothing at all.”

||

It takes her almost a minute to grapple at his answer. When it finally sinks in her eyes open so wide it seems her irises stretch. She slaps him.

“Ouch,” says Draco this time, for real. So little is, nowadays.

“What happened to you Malfoy?” she snarls, and Draco distantly realizes she called him Malfoy, not Draco.

Draco lies down on the bed in the room and stretches his arms out wide.

“I’m making a snow-angel,” he says. “Remember this Blaise?”

Her eyes turn into cold slits. “What is your point?”

“There is no point,” he said. “None at all.”

||-||-||

Now I love Draco, and don’t you launch into that horrible stereotyped crusade against Slytherins and love. We love as freely as anyone else. Just because we turn to the Dark Lord in times of need doesn’t mean we’re like Dementors or something.

But I digress. I love Draco like a brother, because ever since we were three or four he protected me like Crabbe and Goyle protect him. I remember when I was playing with the sandbox and Parkinson tried to steal my shovel away. It had turned into a catfight, right there and then, and she had bit me. Draco was at my side immediately and he punched Parkinson so hard she sported a black eye for weeks. I gloated.

Ever since then I’ve watched out for him, kept the Slytherins off his back when he loses to Potter like he always does. It’s hard for him when he loses. He beats himself up and sometimes I see the purple indents of his fingernails when he fists his hands so hard in his sleep they bleed.

It’s a kind of routine for us two. He looks out for me, I look out for him. We’re comfortable together. But then Narcissa Malfoy wanted Draco to marry, and of course she wanted him to marry me.

It’s been hard for her too, having her husband dead. Rumor said that he somehow killed himself in his Azkaban cell the day the Dementors left.

I remember Draco when he heard the news. A month after Lucius’ death, I believe. Mother and I had been over for breakfast, and the Malfoy tea-lady had dropped the news in Draco’s lap. He had been cutting up his pancake when he looked down and saw the heading.

He’d gotten up so fast his knife had clattered onto the table and his chair fell over.
That was the last I’d seen him for weeks.

When Narcissa realized her son wasn’t going to come out of his room anytime soon, she’d resorted to force: crashed down his door and dragged him out.

He looked awful. His hair was foul, his skin waxy, his body shrunken from insufficient food. His mouth was pressed into a line and he refused to talk to anyone.

Except for me. He talked to me, and that was a miracle because I thought he was trying to mute himself by strength of will.

“Blaise,” he’d said. “Blaise I’m so tired.”

I kissed him on the forehead and tucked him into bed. In the dark his eyes sought me out and he said again, “I’m just too tired. Too tired.”

It was probably the most human Draco’s ever been. But he was a Malfoy, and by August he was fine again. He looked robust and healthy, his manner impeccable, but he looked different – he was missing something, just like when a ship is sinking headfirst. I didn’t want Draco to sink.

I resorted to snapping at him, and it was for his own good, but Draco still hasn’t forgiven me. I had told him wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to get him anywhere and if he’s so tired he can follow in his father’s footsteps.

He’d gotten so angry he looked like he wanted to hit me. But instead he ground out, “Never mind Blaise,” and pushed me out of his room. He’d slammed the door in my face.

I’d thought he was suicidal. He told me he’d never follow in his father’s footsteps. “That’s just low, Blaise,” he’d spat at me. “That’s a disgusting way to die.” I was relieved.

But now’s it’s early September, and Draco is talking to me again. I can see how guarded he is, his eyes looking they’ve been locked with double bars. When I ask him questions, he never responds properly.

Their family is falling head-over-heels, and I don’t mean in love.

Sometimes I’d wished I could be Harry Potter. Boy-Who-Lived and help Draco somehow. It seems he can make everything better by just looking at someone. This sort of exquisiteness that I’d always found harrowing yet I drank it up anyway. But then I saw him in Diagon Alley and I cursed myself for being so stupid.

Everyone seems to be so shrouded these days. Hiding behind black mirages. Draco is tired, Potter looks dead, even Granger looks like she wishes she could delve into a book and stay there forever.

I wonder what I look like.

||-||-||

It was one of those days where the sun dodged through the clouds shyly and the rain swept down in light currents, smelling like ash and flowers.

It was one of those days where the people positively buzzed on the streets, bargaining here and gossiping there.

It was one of those days that gave Hermione a pounding headache for peace and quiet.

“Harry,” she said, whacking him lightly on the arm. “Harry? Hello?”

“Hmm?” he replied absently.

“Obviously you haven’t woken up,” she said. “You need lots and lots of sugar.”

“I was just looking for Ron,” said Harry, defiantly.

“You were expecting him to crawl out of the sewer?” said Hermione. Her tone was gentle, but she looked worried.

Harry bit his lip and said nothing, but already Hermione had unconsciously leaned back already, waiting for those angry comments Harry had spat at both her and Ron last year, the same, almost childish burst of unexplained fury they had witnessed countless times. She was scared of him, really, scared of him rather for him now.

“Hermione,” he said tiredly, dropping his eyes to look at her. “Look – I’m just – ” He brushed back a flyaway strand of hair. “Just – ”

She smiled wanly at him. “I understand Harry,” she lied, because she didn’t, and she felt like talking to Harry was like pioneering new lands. Harry used to be a map, every event was a trigger – point A to point B. Now Sirius was dead, and Harry had a sunken sort of look to him – like death covered in chocolate.

“Let’s get some sugar,” she said, steering him off to Fortescue’s.

||

These days the world seems to be chugging by her slowly, a sluggish motion that stretched time beyond its barriers and somehow made it seem – shorter. Like she’s wasting her time just watching dawn and dusk, and she hates it because she can’t change it. She can’t reverse time and fix things and be okay again.

Not that’s she’s suffering. She really isn’t.

It’s just the way Harry looks at the world; a hazy, blocked-off look that reminds her of closed black doors with the frenzy of shouts and curses and loss. It would be better if Harry cried. At least he would be acting alive if he cried; the grieving process is not to be rushed, and Hermione doesn’t want to rush Harry through, but she sometimes she doesn’t think he’s going to come out.

She wants the best for him. He is her best friend, after all. He’s gentle and noble and terribly adept in restraining himself. Sometimes she wants to put her hand against his chest and wait for the heartbeat, just in case. But he would wonder, and he would say, “Hermione?” with that same quiet tinge of a slur, dullness whistling through his words.

“What are you doing ‘Mione?”

“Making sure you’re still alive Harry. We wouldn’t want you dead, now would we?”

And he would laugh, but his eyes wouldn’t crinkle the way they used to but his mouth would, and that’s enough to fool her.

Maybe.

“Hermione, what’s so bad about being dead?”

“I don’t know Harry. That’s why it scares me.”

And he would bury his nose in Hermione’s hair and casually change the subject – “What shampoo do you use Hermione? Have you ever been to Spain? I want to go to China and walk that whole wall…”

She would sigh, agree with him on everything, and drone endlessly about Quidditch and how the Chuddley Cannons weren’t on par with the Appleby Archers. And she would try not to notice the tense, drawn look of his face and the slight dandruff in his hair; willing it all away, just for a little while.

But today, Hermione notices someone walking into Fortescue’s that catches her eye. Harry sees her staring and he turns halfway so his profile is nicely shaded against the sun streaming through the window.

Malfoy.

She should’ve known Malfoy would ruin the flow of consistency.

||-||-||

Generations of Malfoys have practiced Dark Magic. Love spells, amnesia charms, potions that turned people into zombies. They can honestly say, “Been there, done that.”

Except for one particular spell. And I think this is the one Draco is aiming for.

“Draco, what’s that?” I asked, nudging his elbow. He looked at me – colder than needed – and hitched the book further into his robes.

“Fine,” I snapped, but I wouldn’t let him go just like that. That would be simply degrading for the Slytherin name.

I tripped him.

He obviously had not been paying me heed – silly boy, I thought – and tripped on my toe so readily it seemed like he had been aiming for it. He went sprawling.

I had expected anger, but nothing like the glare he gave me when he had righted himself. It’s not as if there were Gryffindors to see, I wanted to remark smartly, but the fury in his eyes made me swallow my words.

“Draco?” I said, and it came out high-pitched and a little scared.

“Fuck you Zabini,” he hissed at me, his eyes flashing sharp silver. I was stung by how much venom he could utter into one sentence. “Stay the hell away from me.” Quickly he retrieved the book, which had fallen onto the ground with a thump, and stalked out of the store.

I didn’t follow, instead slowly gathering what I had read on the book cover.

“Let the Dead Live: the Banned Copy of Necromancy Through the Ages.”

“Oh my god,” I whispered.

||

I followed him.

Ironically enough, I saw him pause in front of Fortescue’s, the ice cream parlor, his eyes going wide.

Potter.

I knew I was too soft. My mother always told me so too. “Are you even Slytherin?” she used to question me. “Just look at young Mr. Malfoy. He has much more of that lithe, subtle cruelty at age six than you’d have in your whole life.” And I had tried my hand at cruelty, at all the Dark spells I could find. I insulted as I pleased and Draco adored me. But now, I was glad of that traitorous soft spot I had.

I ran, stopped to catch my breath, and continued running.

I was too late.

People say it is because no one notices time and force seeping through their fingers that the world changes so abruptly. But now, even as I peer through the crowd of witches and wizards and watch Draco and Potter talk, I know with helpless finality those people are wrong, and the world is going to change whether I noticed the beginnings or not.

||-||-||

“Potter.”
The word is voiced somewhere between a whisper and a snarl.

“Malfoy,” Harry replied easily, carefully keeping his voice neutral. He can see Malfoy tense even further.

I can play mind games, thought Harry, smiling inwardly. But if you want to play, Malfoy; that is the question.

Hermione interrupts, and somehow Harry feels edgy because of that.

“No one invited you, Malfoy,” said Hermione, roughly. “Just leave, unless you want to grow sprouts in your ears.” She smiled sweetly at him.

Malfoy ignored her completely, and Harry saw scarlet creeping into Hermione’s cheeks.

“How is your godfather, Potter?” said Malfoy very quietly into Harry’s ear.

“Don’t you speak about him,” spat Harry, fists clenching. “Don’t you dare.”

Malfoy’s face, always so smooth with a cool façade, contorts into ugly rage. “My father is dead,” he said with barely-contained hatred. “And it’s because of you Potter.”

Harry laughed in his face.

“Serves him right, Malfoy.” Harry’s voice is slightly hysterical now, bitterness mixed with wretched satisfaction. “Glad to hear it. Brightened my day.”

He was still laughing when Malfoy’s fist collided with his jaw.

||-||-||

What happened next was a blur for Hermione. She had stumbled when Malfoy attacked, pushing Harry out of his seat. Blaise Zabini had rushed in from the left door, nearly bowling over the waitress in frantic hurry to get the Malfoy. Hermione had tripped and had fallen right into Blaise.

“Granger,” said Blaise, her voice oddly calm. “Granger, you’re sitting right on my solar plexus.”
Hermione would’ve laughed: a Slytherin knowing the technical term for the stomach? But instead she pushed herself off Blaise and went for Harry just as Blaise lunged and pulled Malfoy forcefully off Harry.

“Harry, stop – ” struggled Hermione, flinging her arms around Harry’s waist and pulling him backwards. Unexpectedly he had let go of Malfoy in that precise moment, and he landed on her with a coughed “oof!”

Something thick and heavy clattered to the floor. Hermione, whose face was muffled in Harry’s robes, could not see anything.

“What is it Harry?” she whispered. “It sounded heavy – it’s not a weapon is it? Oh gods…”

Harry didn’t reply.
||-||-||

He knew Potter would think of exactly that if he saw the book. It was obvious Potter was deep enough in regret and in grief to estrange himself from the views of Dumbledore.

He had to congratulate himself sometimes. Nothing could have been better than the hunted, vacant shadow that swallowed up the bright emerald of Potter’s eyes. Nothing would have been sweeter than the crack of his knuckles upon the comment about Black. Nothing would’ve pleased Draco more than the resolute cut of the old shadow to reveal a whimsical longing in those same green eyes once he saw the book.

He knew there was a time for everything.

||

Draco tucked the book back into his robe pocket, raising one eyebrow at Potter as if to ask a question. Or perhaps answer one that had never been asked.

“Pleasure to meet you,” said Draco with sarcasm. He looks coolly at Blaise. “Let’s get out of here Zabini.”

Blaise doesn’t understand why Draco is mad at her. It’s sort of pathetic, really – him, not her. But she should know of his mindset against having contact with cold stone floor. Ever since the Moody incident in forth year: he’d had long purple bruises for weeks, but he charmed them off, even though Madame Pomphrey had wailed it would make the wounds worse. Over the summer it’d flared up again, and Lucius had been disappointed. That was what really hurt Draco.

“Ridiculed like a Hufflepuff in front of a group of Gryffindors?” he had sneered. “You are no son of mine.”

He remembered how much he’d hated Potter then. Potter and his ideals and his supporters. Potter who always got the best of him, who never played fair, who never could play fair. Because the world was biased, and the world was bigoted, and the world simply loved Potter. Because if Potter rejected Draco, and scorned him, the world would follow in his footsteps; if Weasley had done the same there would be no such commotion.

Potter was just so protected.

But now it was different, because Potter now knew what it was like to be a living sacrifice. Because it doesn’t matter if you’re “good” or if you’re “evil”. There are too many thin lines in this world, two many lines that don’t even exist. Gain is loss. Victory is defeat. There are no opposites – only an exalted reality that tastes of tears with the ache of everything given up.

Voldemort had taken Sirius Black and Lucius had died.

It is almost petty, really, if Draco looks at the situation through reason. Black and Lucius were both playthings in an impasse of darkness. Shadow-puppets.

But he doesn’t analyze, doesn’t think twice, and plunges into dark water.

He’s taking deep breaths and so far, he’s still afloat.

<> <> <>



All the Little Pieces

Not sure what this was going to be. I forgot the plot completely. Oh well.


Chapter One: Breathless

~~~

Things will never look the same
Now I can't deny
You're the moth and I'm the flame
There I go again
I should walk before I run

~~~

There is a house upon a rocky cliff where no one dares to go. It’s small and damp, with a roof that caves in so deeply it could barely be called a roof. The windows are yellowed with dirt and age. The front lawn is tangled with dandelions curled like snakes. A sign hangs from a rusty post, reading The Riddle Vacation House.

Inside, there is only one room and a bathroom. At the center of the huge room there are two miniscule boxes. One is labeled, in green, Harry Potter. The other is labeled, in silvery-blue, Draco Malfoy.

Nestled between them is a drawing in the dust, a simple drawing of a heart.

*^*^*

“Potter,” Draco drawled with heavy sarcasm, not moving from his seated position. “What a pleasure. I would kiss you on both cheeks as my Italian ancestry calls for, but I don’t feel today is the day I should die.”

“A simple ‘hello’ would have sufficed,” said Harry evenly, refusing to reply to the earlier comment.

“But what would be the fun in that?” said Draco, with an articulate expression on his face. “Surely Harry Potter deserves better than such bland treatment?”

“You have no right,” said Harry furiously, “to call me Harry.”

“I didn’t call you ‘Harry’,” replied Draco, his voice cold.

Silence.

He called you Harry Potter.

Of course. Harry swore inwardly.

“So what are you doing here Potter?” continued Draco.

“I came,” Harry said sarcastically, “to admire that precious face of yours.”

“But of course,” agreed Draco, “I call for an encore.”

He sat so composed, perfection emitting from his every pore like a statue carved meticulously from pale ivory.

But Harry saw more. He saw life that sparked from Draco’s eyes. The lightning that darkened his eyes rather than lighting them, flashing faster than one can blink the eye.

Harry smiled serenely, and sat himself next to Draco.

Encore.

Draco recoiled instantly. “Get out,” he said, his voice so cold and so calculating; yet also…

“Get out Potter. Now.”

So flawed.

Harry was laughing as he shut the compartment door.

*^*^*

Narcissa was applying diamonds to her silver bracelet when the door opened.

The room suddenly felt very cold. Narcissa felt foreboding pounding in her blood.

“Bruce?” she called out in a small voice. “Bruce is that you?”

A cold hand clasped over her mouth. “No,” someone whispered. “It’s me darling. Didn’t you miss me?”

Narcissa looked up into silver eyes.

“I know I missed you,” cooed Lucius, lifting his hands away from her mouth. “I missed you so dearly – and look, you’re not even happy to see me.”

“Lucius,” Narcissa said hoarsely. “Lucius – are you – what are you? You’re dead –”

“I was,” agreed Lucius. “But not anymore.” His eyes glinted red.

“You’re not acting like yourself,” Narcissa said, scrambling away. “Lucius what happened to you?”

Lucius licked his lips and opened his mouth, revealing two abnormally large canine teeth.

Narcissa fainted dead away. Lucius merely smiled and turned to his Master.

“Very good,” the Dark Lord said. He turned to the rest of the Death Eaters. “Now take her away,”

“What are you going to use to make her cooperate Master?” asked Lucius, bowing.

His Master smiled. “You’ll see.”

*^*^*

“It would never work.”

“But it would,” a pleased voice responded.

“Such things are not meant to clash. Such emotions are better kept hidden.”

“Oh, don’t you go all philosophical on me.”

“But –”

A kiss.

“You would not have met me otherwise.”

A pause.

“Alright.”

*^*^*

Catch a falling star and
Put it in your pocket,
Save it for a rainy day…
Catch a falling star and
Put it in your pocket
Never let it fade away

Evening painted stars in the sky.

Harry sat with Hermione and Ron on the roof of Hogwarts, looking up at the heavens. It was a tradition, ever since last year, to sit here together, just to think.

Hermione felt detached, like a spirit, and she loved it. Here, life and all its woes seemed so far away, like distant memories.

Ron felt like he was flying, speeding through silk and clouds. The night swallowed him whole and made him feel he could do anything.

Harry never felt closer to life, the blackness that surrounded him and embraced him. The wind was always cold and it made him shiver. Up here, everything was in sharp contrast, nothing like the ground where movement was too fast, blurring before his eyes.

“Oooh, look,” cried Hermione suddenly. “A shooting star.”

A trail of white scarred the sky.

“No,” corrected Harry. “It’s a falling star, a comet about to lose all its light.”

Hermione looked at him strangely. Ron wobbled dizzily and frowned.

“I hope there’s something to catch it,” said Harry.

Harry knew he wasn’t just talking about the comet.

*^*^*

He had slipped. And he knew it.

He shouldn’t have reacted so extremely when Harry had sat down next to him. He shouldn’t have said what he actually meant.

He shouldn’t have let the other boy see the truth.

*

Draco hated his hair. Such a soft blonde it was barely distinguishable from a pure white. White was so easily blemished, so easily changed into something else - golden at dawn, purple at dusk.

He was intrigued by dark hair. Black hair. Black that never stumbled and bowed down and changed. Black that stayed black, whether it be morning or night.

He is intrigued by black hair, but he hated it too.

Draco always wondered why his hair never turned black at night. Why it stayed its pristine white then. Perhaps his hair was proud too - it would never bend down to its opposite.

And neither would he.

*^*^*

Ginny had followed rules for years. At home, she cleaned her room without being asked, did the dishes and the laundry, degnomed the garden, cooked when her mother was out and basically kept the Weasley family stable. At school, she did her homework on time, never lost house points, never sneaked after-hours, never got detention.

But now.

Now she was different. She was sixteen, and she wanted something she’d been denied for years.

She didn’t just want to break a school rule. She wanted to break thousands of rules in one moment.

She wanted Draco Malfoy.

*^*^*

The first day of school was the only day Harry ever bothered to look somewhat decent. At least, he reasoned, he could try and start the year right.

“Woah,” hollered Seamus from across the room. “Is that Armani on you Harry?”

Harry shrugged listlessly. “Dumbledore sent it to me for my birthday. Said someone asked him to do it.” He couldn’t think of anyone who would do something like that.

“Well, it looks damn fine,” Seamus remarked, giving him a thumbs-up. “But green? That’s just so…”

“Slytherin,” said Harry. “I know, I know. But there’s nothing else in my wardrobe.”

“What happened to screw-my-clothes-I-hate-them-anyway Harry?” said Dean, hearing the last comment. “Who implanted this imposter?”

Ron whined from his bed. “Why are you all up? It’s so early!”

“HELLO RON!” bellowed Seamus rakishly. “HOW YOU FEELING ON HIS BRIGHT, WARM SUNNY DAY?”

As if in spite, rain splattered loudly against the window just as he finished.

A pillow was hurled from the curtained bed of the red-head, effectively hitting Seamus across the mouth, spilling goose feathers all over him.

“Why you little--!” Seamus shouted, looking very menacing as he charged towards Ron’s bed with a little feather hanging from his nostril. “I’ll get you!”

The curtain ripped clean off as Seamus pounced on Ron and smacked him squarely with an extra pillow. As Ron scrambled away to dodge the blows, Seamus shrieked.

“RON! WOULD YOU PUT SOME CLOTHES ON!?!?!”

Ron, finding himself very naked in front of his horrified roommate turned shades of red Harry had never seen before.

Dean collapsed into helpless laughter and was reduced to leaning on the bedpost to support himself.

Seamus, who had scrambled madly away, hurled a pillow at Dean. By that time, Ron had fully clothed himself and both he and Seamus attacked Dean with no small amount of viciousness. Within a few minutes, white goose feathers fully covered the room.

No one noticed that Harry had slipped away.

*^*^*

He left because those smiles broke him. Showed him so clearly something he had always wanted and could never have.

A happy, carefree moment: a moment where all your cares melted away in laughter and the most dangerous thing around was a pillow.

Harry knew he would never get that, and he’d tried blaming it on someone else. Voldemort. Malfoy. Anyone but himself.

But lies are only whispers in the ears of one who knows the truth. And the truth shouted back at him, stared him straight in the eye to challenge him and Harry knew he couldn’t escape it. Not under layers of denial and misery; not under soft sheets he drew around himself and the cold wind he’d grown to love so much.

He was the one who froze the smiles of people’s faces, stopping their laughter, ruining all those veils of safety they clutched for dear life.

Why did he even bother to hide it?

*^*^*

Breakfast was a noisy affair. Draco’s housemates, who hadn’t seen each other for at least two months, was inclined to throw food at each other in a messy sort of hello.

“So Draco,” said Millicent Bulstrode, with chocolate pudding smeared across her forehead, “How’s Sweetheart?”

Sweetheart was an abnormally large female cat that had decided take up lodging in the Slytherin boy’s dormitories. Millicent (calling herself the monster’s “mommy”) checked up with Draco every few days about its welfare.

“Blaise fed it some vodka,” said Draco smoothly, ducking as a saucer of toast flew across his head. “It ran into the wall and ate a few flies.”

“Awwww,” said Millicent, a goofy sort of smile lighting up her face. “I’m so proud of my baby.”

Draco shrugged. At least the cat made her happy.

Hell, he didn’t even know what made him smile.

*^*^*

Severus Snape had got up that day in a mood of broody misgivings. Apparently Mrs. Norris had slipped into his quarters and had drunk his last supply of Veritaserum.

Stupid cat, he thought to himself, looking at the muddy pawprints on his carpet. He then resolved the find Filch’s pet, rather worried about the effect of Veritaserum had upon animals.

Skipping breakfast, Severus roamed the dark corners of Hogwarts for the raggedy feline and found it whimpering and watery-eyed in a nook behind the statue of the one-eyed witch. He had kicked the animal, then inspected it for any internal damage; finding nothing unusual, Severus had left to prepare for his morning class.

He made a mental note to himself to dish out quite a few detentions that day, perhaps some suspensions as seasonings. So he had seated himself in his teacher’s desk and waited for breakfast to end.

This day can’t get much worse, thought Severus reassuringly.

Fate had never been kinder.

*

Severus had seen many unusual and frightening things in his lifetime. Things such as spiders with wings, mutilated heads of fellow Death Eaters, and Minerva McGonagall’s diaphanous nightgown.

Many things indeed, but not once had he ever seen a happy Gryffindor coming into his class.

Especially one with the name of Harry Potter.

*^*^*

Ron thought he was hallucinating.

“Harry?” he inquired rather weakly. “Harry are you smiling?”

Harry smiled even wider. “Is that a crime Ron?” he asked brilliantly.

“But Harry we’re going to Potions!” exclaimed Ron vehemently.

“Exactly,” said Harry.

Ron was speechless. This is was not how Harry usually acted. This was not how Harry ever acted. So he turned to Hermione, looking for some kind of explanation.

But Hermione’s face was set in a scowl. A fierce, dark, angry scowl Ron had never seen her wear before.

Ron tried to look away.

*^*^*

~earlier, at breakfast~

It was only a quick glance, a slight turn of the head. Anyone would have missed it if they hadn’t been watching carefully. But Hermione saw.

Harry had been cutting his toast with his knife when he shifted his head to look directly at one particular blonde Slytherin across the room.

Malfoy was in conversation with Millicent Bulstrode, who was beaming with some sort of motherly pride. Hermione looked at Harry: his eyes had gone slightly unfocused, his mouth set into a hard line.

Then Malfoy had run his hand through his hair, looking minutely distracted, and snapped at Goyle as the big-shouldered boy tried to steal his muffin.

Unexpectedly, Harry’s face broke into a grin. Not a happy, lighthearted grin but rather a sardonic, cold smirk that sent shivers down Hermione’s back. It was a smile only a killer would wear – a killer stalking its prey.

Don’t be like this Harry, she thought imploringly at her friend. Stop looking at Malfoy like that.

But Harry just kept smiling.

*^*^*

Draco Malfoy knew all the details of subtlety. How a few stray bangs would make him look as innocent as a five-year-old; how a slight curl in his hair made him look older beyond his years.

He knew had to accentuate his smile – arranging his hair precisely so and tilting his head to place emphasis on his strong cheekbones.

Perfection, he thought, admiring himself in the mirror.

This was his façade. How dare Potter try to break away bits and pieces and throw them back at him. How dare he laugh at Draco’s hate.

Today was his day, and Potter was going to pay.

*

Potter was looking at him. Draco could feel it.

He sat up a little straighter, the faint, uncomfortable feeling of a specimen under glass humming in his head.

He was waiting for his opportunity. The tiny flicker of time where his knife would dig the deepest.

He was counting on Snape.

Sure enough, Snape entered the room in dark, drabby grandeur. Looking over at the Gryffindor aisle, the Potions Master seemed unnerved.

Don’t turn around. Draco was itching to just turn his head – just a little.

Don’t let him win.

He swallowed a fluttery anticipation and looked straight ahead.

“We will be making the Veritaserum potion today,” announced Snape as if he thought it regrettable. “I trust you have finished your summer essay on Veritaserum making and its effects?”

There was a shifty silence before Snape descended upon them like a vulture, ripping their homework from their hands, and, settling back on his perch, began to munch his way through the stack.

“POTTER!”

Draco could hear Harry’s sharp intake of breath.

“Yes Professor?” Harry asked uncertainly.

“Why in the world is your parchment ripped?” Snape demanded, his eyebrow raised in a vicious arch. “You’re a seventh-year, you should know better. Detention.”

A furious murmur of protest rose up in the Gryffindor aisle.

“Yes Professor.” Harry said, anger thinning his voice to a needlepoint.

He turned at glared coldly at the back of Draco’s head.

Now.

Draco shifted lazily, turning enough to look at Harry fully in the eye. The other boy sneered at him, his eyes gleaming like a victor’s would, reveling in his win.

And Draco smiled back: a long, slow smile of a delighted five-year-old. It would’ve melted walls of steel.

Here’s my applause Potter. I’m applauding your encore.

An expression of barely-registered shock settled on Harry’s face. His eyes clouded, his shoulders tensed: the dim lighting of the dungeon hit Harry’s face in angles, reflecting his cheeks in pale contrast with his black robes.



<> <> <>

Walking in Rain
Don't remember this one, except I searched forever to find the right song with the right mood which I don't remember.

Prologue

I'm sitting here like a silent bird
You try to understand the symbols of my hand
I am like a rock that has turned to sand

Piece by piece I die. Soon there's no more
tears to cry. I am fading out just like a star falling
from the sky. I hear me in my dreams

~~~

He was falling, falling so deeply and darkly, and no one bothered to stop him.

There was a black veil above him, shining like knight’s armor stained with blood. He tried to call out for help, but all he heard in reply was ‘I can’t. I’m sorry,’ over and over again. He could feel them draw back like they’d been stung.

Then he heard someone say, voice full of arrogant truths, “I can.”

It was like a drop of water on a still lake at night, breaking the webs of darkness and shattering the silence. Everything collided at once and broke apart within a heartbeat.

He felt like he was looking through clear glass, except he couldn’t see what was on the other side.

And then he woke up.

<>

Harry woke up at two in the morning covered in cold sweat and unable to breathe.

It was raining outside; he could hear the rhythmic beat of the raindrops splattering against the cement. He grabbed a gray, moth-eaten sweater off the hanger and ran.

Outside, where he could forget the black that spilled from him like ink; the blood and the hollow echoes of words never spoken, tears never fallen.

Cold. Cold cold cold.

The rain kept coming, trembling as it hit the ground and ebbed away. Harry opened his mouth, waiting for the water droplets to fall on his tongue. It tasted acidic. Every time.

Maybe this was why he loved the rain. It offered him no comfort, no consolation; no warm hugs and gentle hands to tuck you in bed after-hours.

Harry remembered how he had wanted that, long ago. How he remembered emerald green eyes and rivers of red hair colored like melted coals. How he could still hear the faint murmurs of a lullaby and lips brushing against his cheeks.

Sweet dreams.

No. That was all wrong. And Harry looked in the paths that lay behind him – light and dark; slowly played out, evenly equilibrated on the scale. He knew it was time: time for him to tip the balance, hold one and wear the wreath.

He didn’t want to choose.

<><><>

“I grieve the death of my father, Lucius Malfoy. He was a caring, considerate man who always put his family first. He was resented by many because of his mindset: his obsession to win – but here today I want all to know there was a gentler side to my father. That side he rarely showed to anyone, and I was truly blessed to see it. I cannot say he was perfect, but he was everything a father could be.”

Draco sucked in his breath – there was so much more he wanted to say, so many precious things, but they wouldn’t understand. The weedy financial officers looking for a share in Lucius’ will.

“And I hope his spirit rests in peace,” concluded Draco, with the bitter taste of wasted words filling his mouth.

“Amen.” Only a feeble murmur arose from the crowd, all of them shifting distractedly. None of them dared even look at Draco.

Draco could see his mother from the corner of his eye – she was joyous, of course; her arms were already entangled around her new fiancé, Bruce.

Narcissa never truly knew his father. She had only married him for the money; and her beauty and prestige did not put Lucius in any type of position to object.

Narcissa never saw Lucius pat Draco on the head every night so he could lumber into sleep. That was a mother’s job, certainly, but Narcissa was much too busy to care about little things such as that.

She never saw the sparkle in Lucius’ eyes when Draco told him about his accomplishments – winning Special Accomplishments…winning a hundred points for Slytherin (awarded by a teacher other than Snape). Never saw Lucius lecture Draco about his misadventures at school, then slip him a compliment through the corner of his mouth.

But above all, she never knew how much Lucius loved his son – and she never knew how much Draco loved his father.

<>

The very last memory Draco had of his father was something he wanted to forget. Forget as quickly and wildly as possible.

Draco had told him his secret. That secret. He remembered how good it had felt, releasing the stopper on all his emotions and letting them boil out and fizzle slowly in the air.

He never stopped and thought about the consequences.

It was the biggest mistake of his life.

For the first time in seventeen years Lucius Malfoy had nothing to say to his son. Nothing to show or do to express what he couldn’t say. So the only thing Lucius did was completely unconscious.

Draco remembered that moment, as sharp and clear as when it actually happened. The slight ruffle of the wind as Lucius tilted backwards – just slightly – and took one step back.

One step back from the son he’d loved and been devoted all those long years.

One step back.

And Draco remembered the feeling of his whole world shattering as his fingertips, and he ran –

Fled outside where it was raining and the raindrops closed his eyes and mingled with his tears.

For the first time ever, Lucius couldn’t comfort him anymore; he couldn’t tell Draco he understood, pat him on the head, and say everything was going to be okay.

He was on his own.

The next day Lucius was recruited for another Death Eater mission, and there he was killed. Lucius had spoken to him, before he left, but Draco’s memory of it was fuzzy.

“I’ll see you on Monday then, Draco.” He had said, awkwardly.

Draco hadn’t said anything.

Now all Draco could think was that he’d be waiting for Monday for the rest of his life.

<><><>

Oh, how I wish to scream and to wake up
from this dream, but the pain I feel is real
I try to say my name.

Harry watched as his breath slowly disappeared from the cold window.

How long before I disappear like that? Mold into an emptiness only I can see and feel?

Fireworks exploded, signaling the prime minister’s arrival in town. Vibrant hues lit up the sky, but winked out quickly – too quickly. Harry wished they could stay just a little longer, cheer up the midnight sky.

He pressed his face against the glass and looked out. Nothing. Just like his soul

Nothing at all.

And he sighed and lay back down in bed, wrapping his arms around his pillow and holding it protectively, because at least that was something.

<><><>

Draco hated him. Hated him with all blood that pounded through his veins. It was, perhaps, the one thing he was sure about in his life now. How much he hated Harry Potter.

Harry Potter, who refused his offer of friendship, the only offer he’d ever made. Who acted like Draco was worth less than nothing, who had even stopped Weasley from punching the daylights out of him by muttering, “Malfoy isn’t worth that Ron. You know that.”

And he still remembered the look on Weasley’s face when Potter had said that. The brilliant, triumphant grin that appeared, making his eyes glow and stretching to his ears. “Harry’s right,” he had said, still smiling. “You’re nothing Malfoy. Less than dirt.” And he had walked away with his Mudblood girlfriend, Granger, nodding and congratulating him.

Weasley hadn’t bothered Draco for the rest of last year. It drove him insane; he, who had been the bane of Weasley’s life for years, did not even seem to matter to him anymore. Weasley did not seem to even see him when they passed each other in the halls. And Draco couldn’t stand it – being just another student of no special importance, unnoticed by only a select few. In truth, Weasley was nothing to Draco; but through Weasley Draco could provoke Potter, taunt him and pretend to himself every blow to the redhead hurt Potter too. But now that connection was lost, and Draco felt the potency of his hate boiling up inside him, waiting to spill.

This year it would. And Potter would feel every ounce of the hate Draco felt when Harry was within five feet of him. Feel how it stung his skin. Draco would see to that.

<><><>

The ride to Hogwarts had always been bumpy. Only this year did Harry think it was uncomfortable. The scenery rushing by the windows had always been dizzying. Only this year did Harry feel it was irritating.

“Harry?” said Hermione, tugging at her friend’s sleeve. “Harry, are you listening?”

“Mmmm,”

“As I was saying, this year you should try to –”

They were interrupted by a very drunk Ron, who made a series of interesting hand gestures upon entering the compartment. A Special Drinkers’ Award medallion hung from his wrist.

Hermione wrinkled her nose and turned back to Harry. “You really should try to involve yourself more Harry. All you did last year was sit in your dorm.”

“Sirius is dead,” said Harry flatly. Simple. At least Hermione could understand that.

“And I’m sure he would love to see his godson wasting away in the Gryffindor tower because of that.” was Hermione’s bland reply.

Of course she doesn’t understand.

Harry’s eyes flashed. “Well I’m sorry if my level of heroic behavior and contribution has been climbing downhill. Do you expect me to see the closest I’ve ever had to a father figure die and not flinch at all?”

Hermione’s cringed. “I didn’t mean it that way Harry,” she said softly. “I was just worried…”

Harry sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said, as sincerely as he could, and patted her stiffly on the back. Ron giggled from the corner.

“You’re right Hermione,” continued Harry, and Hermione’s eyes grew big. “I need to occupy myself.” With that, he walked out of their compartment.

<><><>

Draco had been thinking of clever ways to kill Terry Boot (who had the nerve to come into his compartment and suggest that he and Potter could be lovesick puppies in denial), when Harry Potter entered his compartment.

<><><>


Draco Malfoy in the Heart of a Cottage

Summary: Slash one Draco Malfoy with Harry Potter. Now cross that couple with a homely, lonely cottage in the middle of nowhere with a couple of sex-frenzied dogs and what do you get? Slashiness, rabid plants, edible bowls, soymilk, and general chaos.

//

Draco liked cities. Large bustling places with lots of noise. Streets filed with grungy people, reaching into their pockets to check for their jingling galleons. Fine ladies with aristocratic bone types and hair bigger than their heads and fluffing down their cheeks. Nervous looking schoolboys wringing their scarves and asking for candy or their opposites – rowdy schoolboys whipping their scarves in circles and hooting at an attractive girl nearby (who looked pleased, despite trying to frown imperiously at them). He’d even take beggars, the filthy, ratty-tatty poor begging for spare change; those who dirties his sleek new robes.

Yes, even beggars. He just needed some kind of noise.

Is this why I gave up my rich and varied social life? Thought Draco miserably to himself, looking at the pile of unwashed dishes, for a “nice”, “comfortable” cottage in a village not even a geographer would know?

He should’ve known this would happen. Potter was going to pay for this.

He glared at the dishes. “Wash yourself, why don’t you,” he snarled at them, stubbing his toe on the stool and he made a Highly Dignified Exit.

The mirror behind him cackled evilly.

Draco cried.

::

Harry came home around three each day. He was, quite honorably, the post-man.

“See see Draco?” he had said, “I can come home at three so we have more time together. It’s a great job.”

Draco decided not to tell him his job only started at ten and ended at three because there was only one other family within a hundred mile radius. Besides, he was – just faintly – intrigued by the “more time together.” Who knew what that implied?

Today, however, Harry came home later than usual – which makes Draco scowl: time was money, he thought rather angrily – and to put insult onto injury, he bought soymilk with him.

Vanilla soymilk.

It was thoroughly embarrassing to Draco’s cultivated tastes. How could he bend so low to drink liquid pressed from beans, which had inevitably touched the dirty earth in their process of growing? Who knew what sort of toxins the beans could contain? He could mutate into an albino penguin for all he knew!

But then, who knew that high and mighty Draco Malfoy would end up living in a farm-esque cottage made from half-bitten wood and painted pink?

Ah, life was a cruel, cruel teacher.

<> <> <>



RANDOM BITS AND PIECES


1

Draco liked the rain.

Rain was wet, cold, and defiantly clear. When it rained the sky clouded into a muddy gray impasse with no distinct lines. Only a stretch of charcoal void that melted into the horizon.

Draco doesn’t like lines. He doesn’t like boxes either, everything neat and simple and packaged into easy understandability. So when it rained he felt all the clear-cut factors from him wash away with the raindrops.

It would be embarrassing is someone found out. So Draco keeps to himself and stands outside until the storm is over. When his housemates ask why he’s so wet, he says it’s the sweat from playing Quidditch.

If people feel the drops of water and its coldness, they don’t comment.

It works better that way.

||-||-||

“Hey Harry.”

Harry looked up and saw Ginny walking towards him, the orange glow of the fire smoothing minute creases on her face.
“You look lonely,” she said, her voice warm and her face even warmer.

His heart clenched, and he wondered…did I used to look like that?

“So,” she continued, “How’s life treating you? Need some hot cocoa?”

Harry gave her a forced smile. “Sure,” he said.

||

The cocoa was a muddy, sifted brown that seemed to melt together before his eyes. “Gin,” said Harry. “Did you spike this?”
She laughed at him, her eyes lighting a crescent blue. “Course I did Harry. You looked too sober.”

He felt dizzy, but not quite nauseous. His mouth was frothy and his throat gently balmy. It was…comfortable. “Gin,” he said. “Come ‘ere.”

She did, leaning close and brushing back and flyaway strand of hair from his face. “Yes?” her eyes were inquisitive and she smelled like milk and orange crème.

Harry kissed her, and she tasted just the way she smelled, on the exception of warmth and chocolate, which lingered on her lips.
It felt so wrong.

His head was spinning and he felt thick bile rising from his throat. Nausea overcame his senses as he practically shoved her away as he ran.


2

“Have I told you lately that I hate you?”

Draco grinned wickedly. “Yes, but you cannot deny that you want to ravish me until I shrivel into a fig.”

Harry wrinkled his nose, causing his glasses to scrunch up against his eyes. “Ew,” he proclaimed. “I really want to ravish you now, Draco.”

Draco pouted. “Figs are very sexy,” he argued.


3

I happen to love this bit a lot. I am almost still tempted to keep it and make some fic from it. But I know I'll never finish so someone please baby it.




Minutes before dawn.

Lazy streaks of gold danced faintly in the sky, playing with the shadows of artificial light inside the flat. The first day in weeks it wasn’t raining; it looked to be almost a good day.

When Harry Potter awoke, he felt he couldn’t breathe. The light blinded his weary eyes. The rhythm of the rain was gone. Feeling sick, he quietly put on his glasses, put on a robe to cover his sticky body, and got his wand.

“Petrifus Totalus” he thought silently at the blond man sprawled out on the bed.

Draco Malfoy snapped awake just before the spell hit, a horrible look upon his face. Betrayal and shock, tingling with terror. His mouth was slightly apart, and though no sound came out Harry knew what he was going to say.

“Fuck.”

Aurors came streaming into the room, glee evident in their eyes. They dragged Malfoy out after snapping his wand neatly in two. Hermione was the last to leave, and she touched him gently on the shoulder.

“Hey,” she said. “I’m – ”

Harry walked away. He didn’t mean to be rude, but he couldn’t listen to those words right now. An attempt at comfort he knew would never work. Touches that would never quell that vomit churning in his stomach, the cold sweat all over his back, the dizzying sense of regret and hate in his heart.

He noticed a gold band in the bathroom, sitting next to the sink. Draco’s engagement band; he must’ve left it there last night. The last night; when Harry promised to never leave him. A little note was tied around it -

Liar.

4

“Oh my god,” Hermione gushed, staring fixedly as Legolas strung his leather bow, “He is so cute!”

“Oh my god,” said Harry, staring just as fixedly as Legolas slid down the stairs with his shield, “He is so cute!” His cheeks
were splotched with red.

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t know long hair and blue eyes were your type,” he said testily.

“Mmm,” replied Harry, oogling Legolas’ body in a far less than healthy way, a way that screamed: LOOK AT ME, I’M THINKING PORN.

“You’re late,” movie!Legolas said to movie!Aragorn (in Elvish, causing Hermione and Harry to sigh dramatically). “You look terrible.”

“Now that’s what I call cute,” declared Draco, staring pointedly at Aragorn as he watched for Harry’s reaction. Unfortunately, Harry was too transfixed to notice.

The next scene depicted freckly Eowyn flirting with playerboy!Aragorn.

“Now she’s cute,” said Ron approvingly, nodding.

Draco snapped at him irritably. “You’re the only one here that finds girls attractive, Weasley,” he said. “You’re ruining our continuum.”




Have much fanficcy fun!


♥ jenny