rurounihime (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rurounihime) wrote2005-01-06 09:37 pm
rurounihime) wrote2005-01-06 09:37 pm
Entry tags:
Darker Magic chapter 3
Title: Darker Magic
Author: me
Pairing: H/D
Rating: R
Summary: Control over the self is the most important part of Draco's life... especially when that control has been lost.
Notes: Sequel to Simply Charming (meant to be part 2 in a trilogy). This section is looking to be about 7 chapters.
DISCLAIMER: *twiddles fingers* They are still not mine. They belong to JK Rowling. Contains SLASH.
Prequel chapters here (5)
Chapter 1: Legilimens
Chapter 2: Petrificus Totalus
Chapter 3:
Silencio
Draco—
I trust you have reached Hogwarts in an uneventful and timely manner. It is most regrettable that we were unable to see you to the train. Your mother sends her regards.
We must of course discuss your future plans, namely your return over the holiday season. There have been several unforeseen events which may alter any previous engagements I have made. Your decision concerning which day you wish to return is unknown to me at this juncture, and I require it to formulate our plans for the winter season.
Your father, Lucius Malfoy
Draco let himself look at the carefully quilled words for another moment. Then he set the letter down and raised his wand. He traced an intricate set of runes down the right edge of the parchment, then trailed the tip of his wand to the center of the page and drew the Arithmancy symbol long ingrained in his mind and body. It sparked in glowing orange and the heat traveled up the wand into the tips of his fingers. The magic threaded through his veins in silent slithers and the runes that had up until that point been invisible tracings of a wand glowed fiery red. Draco squinted against the harsh glow and waited, feeling the magic snaking back out of him. The parchment shimmered purest white and when it faded, it was blank. Draco lifted his wand and waited.
Slowly, so gradually he could not tell when it first began, black inked letters began to appear, bleeding into the parchment from some unknown source. His father’s looping scrawl filled the page once more. Draco picked up the letter, feeling residual heat singe his fingertips. There was no preamble.
I find the manor to be quite unsatisfactory these days. The building is far too old, too careworn and full of forgotten spirits. I doubt you would agree; you carry yourself well through these rooms. It is as I had hoped it would be, that moment when I realized you had far surpassed any of the lowly families who dwell in our shadow. The Parkinsons, the Goyles... they have no feel for the truly elegant. It seems you possess this in great abundance, and my own ability to fill each room wanes as does a worn harvest moon.
You have become, in every way, my successor, and the thought calms me with a cold sort of breath. There is much for you to succeed me in, much more than you can be aware of at this point, but it will come and you will wake from dreams of it many nights as I have done. I have watched you move through the manor countless times, and I see myself, or perhaps the young man I was. It has happened, the instant I have awaited since your birth: you have become the lord of the manor
The writing stopped abruptly, and then changed, becoming darker, more frenzied.
Does it make you shiver at night, to know you have usurped my role? You take on more than you could possibly realize and I doubt your frail, insignificant boy’s body can handle what you have thrown at yourself with the speed of a thousand howling winds! There is one who wants you because I am broken, and make no mistake, you WILL go to him. You are a Malfoy, you are my son, and as always—
Draco blinked.
-what you, a Malfoy, desires does not matter.
The writing settled back into complacent ease.
He will speak, and it will be soon. Should you wish to return for the holidays, I have grave doubt in my mind of its possibility. I would not have you here for the world. You are young and ignorant, and you cannot grasp what deeds you will be asked to fulfill. As always, your presence is allowed. But your youthful naivete is not welcome. Come if you must; I wager even fools can accomplish the greatest of deeds. Your place will be discussed with or without you.
Draco tightened his jaw to keep the lesser emotions from rolling up. He set the parchment down and slipped a blank piece from his trunk. His fingers held a quill poised over the new parchment. There was no immediate answer to the questions, if he could even be sure what was being asked of him. His father’s words were all over the place, jumbled and contradictory, and Draco wondered what Lucius had seen on the sheet of parchment at the end when he had perused it in his solemn fashion, cast the spell over it, and sent it on its way. Had it made sense to him?
Draco wrote that he would think on it, tied the tiny scroll to the leg of his eagle owl, and sent the large bird through the high window in his room. Then he thought until he fell off into sleep and was woken by his dreams.
* * *
“Potter and Malfoy. Incendiary Potion. To be on my desk in exactly forty-seven minutes.”
Professor Snape gave them one unreadable look and turned swiftly, striding back to his desk, robes billowing behind him. Draco pulled his text closer and thumbed to the correct page, then got up and walked away from Harry to the ingredients table to pick out what he needed. He did it briskly and silently, measuring each ingredient with patience, not paying any attention to the other students bustling up to retrieve their materials. Nott bumped his arm in the midst of filling a vial full of Cyprean Fireweed and Draco turned a baleful glare on him. The too-thin Slytherin gave him a dark smile. “Too good for us, Malfoy?”
Draco’s eyes went over Nott slowly. “You would have me argue with Professor Snape’s choice of partners, Nott?”
Nott’s eyes narrowed. He looked over his shoulder to where Harry sat, coaxing a fire into existence beneath their cauldron. Draco followed his gaze and saw the Gryffindor wrinkle his nose in concentration and push his glasses higher.
Nott’s smile twisted. “That one walks right into it every time.”
Draco fixed Nott with his gaze. “When you have the time and ingredients to waste, and the Gryffindor to humiliate, then by all means, Nott, have your fun. I do not intend to sacrifice my Potions grade for your entertainment.”
Nott’s eyes were devoid of the anger Draco expected to see. They glinted oddly, but were otherwise flat. Draco met his gaze for another moment, then stalked away. Try as he might to still himself, his temper had risen, choking him like bile. He fixed a scowl on his face – quite easy to do in his present state – and practically slammed the vials down in front of Harry, making him jump. The other boy eyed him in silence as he sat down. Then Harry turned back to their cauldron and began to sift in the various ingredients. Aside from a few terse corrections, Draco kept silent, and eventually the beginnings of the potion was simmering quietly before him.
Harry was trying not to look at him, Draco could tell. And doing a fairly good job of it, too. The dark haired boy bent over his notes attentively, and every time Draco thought he had at last caught him looking, he found Harry’s eyes turned downward. They were shifting over the paper far too rapidly to be concentrating on his writing, but on the paper nonetheless. Draco finally let out an exasperated sigh and turned, fixing Harry with a direct glare. “What?”
Harry’s answer came so quickly and with such surety that it caught Draco off guard. “How are you?” he murmured, not taking his eyes from his notes.
Draco stared for a moment, then turned away, giving the potion a quick stir before crossing his arms. “Just fine, thank you, Potter.”
Harry shrugged. His face belatedly fixed itself in a frown for Draco’s benefit, but relaxed just as quickly. Draco found it amusing. Harry would act as if they still hated each other, and then forget just a quickly, or find it to be too much trouble. Indifference in public was all he really managed these days.
It seemed a silly thing to have difficulty with, to Draco.
Harry leaned over suddenly and stretched his arm out, a tiny sprig of something held between his fingers. “Time for the Tentacula Root.”
Draco rolled his eyes and shoved Harry’s hand away. “Not unless you want the potion to blow up in your face. It needs to be crushed, Potter.” Draco took it from him and pounded it thoroughly with the pestle. He scooped the dust up in his fingers and sprinkled it into the cauldron. Harry watched him, and Draco glared. “Well? Stir it.”
The Gryffindor reached across him and gave the cauldron a stir. The scent of Harry’s hair hit Draco’s nostrils and he forced his eyes shut, grimacing.
They sat for several minutes in silence, Harry watching the cauldron and Draco watching... Harry. Not that he was looking at him. There were other ways to watch someone. He eyed Harry’s shadow, the shape of his hair elongated across the tabletop. He watched Harry’s arm resting comfortably beside his own. He listened to his light, steady breathing. He was beginning to find that when Harry was calm, his breathing became anchored, untouchable and smooth. One could set a clock by it.
“My father came back.”
Harry’s startled reaction was muted, eyes finding Draco’s in wide disbelief for an instant before dropping back to his notes. But he raised them again and stared at Draco.
“Are you alright?” Harry asked softly.
The quiet concern in his voice struck Draco somewhere in the chest. His thoughts flipped about for a moment before he let anger sweep them. He curled his lip fiercely at Harry. “And exactly why wouldn’t I be?”
Harry narrowed his eyes but did not look away. Draco straightened and shook his head derisively. “He hasn’t hurt me, Potter, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Harry’s voice was soft and patient, not rising to the bait. “If you say he hasn’t hurt you then he hasn’t. But are you alright?”
Draco stared at the table, keeping his features still with some effort. What the hell did Harry think this was anyway? But his anger was drifting away faster than he could hold onto it, and only Harry’s fingers filled his vision, curled gently against the tabletop just within his sight. Dark with potions ingredients, dirty cuticles, wide nails. Draco could remember the touch of Harry’s palm on his cheek as clearly as if Harry were holding his face right that instant.
“I’m fine,” he muttered. Harry’s eyes remained on him for a few more seconds and then the Gryffindor turned back to his writing. Draco jerked himself up and grabbed an empty flask, ladling their potion into it with a precision he no longer felt. He waited until Harry finished writing, then slid the parchment from under his fingers and walked both items up to Snape’s desk. Returning to their table, he was looking at the back of Harry’s head when Harry turned and glanced his way. His eyes were luminous and Draco took a deep steadying breath, his step faltering. Harry looked away and Draco pulled out his chair to sit down… and caught Snape looking at him.
The professor’s face was set in a grim scowl of disapproval, the one he wore during every class. But his dark eyes were troubled. Draco blinked and looked away, feeling his face flush.
Toward the end of class, Snape looked over their notes and nodded dismissively at them, muttering a “Very good” before fixing his eyes on Draco.
“Mr. Malfoy,” he said, looking down his long nose at him. “See me after class.”
Draco nodded and the professor turned on his heel and moved away. When Snape banished the struggling students to lunch with a sour grin at their attempts to complete the day’s assignment, Harry gathered his things slowly but steadily and made for the door without looking back for Draco. The Slytherin placed his books into his bag and waited for the stragglers to leave. When the door had closed behind the last one, Snape’s voice brought his gaze to the front desk.
“Draco, if you please.” He gestured to the chair closest to his desk and resumed his seat behind the immaculate pile of potions reports. Draco made his way to the front of the room, feeling his Head of House’s eyes on him the entire way.
“Professor,” he acknowledged as he sat down. Snape eyed him for such a long moment that Draco felt the hairs on his arms prickle.
“How were your summer holidays?” Snape asked finally, in a low voice devoid of everything other than the vaguest of curiosity. Draco lifted his shoulders unconcernedly.
“Uneventful.”
“Really.”
Snape’s face was a blank mask; the only thing resembling life were the dark, flickering irises under his lowered brows. Draco nodded slowly, not taking his gaze from the professor’s.
Snape spoke again, but there was a subtle difference in his tone. “I understand your father was released from Azkaban.”
Draco resisted the urge to swallow at the unfamiliar lilt to his normally emotionless professor’s voice. If he didn’t know better he might almost think... “Yes.”
Snape continued to look at him, but Draco had the unnerving sense it was not just his face being scrutinized. It was his entire form, inside and out, the struggle of emotion in his head, the faint shadows he knew were under his eyes. Draco fastened his expression into obedience. Snape raised an eyebrow slightly.
“And how is your father, Draco?”
“He is well, Professor. He sends his regards.”
Snape narrowed his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure he does.”
Distinct discomfort gnawed at Draco. He had always respected Snape not only for his knowledge of potions and magic, but also for the odd ability he seemed to have to pierce in through layers of flesh and bone and thought, heading directly for the root of a problem. Whether it was the man’s own problem or that of the person being observed was another issue entirely, and Draco had often found Snape’s snide dismissal of those who irked him to be amusing and intriguing. The man cut at what hurt, then waited behind barred and sneering defenses for the enraged party to slip up and tell him what he wanted to know. It was always inevitable, the resulting aggressive backlash from the one targeted, and it fascinated Draco how similar Snape’s aims were to those of his father’s patient inexorable scrutiny. But their respective methods were more unique to each other than night and day. Snape goaded, prodded, forced the issue with a comfortable confidence in his abilities of observance, and always got what he desired. Lucius Malfoy simply waited, ever present, ever pressing, until the answers came forth of their own accord.
Draco had rarely been the object of Snape’s style of scrutiny, and he found he could sympathize with the Gryffindors in this at least: he did not like it. What it coaxed forth was too addled in his own head to make much sense of.
Snape continued complacently. “I must ask you if you are alright, Draco.”
Draco’s irritation bubbled up, finding an outlet before he could remember that that was how Snape worked. “Why does everyone feel the need to ask me that?” he ground out.
Snape raised an eyebrow. “Everyone?”
And just like that, Draco calmed. A new presence was in his mind now, one with dark hair, green eyes, and ridiculous glasses. He could not afford to be angry. It was not only himself on the line suddenly, but Harry as well, and Draco thought, without taking much time to analyze why this should spark such resistance in him, that he would be damned before he allowed Snape to trick that out of him.
He met the professor’s gaze steadily, a small smile forming on his lips. “It’s been good having him at home again.”
Snape’s face contorted in such a way that Draco’s heart thudded. Just a tiny shiver, but it went through his eyes and mouth, and was not what Draco had expected to see. Unease, and a certain sort of troubled apprehension in those dark irises. Snape’s mouth tightened and the look was gone, leaving Draco staring.
“How is your mother?”
“She’s fine.”
And once again, that look. Draco struggled to hold onto what he knew of Snape, but the truth was that he had never seen anything like this in the man’s face before. He looked more worn than usual, angrier in a weird way, and it gave Draco pause.
Snape suddenly frowned and leaned forward. His eyes glittered intently. “Draco, I hope you know you can be perfectly frank with me, should you have need of it.”
Draco blinked, barely holding the familiar smirk on his lips. He was struck by the idea that it was a stranger sitting in front of him, not the professor he knew, but someone else entirely, speaking in Snape’s voice. He felt lost, walking forward rather quickly but unable to see where he was headed. It felt familiar. Snape was familiar. But this new element was not.
“What could I possibly have to talk about?” he asked, with more assurance than he felt. If it were his father sitting here boring into him, he had no doubt that he would have been unmasked in a moment, his confusion thrown into the stark cold of reality to be observed and picked apart. But Snape was distracted by something and it unsettled Draco even more to see that laid plain at his feet.
Snape tented his fingers and studied Draco. When his voice came, it was low. “Draco, what is it you want for your future, exactly?”
It caught him off guard; he opened his mouth before thinking about it and then closed it. He’d always felt comfortable speaking to Snape. The man was familiar in a way that even his family was not, and he had never filled Draco with anything but admiration and ease… until now. There was something else underneath his words this time, something else riding on it. Draco’s hackles went up instinctively and he found his elusive confidence in those well-known walls.
“Don’t worry, Professor,” he said serenely. “I am quite comfortable with where my life is headed.”
Snape drew a breath through his nose and met Draco’s gaze unflinchingly. “I feel I must point out, Draco... that some things are not as clear cut as they seem to be at first.”
Draco had to get out of there, he felt it in his bones. This was far too close to his father’s method, this intense scrutiny, these guiding statements... He feared it. Most of all Draco feared his willingness to answer, to give over without a fight. Snape’s concern promised solutions, at least to some things, an unburdening of the things tangling inside him in an ever growing knot. If he just spoke...
His father’s haggard face blazoned into his thoughts with a piercing clarity of color and Draco jerked himself into obedience with the image. This was not his to unburden. He grew angry at how close he’d come, at how far he had released himself. He knew his place. Malfoy. It had been a certainty before he even knew the definition of that word. The comfort of that knowledge pulsed through him in a cold wave, riding over the heat of doubt. Draco lifted his chin, feeling his familiar barriers strengthen.
“Trust me, Professor, I am well aware of things as they stand. I’ve given much thought to my situation and I’m content with what I know.”
Snape’s eyes flickered strangely and he gazed at Draco for a long moment without speaking. Draco looked back. Suddenly, as if a lid had snapped down, the man’s face was the old Snape’s, the one he recognized and remembered, coldly calculating and calm. The professor nodded to him and waved him away. “I’m glad to hear it. Now go to lunch, our discussion is concluded.”
Draco rose, nodding his acknowledgement, and started for the door. Once there, he allowed himself a final glance back. Snape was not looking at him, but was staring in front of himself distantly. The unfamiliar, tense shadows had returned to his features. Draco’s body gave a gentle shiver.
* * *
The common room was dark, and the green light of the torches played across the text of Draco’s Charms book like some unearthly, living liquid. Spell fire looked like that, if one were casting the right spell. Draco found himself smiling, and wondered at his response with a vague sense of dread.
The room was quiet. Supposedly Draco could be upstairs with Crabbe and Goyle, watching Zabini make fools out of the two of them for the millionth time, or Nott whittling away at his strange little carvings. They were potions bottles, Draco could tell that much, made of some thick, deep red wood. The magical nature of them veritably rolled into the room wherever Nott was, turning Draco’s stomach, and he was surprised the teachers had not felt it. Yes, he could be watching the slow patient formation of those little flasks.
But he had no desire to be near any of those people. The person he wanted to be near would never be found in this room, and Draco was oddly relieved by that knowledge.
He turned the page of his book and absorbed the words, siphoning off what he felt he needed and storing it away in his mind. They were protective charms, some so complex Draco could hardly fathom the magical prowess and energy they must have required to develop. Wizards in tanned animal skins huddled wearily around guttering fires, stroking forth whatever magic they could find in the depths of their bodies, channeling it through their shaking wands into light and sound and sparks. Bleeding themselves dry until they were dispossessed by the very magic they sought to use, turning to the next wizard to take up the gauntlet and continue the magical tapestry. And from this sacrifice, this gift of every enchanted fiber of their lives, came wonders like the realization of the Fidelius Charm, the primal use of Priori Incantatem, and the first threads of monstrosities: Imperio, Crucio. Avada Kedavra. Charms turned, blackened and charred beyond recognition by those who came after, until the only magic they bore was hateful and tainted and malignant.
Draco was absorbed utterly.
The clock in the room chimed a high, bell-like tone and Draco followed the repeated sound until he knew that it was seven o’clock. He closed his book and rose, smoothing his shirt absently with his palms. He left his school robes folded neatly over the back of the leather chair and went to the portrait hole. Footsteps sounded behind him on the stairs, and Draco turned, poised at the doorway that cut him free of the choice he’d made so contentedly six years ago, and saw Millicent Bulstrode.
“Malfoy!” The tall girl smiled hesitantly at him. She held something in her arms. “Where... Are you headed to dinner?”
“Library,” Draco answered. Millicent’s smile became one of shy relief.
“I was headed there as well. We could walk together if you... if you don’t mind, of course.”
Draco frowned, then pushed the wall open for his housemate to step through. It swung closed behind them of its own accord and Millicent turned to him skittishly, clutching her stack of books to her flat chest. Her eyes darted over his face and Draco just watched her. When she became assured that he was not going to snap at her or send her off, she fell into step beside him.
“I don’t really like walking down here alone at night.” Her voice sounded too small in the darkened hallways, as if it were being pulled into the deepest shadows and absorbed. Draco raised an eyebrow and she shrugged, blushing. “Just not so enamored with all these hallways. I hate that Slytherin is down here.”
“Bulstrode. You’ve been down in this dungeon for seven years. Now it starts to look uncomfortable? Perhaps you should have been in Gryffindor.”
Millicent glanced at him so quickly, with such a look of fear in her eyes, that Draco blinked. “No, no, I don’t hate Slytherin. I like Slytherin House. I’ve wanted to be in it forever, since I was three. I just... Never mind.”
Draco snorted and left her to her silence. They made their way up out of the dungeons, and he did not miss her small sigh of relief when they’d cleared the archway into the brightly lit front hall. He also did not miss her nervous flush and her continued glances his way. It began to annoy him, not a hefty order in his current state.
“What is it, Bulstrode?” he said finally, looking straight ahead. His voice sounded tight even to him. The girl snapped her attention forward again.
“Sorry, it’s nothing. Only... How were your holidays? I haven’t really talked to you much yet this term.”
“They were fine. Yours?”
She shrugged. “Alright, I guess. My father was… away. Quite a bit.” She peeked at him from under her eyelashes again, and Draco finally got it. He smirked lightly.
“Interesting. My father was at home quite a bit.”
Millicent licked her lips and nodded. Draco noticed her fingers were white, clutched around the edges of her books. “Suppose they couldn’t hold him, could they? Incompetent fools, yeah?”
But her voice lacked the snide tone she was trying for. Draco sneered, suddenly amused. “Highly incompetent.”
A nod was all he got.
At the library, Draco moved toward one of the far aisles. Millicent bit her lip and began to follow him.
“Malfoy, did you... have you ever seen...” Her eyes darted around and a blush rose on her cheeks. She licked her lips again and looked at him, the false mask of nonchalance held very loosely over the apprehension underneath. “What I mean to say is—”
She fell silent again, her mouth partly open. Draco studied her, intrigued. Her wide face was pale, the few freckles smattered over her forehead standing out in stark relief. Her eyes had smudges beneath them. He leaned forward.
“Yes, I have, Bulstrode. And I suggest that when you meet him, you make a little more of an effort at concealing your real thoughts.”
Her face went as white as the thestrals’ eyes. She swallowed, and nodded jerkily. Draco watched her back down one of the book aisles, looking at the floor instead of at his face. He waited until she had vanished, then strode out of the library, down the stairs, and out the massive doors into the warm September night. He made his way across the brittle, water-starved grass, hearing it crackle under his feet like so many eggshells. Harry was waiting for him, sitting by the stone in the grass watching his approach. Draco came to a stop and slid down next to him, wrapping his arms around his knees.
Harry turned to face him fully and sighed. His voice was light. “Didn’t know if you’d come.”
Draco stared into the dark, waving trees of the forest. Dry wind. He shrugged. “Why?”
Harry lifted his shoulders, or maybe hunched them, Draco wasn’t sure. “What I said this morning.”
“He’s different now,” Draco said quickly, in a harsher tone than he’d planned. He expected Harry to argue. The frown, the reaching hand, the requests for proof.
But Harry did not do any of those things. He did nothing except nod. Draco sat rigid for a long moment, waiting for the silence to be broken. Harry remained quiet, their shoulders just touching. When the silence became nothing more than whispered breezes and shifting pines, the faint scent of lemons, Draco leaned against the warm body beside him and sighed.
* * *
If it happened, following his father was out of the question.
warm bronzed skin mouth open candlelight flicker
If he let it happen, he would lose a considerable piece of himself that he might not be able to afford.
body heat build fingers fingers kneading no breath lemonsweet
If he guided it to happen – what his whole body was yearning for, what his dreams told him would quiet his soul at last, what he wanted more than anything he’d ever wanted in his entire selfish, shackled existence – if he guided it to happen... he would be lost in the woods. The place he was headed would be closed to him forever.
skin against skin touch familiar need he needed steady pulse tongue sweat mouth lips breathe green eyes inside inside
He would hurt him. Not himself. Him. It was a given. It was all he’d ever managed to do to anyone. But this time it got under his skin and stabbed at him.
whisper warm hands touching touching everywhere gods heat move complete complete complete
Draco woke alone in his bed, to cold midnight silence.
...
Ch. 4: Impedimenta
...
...
...
Thanks for reading! Oh, and anyone who cares to take a guess at the two novels I referenced for my love of their magical theory, please do.
Author: me
Pairing: H/D
Rating: R
Summary: Control over the self is the most important part of Draco's life... especially when that control has been lost.
Notes: Sequel to Simply Charming (meant to be part 2 in a trilogy). This section is looking to be about 7 chapters.
DISCLAIMER: *twiddles fingers* They are still not mine. They belong to JK Rowling. Contains SLASH.
Prequel chapters here (5)
Chapter 1: Legilimens
Chapter 2: Petrificus Totalus
Chapter 3:
Silencio
Draco—
I trust you have reached Hogwarts in an uneventful and timely manner. It is most regrettable that we were unable to see you to the train. Your mother sends her regards.
We must of course discuss your future plans, namely your return over the holiday season. There have been several unforeseen events which may alter any previous engagements I have made. Your decision concerning which day you wish to return is unknown to me at this juncture, and I require it to formulate our plans for the winter season.
Your father, Lucius Malfoy
Draco let himself look at the carefully quilled words for another moment. Then he set the letter down and raised his wand. He traced an intricate set of runes down the right edge of the parchment, then trailed the tip of his wand to the center of the page and drew the Arithmancy symbol long ingrained in his mind and body. It sparked in glowing orange and the heat traveled up the wand into the tips of his fingers. The magic threaded through his veins in silent slithers and the runes that had up until that point been invisible tracings of a wand glowed fiery red. Draco squinted against the harsh glow and waited, feeling the magic snaking back out of him. The parchment shimmered purest white and when it faded, it was blank. Draco lifted his wand and waited.
Slowly, so gradually he could not tell when it first began, black inked letters began to appear, bleeding into the parchment from some unknown source. His father’s looping scrawl filled the page once more. Draco picked up the letter, feeling residual heat singe his fingertips. There was no preamble.
I find the manor to be quite unsatisfactory these days. The building is far too old, too careworn and full of forgotten spirits. I doubt you would agree; you carry yourself well through these rooms. It is as I had hoped it would be, that moment when I realized you had far surpassed any of the lowly families who dwell in our shadow. The Parkinsons, the Goyles... they have no feel for the truly elegant. It seems you possess this in great abundance, and my own ability to fill each room wanes as does a worn harvest moon.
You have become, in every way, my successor, and the thought calms me with a cold sort of breath. There is much for you to succeed me in, much more than you can be aware of at this point, but it will come and you will wake from dreams of it many nights as I have done. I have watched you move through the manor countless times, and I see myself, or perhaps the young man I was. It has happened, the instant I have awaited since your birth: you have become the lord of the manor
The writing stopped abruptly, and then changed, becoming darker, more frenzied.
Does it make you shiver at night, to know you have usurped my role? You take on more than you could possibly realize and I doubt your frail, insignificant boy’s body can handle what you have thrown at yourself with the speed of a thousand howling winds! There is one who wants you because I am broken, and make no mistake, you WILL go to him. You are a Malfoy, you are my son, and as always—
Draco blinked.
-what you, a Malfoy, desires does not matter.
The writing settled back into complacent ease.
He will speak, and it will be soon. Should you wish to return for the holidays, I have grave doubt in my mind of its possibility. I would not have you here for the world. You are young and ignorant, and you cannot grasp what deeds you will be asked to fulfill. As always, your presence is allowed. But your youthful naivete is not welcome. Come if you must; I wager even fools can accomplish the greatest of deeds. Your place will be discussed with or without you.
Draco tightened his jaw to keep the lesser emotions from rolling up. He set the parchment down and slipped a blank piece from his trunk. His fingers held a quill poised over the new parchment. There was no immediate answer to the questions, if he could even be sure what was being asked of him. His father’s words were all over the place, jumbled and contradictory, and Draco wondered what Lucius had seen on the sheet of parchment at the end when he had perused it in his solemn fashion, cast the spell over it, and sent it on its way. Had it made sense to him?
Draco wrote that he would think on it, tied the tiny scroll to the leg of his eagle owl, and sent the large bird through the high window in his room. Then he thought until he fell off into sleep and was woken by his dreams.
* * *
“Potter and Malfoy. Incendiary Potion. To be on my desk in exactly forty-seven minutes.”
Professor Snape gave them one unreadable look and turned swiftly, striding back to his desk, robes billowing behind him. Draco pulled his text closer and thumbed to the correct page, then got up and walked away from Harry to the ingredients table to pick out what he needed. He did it briskly and silently, measuring each ingredient with patience, not paying any attention to the other students bustling up to retrieve their materials. Nott bumped his arm in the midst of filling a vial full of Cyprean Fireweed and Draco turned a baleful glare on him. The too-thin Slytherin gave him a dark smile. “Too good for us, Malfoy?”
Draco’s eyes went over Nott slowly. “You would have me argue with Professor Snape’s choice of partners, Nott?”
Nott’s eyes narrowed. He looked over his shoulder to where Harry sat, coaxing a fire into existence beneath their cauldron. Draco followed his gaze and saw the Gryffindor wrinkle his nose in concentration and push his glasses higher.
Nott’s smile twisted. “That one walks right into it every time.”
Draco fixed Nott with his gaze. “When you have the time and ingredients to waste, and the Gryffindor to humiliate, then by all means, Nott, have your fun. I do not intend to sacrifice my Potions grade for your entertainment.”
Nott’s eyes were devoid of the anger Draco expected to see. They glinted oddly, but were otherwise flat. Draco met his gaze for another moment, then stalked away. Try as he might to still himself, his temper had risen, choking him like bile. He fixed a scowl on his face – quite easy to do in his present state – and practically slammed the vials down in front of Harry, making him jump. The other boy eyed him in silence as he sat down. Then Harry turned back to their cauldron and began to sift in the various ingredients. Aside from a few terse corrections, Draco kept silent, and eventually the beginnings of the potion was simmering quietly before him.
Harry was trying not to look at him, Draco could tell. And doing a fairly good job of it, too. The dark haired boy bent over his notes attentively, and every time Draco thought he had at last caught him looking, he found Harry’s eyes turned downward. They were shifting over the paper far too rapidly to be concentrating on his writing, but on the paper nonetheless. Draco finally let out an exasperated sigh and turned, fixing Harry with a direct glare. “What?”
Harry’s answer came so quickly and with such surety that it caught Draco off guard. “How are you?” he murmured, not taking his eyes from his notes.
Draco stared for a moment, then turned away, giving the potion a quick stir before crossing his arms. “Just fine, thank you, Potter.”
Harry shrugged. His face belatedly fixed itself in a frown for Draco’s benefit, but relaxed just as quickly. Draco found it amusing. Harry would act as if they still hated each other, and then forget just a quickly, or find it to be too much trouble. Indifference in public was all he really managed these days.
It seemed a silly thing to have difficulty with, to Draco.
Harry leaned over suddenly and stretched his arm out, a tiny sprig of something held between his fingers. “Time for the Tentacula Root.”
Draco rolled his eyes and shoved Harry’s hand away. “Not unless you want the potion to blow up in your face. It needs to be crushed, Potter.” Draco took it from him and pounded it thoroughly with the pestle. He scooped the dust up in his fingers and sprinkled it into the cauldron. Harry watched him, and Draco glared. “Well? Stir it.”
The Gryffindor reached across him and gave the cauldron a stir. The scent of Harry’s hair hit Draco’s nostrils and he forced his eyes shut, grimacing.
They sat for several minutes in silence, Harry watching the cauldron and Draco watching... Harry. Not that he was looking at him. There were other ways to watch someone. He eyed Harry’s shadow, the shape of his hair elongated across the tabletop. He watched Harry’s arm resting comfortably beside his own. He listened to his light, steady breathing. He was beginning to find that when Harry was calm, his breathing became anchored, untouchable and smooth. One could set a clock by it.
“My father came back.”
Harry’s startled reaction was muted, eyes finding Draco’s in wide disbelief for an instant before dropping back to his notes. But he raised them again and stared at Draco.
“Are you alright?” Harry asked softly.
The quiet concern in his voice struck Draco somewhere in the chest. His thoughts flipped about for a moment before he let anger sweep them. He curled his lip fiercely at Harry. “And exactly why wouldn’t I be?”
Harry narrowed his eyes but did not look away. Draco straightened and shook his head derisively. “He hasn’t hurt me, Potter, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Harry’s voice was soft and patient, not rising to the bait. “If you say he hasn’t hurt you then he hasn’t. But are you alright?”
Draco stared at the table, keeping his features still with some effort. What the hell did Harry think this was anyway? But his anger was drifting away faster than he could hold onto it, and only Harry’s fingers filled his vision, curled gently against the tabletop just within his sight. Dark with potions ingredients, dirty cuticles, wide nails. Draco could remember the touch of Harry’s palm on his cheek as clearly as if Harry were holding his face right that instant.
“I’m fine,” he muttered. Harry’s eyes remained on him for a few more seconds and then the Gryffindor turned back to his writing. Draco jerked himself up and grabbed an empty flask, ladling their potion into it with a precision he no longer felt. He waited until Harry finished writing, then slid the parchment from under his fingers and walked both items up to Snape’s desk. Returning to their table, he was looking at the back of Harry’s head when Harry turned and glanced his way. His eyes were luminous and Draco took a deep steadying breath, his step faltering. Harry looked away and Draco pulled out his chair to sit down… and caught Snape looking at him.
The professor’s face was set in a grim scowl of disapproval, the one he wore during every class. But his dark eyes were troubled. Draco blinked and looked away, feeling his face flush.
Toward the end of class, Snape looked over their notes and nodded dismissively at them, muttering a “Very good” before fixing his eyes on Draco.
“Mr. Malfoy,” he said, looking down his long nose at him. “See me after class.”
Draco nodded and the professor turned on his heel and moved away. When Snape banished the struggling students to lunch with a sour grin at their attempts to complete the day’s assignment, Harry gathered his things slowly but steadily and made for the door without looking back for Draco. The Slytherin placed his books into his bag and waited for the stragglers to leave. When the door had closed behind the last one, Snape’s voice brought his gaze to the front desk.
“Draco, if you please.” He gestured to the chair closest to his desk and resumed his seat behind the immaculate pile of potions reports. Draco made his way to the front of the room, feeling his Head of House’s eyes on him the entire way.
“Professor,” he acknowledged as he sat down. Snape eyed him for such a long moment that Draco felt the hairs on his arms prickle.
“How were your summer holidays?” Snape asked finally, in a low voice devoid of everything other than the vaguest of curiosity. Draco lifted his shoulders unconcernedly.
“Uneventful.”
“Really.”
Snape’s face was a blank mask; the only thing resembling life were the dark, flickering irises under his lowered brows. Draco nodded slowly, not taking his gaze from the professor’s.
Snape spoke again, but there was a subtle difference in his tone. “I understand your father was released from Azkaban.”
Draco resisted the urge to swallow at the unfamiliar lilt to his normally emotionless professor’s voice. If he didn’t know better he might almost think... “Yes.”
Snape continued to look at him, but Draco had the unnerving sense it was not just his face being scrutinized. It was his entire form, inside and out, the struggle of emotion in his head, the faint shadows he knew were under his eyes. Draco fastened his expression into obedience. Snape raised an eyebrow slightly.
“And how is your father, Draco?”
“He is well, Professor. He sends his regards.”
Snape narrowed his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure he does.”
Distinct discomfort gnawed at Draco. He had always respected Snape not only for his knowledge of potions and magic, but also for the odd ability he seemed to have to pierce in through layers of flesh and bone and thought, heading directly for the root of a problem. Whether it was the man’s own problem or that of the person being observed was another issue entirely, and Draco had often found Snape’s snide dismissal of those who irked him to be amusing and intriguing. The man cut at what hurt, then waited behind barred and sneering defenses for the enraged party to slip up and tell him what he wanted to know. It was always inevitable, the resulting aggressive backlash from the one targeted, and it fascinated Draco how similar Snape’s aims were to those of his father’s patient inexorable scrutiny. But their respective methods were more unique to each other than night and day. Snape goaded, prodded, forced the issue with a comfortable confidence in his abilities of observance, and always got what he desired. Lucius Malfoy simply waited, ever present, ever pressing, until the answers came forth of their own accord.
Draco had rarely been the object of Snape’s style of scrutiny, and he found he could sympathize with the Gryffindors in this at least: he did not like it. What it coaxed forth was too addled in his own head to make much sense of.
Snape continued complacently. “I must ask you if you are alright, Draco.”
Draco’s irritation bubbled up, finding an outlet before he could remember that that was how Snape worked. “Why does everyone feel the need to ask me that?” he ground out.
Snape raised an eyebrow. “Everyone?”
And just like that, Draco calmed. A new presence was in his mind now, one with dark hair, green eyes, and ridiculous glasses. He could not afford to be angry. It was not only himself on the line suddenly, but Harry as well, and Draco thought, without taking much time to analyze why this should spark such resistance in him, that he would be damned before he allowed Snape to trick that out of him.
He met the professor’s gaze steadily, a small smile forming on his lips. “It’s been good having him at home again.”
Snape’s face contorted in such a way that Draco’s heart thudded. Just a tiny shiver, but it went through his eyes and mouth, and was not what Draco had expected to see. Unease, and a certain sort of troubled apprehension in those dark irises. Snape’s mouth tightened and the look was gone, leaving Draco staring.
“How is your mother?”
“She’s fine.”
And once again, that look. Draco struggled to hold onto what he knew of Snape, but the truth was that he had never seen anything like this in the man’s face before. He looked more worn than usual, angrier in a weird way, and it gave Draco pause.
Snape suddenly frowned and leaned forward. His eyes glittered intently. “Draco, I hope you know you can be perfectly frank with me, should you have need of it.”
Draco blinked, barely holding the familiar smirk on his lips. He was struck by the idea that it was a stranger sitting in front of him, not the professor he knew, but someone else entirely, speaking in Snape’s voice. He felt lost, walking forward rather quickly but unable to see where he was headed. It felt familiar. Snape was familiar. But this new element was not.
“What could I possibly have to talk about?” he asked, with more assurance than he felt. If it were his father sitting here boring into him, he had no doubt that he would have been unmasked in a moment, his confusion thrown into the stark cold of reality to be observed and picked apart. But Snape was distracted by something and it unsettled Draco even more to see that laid plain at his feet.
Snape tented his fingers and studied Draco. When his voice came, it was low. “Draco, what is it you want for your future, exactly?”
It caught him off guard; he opened his mouth before thinking about it and then closed it. He’d always felt comfortable speaking to Snape. The man was familiar in a way that even his family was not, and he had never filled Draco with anything but admiration and ease… until now. There was something else underneath his words this time, something else riding on it. Draco’s hackles went up instinctively and he found his elusive confidence in those well-known walls.
“Don’t worry, Professor,” he said serenely. “I am quite comfortable with where my life is headed.”
Snape drew a breath through his nose and met Draco’s gaze unflinchingly. “I feel I must point out, Draco... that some things are not as clear cut as they seem to be at first.”
Draco had to get out of there, he felt it in his bones. This was far too close to his father’s method, this intense scrutiny, these guiding statements... He feared it. Most of all Draco feared his willingness to answer, to give over without a fight. Snape’s concern promised solutions, at least to some things, an unburdening of the things tangling inside him in an ever growing knot. If he just spoke...
His father’s haggard face blazoned into his thoughts with a piercing clarity of color and Draco jerked himself into obedience with the image. This was not his to unburden. He grew angry at how close he’d come, at how far he had released himself. He knew his place. Malfoy. It had been a certainty before he even knew the definition of that word. The comfort of that knowledge pulsed through him in a cold wave, riding over the heat of doubt. Draco lifted his chin, feeling his familiar barriers strengthen.
“Trust me, Professor, I am well aware of things as they stand. I’ve given much thought to my situation and I’m content with what I know.”
Snape’s eyes flickered strangely and he gazed at Draco for a long moment without speaking. Draco looked back. Suddenly, as if a lid had snapped down, the man’s face was the old Snape’s, the one he recognized and remembered, coldly calculating and calm. The professor nodded to him and waved him away. “I’m glad to hear it. Now go to lunch, our discussion is concluded.”
Draco rose, nodding his acknowledgement, and started for the door. Once there, he allowed himself a final glance back. Snape was not looking at him, but was staring in front of himself distantly. The unfamiliar, tense shadows had returned to his features. Draco’s body gave a gentle shiver.
* * *
The common room was dark, and the green light of the torches played across the text of Draco’s Charms book like some unearthly, living liquid. Spell fire looked like that, if one were casting the right spell. Draco found himself smiling, and wondered at his response with a vague sense of dread.
The room was quiet. Supposedly Draco could be upstairs with Crabbe and Goyle, watching Zabini make fools out of the two of them for the millionth time, or Nott whittling away at his strange little carvings. They were potions bottles, Draco could tell that much, made of some thick, deep red wood. The magical nature of them veritably rolled into the room wherever Nott was, turning Draco’s stomach, and he was surprised the teachers had not felt it. Yes, he could be watching the slow patient formation of those little flasks.
But he had no desire to be near any of those people. The person he wanted to be near would never be found in this room, and Draco was oddly relieved by that knowledge.
He turned the page of his book and absorbed the words, siphoning off what he felt he needed and storing it away in his mind. They were protective charms, some so complex Draco could hardly fathom the magical prowess and energy they must have required to develop. Wizards in tanned animal skins huddled wearily around guttering fires, stroking forth whatever magic they could find in the depths of their bodies, channeling it through their shaking wands into light and sound and sparks. Bleeding themselves dry until they were dispossessed by the very magic they sought to use, turning to the next wizard to take up the gauntlet and continue the magical tapestry. And from this sacrifice, this gift of every enchanted fiber of their lives, came wonders like the realization of the Fidelius Charm, the primal use of Priori Incantatem, and the first threads of monstrosities: Imperio, Crucio. Avada Kedavra. Charms turned, blackened and charred beyond recognition by those who came after, until the only magic they bore was hateful and tainted and malignant.
Draco was absorbed utterly.
The clock in the room chimed a high, bell-like tone and Draco followed the repeated sound until he knew that it was seven o’clock. He closed his book and rose, smoothing his shirt absently with his palms. He left his school robes folded neatly over the back of the leather chair and went to the portrait hole. Footsteps sounded behind him on the stairs, and Draco turned, poised at the doorway that cut him free of the choice he’d made so contentedly six years ago, and saw Millicent Bulstrode.
“Malfoy!” The tall girl smiled hesitantly at him. She held something in her arms. “Where... Are you headed to dinner?”
“Library,” Draco answered. Millicent’s smile became one of shy relief.
“I was headed there as well. We could walk together if you... if you don’t mind, of course.”
Draco frowned, then pushed the wall open for his housemate to step through. It swung closed behind them of its own accord and Millicent turned to him skittishly, clutching her stack of books to her flat chest. Her eyes darted over his face and Draco just watched her. When she became assured that he was not going to snap at her or send her off, she fell into step beside him.
“I don’t really like walking down here alone at night.” Her voice sounded too small in the darkened hallways, as if it were being pulled into the deepest shadows and absorbed. Draco raised an eyebrow and she shrugged, blushing. “Just not so enamored with all these hallways. I hate that Slytherin is down here.”
“Bulstrode. You’ve been down in this dungeon for seven years. Now it starts to look uncomfortable? Perhaps you should have been in Gryffindor.”
Millicent glanced at him so quickly, with such a look of fear in her eyes, that Draco blinked. “No, no, I don’t hate Slytherin. I like Slytherin House. I’ve wanted to be in it forever, since I was three. I just... Never mind.”
Draco snorted and left her to her silence. They made their way up out of the dungeons, and he did not miss her small sigh of relief when they’d cleared the archway into the brightly lit front hall. He also did not miss her nervous flush and her continued glances his way. It began to annoy him, not a hefty order in his current state.
“What is it, Bulstrode?” he said finally, looking straight ahead. His voice sounded tight even to him. The girl snapped her attention forward again.
“Sorry, it’s nothing. Only... How were your holidays? I haven’t really talked to you much yet this term.”
“They were fine. Yours?”
She shrugged. “Alright, I guess. My father was… away. Quite a bit.” She peeked at him from under her eyelashes again, and Draco finally got it. He smirked lightly.
“Interesting. My father was at home quite a bit.”
Millicent licked her lips and nodded. Draco noticed her fingers were white, clutched around the edges of her books. “Suppose they couldn’t hold him, could they? Incompetent fools, yeah?”
But her voice lacked the snide tone she was trying for. Draco sneered, suddenly amused. “Highly incompetent.”
A nod was all he got.
At the library, Draco moved toward one of the far aisles. Millicent bit her lip and began to follow him.
“Malfoy, did you... have you ever seen...” Her eyes darted around and a blush rose on her cheeks. She licked her lips again and looked at him, the false mask of nonchalance held very loosely over the apprehension underneath. “What I mean to say is—”
She fell silent again, her mouth partly open. Draco studied her, intrigued. Her wide face was pale, the few freckles smattered over her forehead standing out in stark relief. Her eyes had smudges beneath them. He leaned forward.
“Yes, I have, Bulstrode. And I suggest that when you meet him, you make a little more of an effort at concealing your real thoughts.”
Her face went as white as the thestrals’ eyes. She swallowed, and nodded jerkily. Draco watched her back down one of the book aisles, looking at the floor instead of at his face. He waited until she had vanished, then strode out of the library, down the stairs, and out the massive doors into the warm September night. He made his way across the brittle, water-starved grass, hearing it crackle under his feet like so many eggshells. Harry was waiting for him, sitting by the stone in the grass watching his approach. Draco came to a stop and slid down next to him, wrapping his arms around his knees.
Harry turned to face him fully and sighed. His voice was light. “Didn’t know if you’d come.”
Draco stared into the dark, waving trees of the forest. Dry wind. He shrugged. “Why?”
Harry lifted his shoulders, or maybe hunched them, Draco wasn’t sure. “What I said this morning.”
“He’s different now,” Draco said quickly, in a harsher tone than he’d planned. He expected Harry to argue. The frown, the reaching hand, the requests for proof.
But Harry did not do any of those things. He did nothing except nod. Draco sat rigid for a long moment, waiting for the silence to be broken. Harry remained quiet, their shoulders just touching. When the silence became nothing more than whispered breezes and shifting pines, the faint scent of lemons, Draco leaned against the warm body beside him and sighed.
* * *
If it happened, following his father was out of the question.
warm bronzed skin mouth open candlelight flicker
If he let it happen, he would lose a considerable piece of himself that he might not be able to afford.
body heat build fingers fingers kneading no breath lemonsweet
If he guided it to happen – what his whole body was yearning for, what his dreams told him would quiet his soul at last, what he wanted more than anything he’d ever wanted in his entire selfish, shackled existence – if he guided it to happen... he would be lost in the woods. The place he was headed would be closed to him forever.
skin against skin touch familiar need he needed steady pulse tongue sweat mouth lips breathe green eyes inside inside
He would hurt him. Not himself. Him. It was a given. It was all he’d ever managed to do to anyone. But this time it got under his skin and stabbed at him.
whisper warm hands touching touching everywhere gods heat move complete complete complete
Draco woke alone in his bed, to cold midnight silence.
...
Ch. 4: Impedimenta
...
...
...
Thanks for reading! Oh, and anyone who cares to take a guess at the two novels I referenced for my love of their magical theory, please do.
no subject
filthylooks@hotmail.com
no subject
no subject
no subject
Ah, dollface... Thank you so much. I agonized over Snape here. Like crazy. He was trying to be Dumbledore for a minute there and it squicked me a bit. ^_~
I love your reviews. *glomp*
no subject
no subject
no subject
Gah. "Don't worry, Draco. Harry's strong, he can take it."
I love their little moments by the rock.
Scary Lucius. Not sure if he still has all his marbles, but I'm guessing he's lost one or two. ;)
Chilling chapter. I love the tension between Sanpe and Draco too...woah!
no subject
Well, something's been knocked a bit loose... and at the wrong time too: when he's starting to change his way of thinking just a bit. Uneasy combination if you ask me.
Yeah, Harry's strong. But Draco's blind. I love you. You get right to the heart of everything. *glomp*
no subject
*blush* You make me care enough about the characters to dive into their brains and try to understand them. *hugs* That, and I think you and I just 'get' each other, and how we write. It is a cool thing indeed.
Poor, blind Draco. so much resting on his shoulders. he has more pressure than my espresso machine. *brushes his hair*
and Lucius...*nods* He could be quite dangerous in his present state. *shivers*
no subject
Haha, I always KNEW he was full of hot air...
Heh, Lucius is going to be all over the place. Each letter, different tone. Fun to write, surely. ^_^
no subject
Lucius will be fun to watch too. I'm dying to know what he's up to. If I sleep with you, will you tell me? *licks lips*
hee hee
no subject
no subject
no subject
So I stumbled upon your writing during the Nine Days til Christmas adventure. And I just love it and now this.
Fantastic job! I am a little addicted to this fic now!
I love this Draco. His pain is palpable and I so want for him to be warm.
Keep up the fantastic work!
no subject
Ahaha, thank you! And welcome to my lj! *hugs*
I love this Draco. His pain is palpable and I so want for him to be warm.
Thanks for this. That you can feel Draco's pain... that's a wonderful compliment to me. This section's all about him. Thanks for such a lovely review!
no subject
*snuggles* you're so amazingly well doing at this. I just... *sighs* beautiful, haunting, heart gripping.
no subject
And I don't know if I've told you this before, but your icon? Absolutely spiffin.
no subject
Really? Thanks!my first moving icon ^c^
no subject
I hadn't read the first story before, so I had to go back and acquaint myself with the storyline, and just.. guh! As always, I love your writing style. Imagery, characterization, everything. It flows so well, and I'm madly in love with this Draco as well as this wonderfully tender Harry. And this part KILLED me:
and Draco watching... Harry. Not that he was looking at him. There were other ways to watch someone. He eyed Harry’s shadow made by the wall torches, the shape of his hair elongated across the tabletop. He watched Harry’s arm resting comfortably beside his own.
Oh, oh, oh! Thank you so much for existing and writing! I can't wait to read more.
no subject
Ahaha! *snogs* You are too cute. Thanks for reading this one, and for loving it so much. It's my baby. I fret all the time over it.
I'm madly in love with this Draco as well as this wonderfully tender Harry.
Thank you! And yay! *is so happy* *kiss*
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Wow, thank you! I love your reviews. You are such a fun reviewer! I feel like I'm getting a play-by-play of how you read it. *kiss* More to come very soon. I just have one more scene to finish up on chapter 4.
no subject
You are such a fun reviewer! I feel like I'm getting a play-by-play of how you read it.
teehee ^_^ cuz it's fun reviewing you! you're making me feel all sorts of emotions and i feel like i'd burst if i don't try and somehow put it into words. heh.
no subject
no subject
Write more!
*huggles* Meri
no subject
Wow, my dear, you flatter me so much! Hypnotic... I love that. Thank you! More to come, and soon. *hugs* I'm so glad you like them!
no subject
no subject
The conversation with Snape was great. Favorite line: Draco resisted the urge to swallow at the unfamiliar lilt to his normally emotionless professor's voice. If he didn't know better he might almost think... “Yes.”
Why I like it: Because it has a bit of irony. Let me see if I can actually explain this thought at 1 a.m. in the morn. Draco is thinking that he's at the brink of knowing what Snape is thinking, just as we are thinking that we're on the brink of actually knowing something concrete in what Draco is thinking. There's a ragged edge here between total incomprehension and knowing what's going on, and just when I think you're about to cross it, you give me: "Yes." You bitch. That is so fucking cool but you know I hate you for it. I want to beat things. The tension is killing me.
Speaking of tension. I love the last part (this is not mindless repetition here). Not only for the tension that I sort of stated right off the bat, but simply because the way it was written was cool. Coherent sentences interspersed with: "skin against skin touch familiar need he needed steady pulse tongue sweat mouth lips breathe green eyes inside inside.
I love that. It's cool.
no subject
Aw, yay! You liked the tension. And I love your reading of Snape and Draco. Sorry, sorry, I will attempt to give you something concrete about Draco's thought process. Probably in the last chapter of this... which I have a high suspicion you will enjoy muchly...
And yes, about the last bit. You've made me feel much better about it. It was making me nervous, that last dream sequence. But now I am happy. *hugs*
no subject
I love your theory of magic and the history of charms. I love that Draco seems to accept the book's rendering of the unforgivables as monstrous and twisted. What are the two books?
I don’t think Slytherin House has a portrait hole. In CoS, I think JKR describes it as a blank stretch of wall.
he’d ever wanted in his entire selfish shackled
I think perhaps this sentence takes a comma between “selfish” and “shackled.” I love how you’re letting Draco become self aware gradually. You’re playing out his changes in exactly the manner that Dumbledore told Harry that people change.
body heat build fingers fingers kneading no breath lemonsweet
The physical, yearning language bereft of the buffer that grammar builds up, works extremely well. Draco’s confusion, his unconscious and/or physical desires, his sence memory sends him travelling down paths that he can not control. You’ve conveyed that really well.
I'm shivering...with anticipation!
no subject
Ooh, no portrait hole? *sporks self* Gah! Attack of other-fanfic confusion! Yeah, yeah...
The physical, yearning language bereft of the buffer that grammar builds up, works extremely well.
Ooh, I'm so glad you thought so! I really wasn't sure about that part at all... It was written differently before.
Thanks, sweets! *shivers with you*
no subject
BTW, I'm sure you already know, but I sent you all of the songs on Geek the Girl.
no subject
Thanks for the files! I got 'em. *loves*
no subject
Have you ever read the 90-some odd chapter story in which Harry becomes a mage and if mages use too much power in a spell they die? Also, that Eragon book has a similar concept. All very interesting speculations on the limits, nature and borders of magic.
I'm glad you got the files. We can deconstruct the album later! ;)
no subject
I have not read Eragon, or the fic you are talking about. 90 chapters? Good lord. O.o I think I'd pass out if I were the writer. How long has she/he been writing it?
no subject
Yea, verily, I say unto thee, Yon Silmarillion is the best Lot-verse book written. I would think it would work better as an incredibly high budget series on the telly, because the episodes are generally distinct, there are so many of them and the whole book is not necessarily linear in the way the Hobbit or the trilogy are.
I think that fic is done and I don't know how long it took to write, but a long time, one imagines.
no subject
They could do a movie about every mini-story in Sil, for sure. I would personally go for Turin (the guy who accidentally marries his sis) or Beren and Luthien, because I love that story. ^__^
no subject
I think, from a commercial standpoint, that the War of Wrath or the War of the Powers would make the most sence. Those have definitive story arcs with lots of room for special effects and violence on an epic scale.
no subject
Yeah, it's a little annoying not to be able to go to a bookstore and just pick up the next book right off. I tend to shy away from the more vague series like that.
no subject
Magic in LotR: Yes, the Istari are indeed not human. In fact, they are Maiar, sort of second-rank angels, if you will, serving the Valar. You may recall in LotR, when Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli discover Gandalf the White, he recites a little poem about his name, and says Olorin I was, in the West that is forgotten. In The Silmarillion, Olorin is named as a Maia in the entourage of the Vala Lorien. His counterpart, Sauron, is named as a Maia of Melkor.
The Silmarillion: I tend to think of The Silmarillion as the Bible of the Elves - it begins with The Creation, and tells the entire history of Elvenkind. Some of the tales are told in broad vista, like those of the Five Battles, while others are told in close detail, like the Lay of Leithian or the Narn i hîn Húrin.
no subject
I just love The Silmarillion. Such a rich, rich history there. It amazes me every time how immersed Tolkien was not only in his writings, but in the world itself. Almost as if he lived there half the time, and as he was a writer, I suppose that is very likely, metaphorically. ^_^
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject