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Title: World's Edge (2/2)
Author: me
Pairing: H/D with some previous other pairings
Rating: Hard R. Hard.
Summary: In the harshest environment on earth, Harry finds that escaping is harder than simply running.
Warning: This is extremely angsty. There are difficult issues to deal with here.
Disclaimer: Not my boys, or my penguins. This story comes from the HP fandom, and was inspired by the gorgeous film March of the Penguins (American version). Please go see it.
Another disclaimer: In writing this fic, I have tried my darndest to follow the cycle of an Antarctic winter. But guys, I am not a biologist, nor am I a meteorologist, and I do not specialize in the Antarctic in the slightest. So, there are bound to be errors in this story. I am well aware of that. But for some of the other things that happen, suffice it to say that nature is a creature of extreme variance, and things never go quite the way they are expected to.
...
Part 1
World's Edge
Part 2
His house was dark, the faint warmth of the day still hanging in the air. Harry dropped his pack on the floor with a sigh, and set his camera case carefully on the mantelpiece. A soft hoot sounded, the rush of wings, and Hedwig settled on his shoulder in a ruffle of feathers and heat.
“Hi, girl.” He stroked her head with his fingers. The snowy owl nudged against him, turning carefully on his shoulder as she did so. After a moment of whispered greetings, she raised her head and hooted once. He opened the screen door and let her out into the twilight, then shut the front door behind her.
His message machine was blinking silently on the counter. Harry pressed the button and heard the tape rewind. The first was a telemarketer; the message cut off halfway through. Then Mariska Debeautaire, the head of the company, asking in the loud tones of someone accustomed to Floo-calling for double color prints of his photographs by next Tuesday.
The machine clicked a third time and Ginny’s voice sounded from the speaker.
“Hi. It’s me. I just…” A pause, some light breathing. “I wanted to see how you were doing, how your trip went. Maybe we can, I don’t know… meet for coffee. Just. Call me when you get home, Harry. I’d really like to see you. So. Well. Please call me.”
Harry let the machine whirr into silence. He went to the fridge and took out a bottle of water, then locked up the wards with a wave of his wand and headed for the stairs. He’d forgotten the steady creak-creak but now it reminded him of where he was, and the comfort in that knowledge was unexpectedly strong.
Harry barely made it out of his shirt and trousers before stumbling into bed. The soft down of his pillow tickled his nostrils. He rolled over, curling the duvet around his body and head until even the gentlest light from the streetlamp outside could not reach him, and slept.
He dreamt of Antarctica, of flurrying snow and raucous penguins, and the golden-green of the Southern Lights across the skin on the backs of his hands. It was odd because he could not remember ever having had his gloves off when the skies were bright with the Lights.
~*~
The café was half full. The clack of women’s heels and low voices on mobiles filtered in from the street outside. Harry watched a double-decker rumble past and blew on his tea until ripples spread across the surface.
Ginny reached out and hesitated, then touched his forehead. Her fingers trailed down to rest against his cheek just above his chin. She had a soft smile on her face. “I thought maybe you… But you look better.”
Harry smiled back and curled his fingers around his mug. “I feel better.”
“Was it cold?”
Harry looked at her and Ginny blushed and laughed. She shrugged. “I know. Silly question. But… how was it?”
“Cold.” He smiled at the quirk of her lips. “It was huge. And… quiet. I mean, it was windy and the penguins were loud but…” He smiled faintly, remembering. “It was quiet.”
“Lonely?”
“No.”
Ginny nodded and stirred her coffee. Her hair slipped over her shoulder and brushed the table. Harry watched the sun glow in its red threads.
“Mum wants you to come by,” Ginny said, setting her spoon down and crossing her arms on the tabletop. Harry glanced up at her face and found her blue eyes warm on his.
“I don’t…” He looked away through the large front window. The sky was the color of periwinkle, scudded with cirrus clouds. “Ginny, maybe that’s not a good idea. I’m not exactly—”
He stopped, unable to commit the thoughts to words. Ginny’s hand came across the table and covered his.
“Harry, no.” He looked up and found her watching him. Something painful flickered in her eyes. “You’re still family. Even if we’re no longer… Even without her.” She gave a soft sigh. “You always were family.”
Harry turned his hand over and held her smaller one, studying the pattern of freckles over the back of it. He used to know that pattern so well. “Ginny… do you blame me?”
There was absolute silence for an instant. Then Ginny jerked forward, hands rising to hold his face. Her eyes were so sad, so wide, he could see the tears glistening. “Oh Merlin, no, Harry. No. Oh gods, is that what you think?”
Harry stared back at her, chest tighter than anything. Her gaze roved his face and her mouth opened and closed once. She shook her head fervently. “Harry—Harry, how could you think such a thing?”
“I should have been watching more closely,” he whispered. Ginny stared at him wordlessly, turmoil pinching her pretty features. She stroked her fingers over his temples, thumbs tracking across his cheeks. An odd grimace came over her face.
“I’ve never blamed you,” she whispered. “Not even the day she— Not seriously. Never seriously.” She sighed, dropping her hands. A sound burst from her, a cross between a laugh and a sob. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. I should have taught her how to swim.”
Harry took her hands in his. “We both should have.”
They sat in silence for several minutes, just breathing. The door dinged open and shut twice, and friendly greetings were called from the counter. Ginny’s fingers squeezed his.
“Harry, it wasn’t your fault. It was an accident.” She was looking carefully at him, as if seeing him for the first time.
He took one of her hands and kissed it lightly. She watched him with suddenly shadowed eyes.
“Harry… don’t go away again.” Her voice shook, and he looked up at her. “Call me, please, and we’ll talk. I don’t know what would happen to me if you— If I thought you wanted to try to—”
“Okay,” he said. Her hand tightened around his. Harry blew out a breath slowly. “Okay.”
~*~
December
He stood in the middle of Maggie’s room, and the sunlight heated his bare feet. Tiny dust motes filtered through the air. There was a lazy sense of stillness. He reached out and ran his fingers over the multicolored quilt on the bed, feeling the slight prickle of wool. Maggie’s pillow rested, full and puffy, against the headboard. The black and red chessboard stood on her desk, pieces lined neatly for a game that had never been played. It had been a gift from Ron when she turned four, ever ready to mold his next rival.
Harry had not been in the room since a month before he’d left for Antarctica. It was just as he remembered, but for once he did not feel like running from it, shutting the door on all of her trinkets and board-games, on the memory of her laughter, the sound of her quick little footsteps. Instead he stood there and found the sense of calm pervading him, sweeping his weary limbs.
Ginny had a room like this at her flat. Or had, once, with different toys, different quilts and pictures. The same Maggie.
He moved toward the dresser and picked up the hairbrush that still rested there. There were three strands of silky red hair twisted in the bristles. Harry touched them tentatively, then laid the brush down and turned to the plush dragon beside it. It was bright pink, with a soft, red tongue lolling from between squishy fangs. The tail ended in a heart shape, and crystalline eyes blinked rapidly at him. He lifted it to his nose and inhaled. Maggie’s scent lingered, the gentle raspberry of the shampoo he used to scrub through her wayward locks. The dragon purred and curled toward him. Harry smiled and set it back down.
He picked up the only photograph from its place atop her dresser and made for the bed. The springs creaked gingerly as he sat down. Harry leaned over and ran his hands once more over the quilt and the duvet underneath. She was everywhere in this room; how had he not been able to feel her before? He looked down at the photo in his hand and found a bright grin, sparkling green eyes. Her hair was darker than her mother’s, who sat behind her in the picture and pointed out of the frame at him, murmuring silently in their daughter’s ear. Ginny smiled and Maggie waved frantically, wriggling in her mother’s arms. She touched one chubby hand to her lips and raised it to Harry.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Harry whispered. He kissed his own fingers and laid them against the photo with a sigh.
~*~
It was still dark when Harry awoke. He sat up in his bed, trying to catch his breath. Plumes of white, shifting snow still clouded his vision, the hiss of wind over ice. He blinked and rubbed his eyes.
His dream had been vibrant, intense. Air fresher than any city dweller had ever tasted, the milky yellow of a waning sun, the color of glossy cream feathers fading to charcoal silk under the sunlight… He’d looked over his shoulder and found Draco standing behind him, gazing across the expanse of ice, a soft smile on his lips. The hood of his coat was pulled high against his head, and glowing strands of blond fluttered in the wind. Grey eyes flicked to meet his.
A new emptiness crawled up inside Harry as he sat there in the warm darkness of his bedroom. He took a deep breath and let it out, squeezing his eyes shut.
~*~
The wind nipped at his hands and face. Harry walked home from the photo shop, fingering the buttons of his coat. He stopped in at a small cafe, bought a panini, and headed around the park toward his street. It was a long walk, slowly through late flurries of orange maple leaves. Harry pulled the last packet of photos from their plastic bag and thumbed through them.
His walk was quiet, broken only by the slap of trainers as runners went by, the giggling of children near the pond. Harry flipped through picture after picture, discarding the moving ones into the bag. The stark white looked so colorless next to the turning leaves and beaten park path, but clusters of shuffling, tuxedoed birds broke a smooth slice through the bleak landscape. The beaks of the penguins gleamed, their stripes bright yellow against the silver.
Draco’s hair looked like gold thread.
Harry ambled along, keeping to the side of the path. He had asked for a copy of Muggle stills for most of the rolls. The blue of Draco’s coat seemed as water caught in his palm, the sudden ruffle of his hair and squinting of his eyes captured forever in perfect stillness. Harry turned to the next picture and Draco was crouched on the ground, notebook in hand, head tilted. His bare fingers were pale around his pencil stub. The next photo centered on a small chick in mid-flap, beak wide open. Draco was caught in profile, a smile just inching over his face. The gentle pink of his cheeks splashed color onto the snow.
It was twilight when Harry reached his house. He sat on the front steps and flipped through the stills again, always coming back to the last one: Draco’s face turned directly toward the camera, the cloudy color of his eyes glinting behind a lock of hair. His hand was raised, poised to brush the hair from his eyes.
He saw it in his dreams that night, except he could feel the cold bite of the wind, hear the penguins croaking softly, and see the moment just after the shutter clicked, when Draco caught sight of his camera. Draco flushed and tucked his hair behind one ear.
Harry woke with a name on his lips. He turned onto his side in the darkness and imagined ghost fingers sweeping over his skin. His chest ached fiercely, and try as he might, he could not banish the feeling as he had before.
~*~
The doorbell rang and Harry put the knife down on the cutting board, wiped his hands free of breadcrumbs, and went to answer it. He was still brushing flour from the fingers of his left hand when he looked up. The person turned on his porch, and grey eyes met his. Harry froze.
“Potter.” Draco looked thinner than he had, and tired. His long-sleeved shirt seemed to cling to his frame under his coat, and one hand rose to smooth the hem.
Harry opened his mouth, shut it, and then pushed the door open. “Come— come in.”
Draco entered cautiously, hugging his arms around himself. Harry shut the door and looked at him, still not certain if he wasn’t seeing a mirage. Some sort of dream. “I thought you were still in Antarctica.”
Draco smiled thinly and shook his bangs from his forehead. “Only just got back. Yesterday. I’m still a little worn through.”
Harry nodded and looked around the room for… something. He turned back and Draco’s gaze skittered away from him. Harry glanced toward the kitchen and the smells wafting from it. “I… Are you hungry? I just made soup.”
Draco looked at him gratefully and nodded. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
Harry shook his head, hesitated, then padded into the kitchen. He heard rustling as Draco shed his coat, and then footsteps behind him. Harry got out two bowls, silverware, and butter and set them on the counter; the table was cluttered with photos. He ladled soup into the bowls and handed one to Draco. “There’s bread. Rosemary.”
They ate in silence, leaning against the kitchen counters. Draco’s fingers looked delicate as he held the bread and spooned soup to his lips. Small sips. He glanced at Harry from time to time, and Harry broke the gaze before the heat in his cheeks could show.
When the bowls were in the sink and Harry had put the leftovers away, Draco followed him out to the living room. They sat down across from each other. Draco settled into the couch cushions, closing his eyes briefly.
“Is everyone back?” Harry asked.
Draco nodded, his gaze warming a touch. “I left Sanoe to the last Port. She should have returned last night.”
Harry nodded and cast about the room again. “Have you… had time to develop your photos?”
Draco was not exactly looking at him. “Sent them in yesterday on the way home from the office.”
“You didn’t go straight home?”
“No.” A slightly pained look crossed Draco’s face. “I had… something else to attend to.”
They sat for a moment in silence. A ray of sunlight beat warmly onto Harry’s legs, another spread gold across Draco’s body. The blond’s eyes drifted shut again and he seemed to relax into the light. The skin of his hands and throat was a warm peach tone, and Harry found himself staring at it.
“Malfoy?”
Draco came awake with a tiny jolt, blinking. He sat up and rubbed at his forehead. “I’m sorry. Been a long day.”
Harry shifted, suddenly glad of such an excuse, for what he was about to offer. “You can… sleep. If you want. You can stay, I mean. I have something I need to…” He gestured mutely, and caught Draco’s eyes fixed on his. “You don’t have to go, do you?”
“No.”
Harry brushed his hands over the front of his shirt. “Are you thirsty?”
“Some water would be nice.”
Harry rose and headed for the kitchen. When he returned with ice water, Draco was dozing again, his narrow chest rising and falling with each light breath. Harry watched him for several moments, feeling oddly content, and then made his way quietly through the house, up the stairs, and into the attic.
~*~
Maggie’s boxes had been gathering dust. Harry could barely remember packing them, carting them up here. He wondered if Ginny had done the same at her flat, or if everything was still in its place in Maggie’s room. He barely remembered anything of the months just after… after.
Now, brushing the tops clean and opening the boxes, he was surprised once again by the colors. Even dusty, flowered in the scent of mothballs, Maggie’s belongings gleamed in the lazy evening sunlight that warmed the attic. Harry traced his fingers over soft, slightly squished plushies with googly eyes, stickered drawing journals filled with crayon scribbles, and old piles of photographs. He’d been up here for over an hour, and was surrounded in toys and games, the clutter of toddlerhood.
And he could breathe again.
There was a scuffing noise, the creak of floorboards. “Potter?”
Draco’s hair shone like a faint corona. He stepped carefully over the rocking horse, raising one hand to the ceiling beams to steady himself. The gentle heat of the attic air drifted between them.
Draco smoothed a hand over the buttons of his shirt. He surveyed the cluttered space. “What’s this?”
Harry lifted a raggedy beanbag tiger from the box next to him. “They were Maggie’s.”
Draco’s eyes met his quickly. Harry smiled. “I’ve been trying to… well. Put things in order. The things I have, I mean. I feel like—”
He let the sentence drop. Draco said nothing. Harry put two photos into the box and set a third on top of a small pile next to him. He glanced up at Draco and dropped his gaze to the floor, gesturing faintly. “You can… you know.”
Draco’s eyes were unblinking. Harry stared into them, and it felt soft and silent again. The stillness of the attic settled. Then Draco bent his knees and eased carefully down onto the floor amidst the mess. He tucked one knee up, the other butterflied out under him. Harry noticed he kept well away from the boxes.
“I’m going to make an album. One of these days.” Harry fingered the topmost photo, then passed it to Draco. Draco’s mouth opened, then closed, and he took the picture. Looked at it. Set it carefully aside.
Harry went back to the box on his right, running his hand over the fluffy lamb toy at the bottom. When Draco’s voice came, it was as startling as a whip’s crack.
“I’ve been thinking—” Draco stopped and blinked, as if noticing how deep the silence had become, and how suddenly he’d broken it. He took a breath and looked at Harry. It was abrupt again: Harry saw the small space separating them as if it were vibrating visibly. His mouth was dry; his breath hitched somewhere between his throat and lips. He began to wonder if it wasn’t the room’s warmth he was feeling, but rather Draco’s, expanding, embracing him again as it… as it had. Harry dropped his eyes, and Draco continued in a softer voice.
“I wanted to come by. I thought I should.” He trailed off and Harry looked at him.
“I’m glad you did,” he said quietly.
Draco’s face darkened. He looked away into the strand of sunlight spilling through the window. “I’m moving.”
Harry frowned. What? The word got stuck somewhere on its way out.
“That’s why I stopped by work.” Draco took a breath and let it out. “Give them my notice. I’m moving to Cornwall.”
“You are.” The thoughts weren’t forming correctly in his brain. He wasn’t getting enough air.
Draco nodded. His eyes darted to Harry’s and for a moment Harry thought he saw a flicker there. Draco looked away.
“How. How long since you…”
Draco lifted one shoulder in a shrug, trailing a finger through the dust on the floor. Harry was caught by the movement. “I used to live there. It’s… well. It’s time to go back, I think.”
All Harry could fix upon was the sad look on Draco’s face. Resigned. It was the same expression he’d worn just after they’d… Just after… Harry shut his eyes and pursed his lips.
“Malfoy,” he said. Draco lifted his head, but Harry wasn’t looking at him. “You don’t have to explain. I’m. I’m sorry if I…”
It hurt too much to lie like that. He wasn’t sorry. But obviously Draco regretted it. Harry had not thought about what Draco’s intentions had been; he’d been too thrown by that night and all it did to him. For him. But perhaps Draco had only seen what Harry needed and likewise… seen fit to help him. Harry swallowed hard.
“Harry.”
The sound of his first name made him look up before he could think about it. Draco had moved forward, on his knees only a foot away. He looked uneasy, earnest. Harry brushed an imaginary hair from his forehead.
“Draco, that night.” He inhaled and hurried on. “It wasn’t a big deal. It shouldn’t… You don’t have to leave over it.”
Draco’s face spasmed and his eyes darted away. His hands clenched on the legs of his trousers. “I…” Harry saw his throat bob. Draco shook his head. “It was a bad idea. I don’t know what I was thinking. You didn’t need that, then.”
Harry’s eyes were beginning to sting. He could barely sit still suddenly. He needed to run, to reach out and grab, to—He squeezed his eyes shut.
“When are you leaving?” It was a struggle; his voice didn’t want to cooperate.
He heard Draco sigh softly. “I’m going to find a house tomorrow. Early in the morning. I just wanted to… stop by.”
Harry gestured weakly at the rest of the room, not quite sure what he was moving his hands for. There was nothing there that could stop this, make sense out of this. “Well. I’m glad you came. I didn’t know if I’d—”
He stopped and found Draco watching him. His irises were the color of thunderheads, heavy and luminous. Harry’s body clenched on him at the realization that he’d tethered himself to that color, those depths, and it had all been based on nothing more than his own foolish vulnerability.
Draco’s mouth opened and shut. He looked down at his hands and shifted. Harry could feel how close they were. There were shadows falling over Draco’s cheeks from his hair, and his eyelashes were glittering in the light from the window. Harry blinked.
There had been a day, after that night, when Harry had looked up at the slanting, watery sunlight, and seen Draco standing with his hat off, eyelashes encrusted with fine ice crystals. He hadn’t been looking at him and Harry had held his breath, trying to keep the moment.
He moved closer, unable to help himself, and Draco’s eyes met his.
“Can you stay?” he asked, so softly he barely heard himself. Draco didn’t move for a long moment, and Harry had to look away. He leaned forward, inching his hand toward where Draco’s lay against the dusty floorboards. Their fingers touched and he looked up.
Something desperate flitted across Draco’s face. He was breathing hard, looking at their hands. “Harry…”
Harry shook his head and turned his hand over, squeezing Draco’s fingers. “I don’t want you to go.”
He heard Draco swallow. The blond had shut his eyes, a slight grimace marring his forehead. It hurt to see it, deep in Harry’s chest where his pulse beat. Draco’s eyes opened again, dark in his face. “I don’t want to do this if you…”
“Draco. Please.” Harry’s fingers were brushing his cheek, feather light. He could feel Draco trembling. One hand swept up Harry’s arm to his shoulder, a patch of heat pulsing through his shirt. He felt himself begin to shake, and it startled him, how much he craved that warmth.
Harry raised his head and their noses bumped. A hitch of breath brushed his face. Draco’s fingers touched his hair and Harry leaned forward. Draco murmured softly as their mouths met, and pulled back. His eyes were shut again. Harry touched his chin, his face, his hair, and made a sound he hadn’t intended, a soft half-word. Draco shivered and then his arm was around Harry’s back, a hand tangled in his hair, and he was kissing him, and they were falling.
Harry wondered if it should feel wrong, on his back across his daughter’s scattered pictures, the musk of mildewy toys and plushies tickling his nostrils, and Draco on top of him, touching his hair and kissing him breathlessly. But it didn’t feel wrong. He felt alive, as if that life were overflowing and trickling over Maggie’s old, forgotten things. They no longer felt so empty.
He felt… Well. He felt.
Draco’s body was warm and Harry arched into it, sliding his hands down his back and up into his hair. He tasted the rosemary bread they’d eaten on Draco’s lips. His hands found the other’s shirt buttons and then slender fingers were under his own clothing, tensing against his ribs.
Draco pulled away, breathing heavily. “Harry, shouldn’t we… Here?”
He nodded and Draco looked around. His white-gold hair swept over his forehead and touched his cheeks. “I don’t think…”
Harry heard him swallow. A hand squeezed against his side.
“Harry, not here. Not with—”
“Draco,” Harry whispered. But he couldn’t quantify his thoughts. It was alright, really it was. He wanted to say it. But Draco’s eyes were haunted, shuttering even as he watched.
“Please. Not here, Harry.”
Their quick breathing was all Harry could hear. He nodded. “Alright.”
Draco stood quickly, winding his arms around himself. His shirt was rumpled over his shoulders. Harry sat up and pushed himself to his feet. Draco looked at him for a moment, moved a fraction forward, and then halted. Harry made his way carefully around him toward the stairway, heard Draco coming behind. He did not look back as he passed out of the attic and down the stairs. Draco was so close his body heat pulsed into Harry’s skin. He was tingling all over, and the darkness of the hallway made him shiver.
He turned at last and found Draco several feet away, watching him. The man’s shoulders were rising and falling rapidly, face a soft blue in the dim light. Harry opened his mouth but couldn’t think of anything to say. Nothing sounded right. How could he voice what was going on inside him? He barely recognized it, and yet he did, and it made him think of flapping tents and soft voices, and a body above him – against him – in the warmth of a sleeping bag.
Draco stepped forward and reached for his hand. His fingers were quivering against Harry’s and he sucked in a small breath. Then they were together, pressed along the planes of each other’s bodies, and Draco’s familiar hands were climbing into his hair, sweeping down the back of his neck. Harry felt his lips part, and scooped his hand behind Draco’s head. The kiss was sensual, all tongues and teeth and tiny breaths. Draco’s entire frame shook suddenly and Harry made a small sound as the blond’s arms tightened, drew him against his body so swiftly that the air left his lungs. He was backed into a wall. Draco’s hips moved against his for a long, slow moment and Harry blinked, breathless.
He wanted… Harry pushed himself away from the wall and pulled Draco with him down the hall. His hands finished off the buttons on Draco’s shirt. A soft word was whispered into his ear, and then his own shirt was coming up over his head and Draco’s body heat hit him full on. He gasped and brought their mouths together again.
He was going to… His eyes were burning.
Draco found one of his hands, and Harry stopped halfway across the bedroom, suddenly afraid of what he would find when he looked at the other man. Draco was studying his hand with lowered eyes, turning it slightly in his own. He breathed and lifted Harry’s hand to his lips. Harry curled his fingers, felt the soft brush of Draco’s mouth. Heat spiraled through him. Draco pressed his lips to each of Harry’s fingers, and then his palm. Lingering. Harry touched his cheek shakily.
Draco pulled away with a hiss.
“Harry.” He squeezed his eyes shut. His body quivered. “That night… I shouldn’t have— But—”
Harry’s hands were on Draco’s cheeks, thumbs smoothing his lips into silence. “No, don’t.” He took a deep breath. “Don’t say… anything. Just—”
Soft rustles in the quiet stillness; clothing discarded by shaking hands. Harry moved them both without really seeing, staring at the motions of his own fingers over Draco’s shoulders. Draco knelt on the bed, eyes troubled, and grasped Harry’s hand. Harry let himself be guided into Draco’s lap, settling against the steady heat. He felt it pulse into the insides of his thighs, beating up into him from Draco’s legs. He breathed in and Draco’s stomach flexed at the touch of his skin.
“Draco, please.” Harry could find no other words. He didn’t ever want to be bereft of this; he needed it. But it was limited already, everything about it had an end point, and he could suddenly see it rapidly approaching, like the edge of an ice cliff. And beyond, an endless void. Harry shivered and splayed his fingers over Draco’s back, trying to feel him in every inch of skin.
The shadows under Draco’s eyes blended with the color of his eyelashes. The ocean tossed in his irises, forlorn and windless. Harry bent forward, touching his lips to Draco’s, hovering there. A breath – Words fluttered over his mouth.
“Harry, I… can’t… I.”
“I want to feel again, I want – want to feel—”
you, gods, you, make me feel you again, Draco, remind me why I kept breathing after that night – Harry choked out a sob and Draco was nodding, shushing him, fingers drifting over his ribs, touching the slope of his hips, caressing for a breathless moment, and suddenly there, easing him open. His eyes darted to Harry’s and something in his expression crumbled. He looked away, biting his lip. Harry opened his mouth, and then felt – realized – how carefully Draco was holding his body.
That night. Draco thought that he hadn’t wanted it. Well, how could he not, when Harry had barely known what he wanted himself? His chest tightened and he fought not to cry. All of Draco’s words fell into place, and it swarmed up against him: Draco’s hesitant touches, his unwillingness to speak of that night. It spoke of fear, of having done something harmful. Harry didn’t have the slightest idea how to begin refuting it. He shook, tangled his hands through soft, blond hair, and waited.
Draco pressed Harry’s hips forward until there was only heat between them. He rose slightly on his knees, stroked the small of Harry’s back, and entered his body as he lowered him down again. Lips parted in silence, ash-colored eyes blinking. Harry let his breath out in a hiss and dropped his head back. He felt the trace of lips against his throat.
There was no hole burning through him this time, no empty space devouring his chest and heart and mind. He could see clearly: the tiny beads of sweat forming on Draco’s back, the shortest of peach-fuzz hairs at the nape of his neck. Harry curled his fingers under the longer sweeps of blond and stroked the softest and smallest of them. An exhalation fluttered over his ear. Harry touched his chin to a small, dark freckle just above the curve of Draco’s shoulder. He could feel hands curled over his hips, trembling slightly. Harry raised his body, and let himself back down, shutting his eyes against the bloom of sensation inside him, the ragged gasp just within his hearing. He pulled back and opened his eyes.
Draco’s mouth was centimeters away, soft breath panting over his lips. Harry tightened his legs around the man’s waist and Draco’s hands swept up his back, shaking and coming to rest again over his hips. It was a helpless movement. Harry’s body rose and fell with each breath, following Draco’s in a slow slide-press. His lips touched Draco’s cheeks, parted over skin warmer than he remembered. He could feel each brush of contact, and felt like he was seeking, unable to find the thing he needed, but wanting to grasp it so desperately he could barely breathe. He bit his lip, head dropping to rest on Draco’s taut shoulder, and arms were suddenly around him like a vise, pressing him to slick skin and tortuous, aching movement. Fingers clutched at his back; Draco gasped into his hair. Harry felt lips there, pressing, a hand curling through tangled strands against his scalp, and lifted his head, suddenly afraid Draco would pull away, attempt to stop the mistake he thought he’d made. Draco’s mouth was right there, open, and Harry tilted his head and met his lips, and plunged deep. Draco murmured, sudden, startled. Harry swallowed it down. He kissed Draco as slowly as the other man thrust into him, as deeply.
His body was no longer his own; it moved with Draco’s as if it were part of him. Harry shivered, clenching. Draco broke away with a hiss and his fingers burned into Harry’s shoulders.
“Harry… you…” His voice faltered. Harry mouthed his cheek, his forehead. His breath was coming fast, Draco’s harsh pants gusting against his chin. Hands pushed him up and tugged him down, hips rolled to meet his and Harry’s fingers twisted in Draco’s hair, toes curling, legs squeezing, heart skipping. He sagged over Draco’s shoulder, holding on for all he was worth. Draco let out a broken mewl and went rigid for several full, glorious seconds.
The sound was perfect and pained, and it was then that Harry’s heart began to clench. He groped for the moment, trying to feel the silk of Draco’s skin again, hear the tiny catch in his throat before each thrust, the slow slide of Draco’s tongue against his; it was slipping away from him already, and Harry knew in that transient, terrible instant that he would never remember the exact sensation of it. Draco would go to Cornwall, and it, this, would go vague in his mind and fade in his nerves, and he would desperately fill in holes he could not recall. Pain like he’d never felt opened raw in his chest again, and Harry blinked, hating the sudden wetness in his eyes.
Words came at last. Harry whispered them into Draco’s neck, knowing he couldn’t hear.
“Please don’t leave me.”
Draco’s lips pressed at the skin of his shoulder and held there. His breathing was a steady flow under Harry’s fingers. The silence of the room was warm and clouded.
You didn’t hurt me. Gods, you…Harry wanted to cry. It was for a different reason than he was used to, and it stung, and hurt, and burned, and felt so wonderfully clean and fresh. He didn’t know how to keep it from sliding away. Everything slid away from him; he clutched at it, held it with all his might, and still it disappeared. He found himself wishing he had never kissed Draco as he had right before he’d come, because to have it, to have it at last and then to hold it in vain as it disappeared… Harry felt like he was being buried under ice.
You didn’t hurt me. But he couldn’t speak the words. They wouldn’t come.
All he could do was find Draco’s mouth again, cover it, bring them together, lips, tongues, breath. Hands came up to hold his face. They trembled against his cheeks for an instant, and Draco gave a soft sigh into his mouth.
Harry shut his eyes and felt the tears gathering on his eyelashes. If it was just for the next moment, it would be enough. It would have to be. Harry curled his hands into Draco’s hair, tilted his head, and shut out the cold spaces that would come afterward.
It felt like hovering, just Draco’s lips and the touch of his tongue. Draco pulled back slowly, and their noses brushed. “Harry?”
Harry shook his head. “Please stay. Tonight. That’s all, I… Draco…”
Draco’s chest rose and fell against his. His arms rested on Harry’s back, and Harry held himself still, staring at the smooth slope of his shoulder. Without a word, Draco eased himself down on the bed. One hand drifted over Harry’s arm. Harry followed, drawing the duvet over them, and shut his eyes before he could think of anything.
~*~
Sunlight flickered like water. White light, the outline of barren trees shifting against his walls, back and forth. Harry stared at the movement dully, tucked under the duvet in a pocket of warmth he did not feel.
The clock on his nightstand read 11:13 AM.
He knew what he would find if he turned over. The right side of his bed empty and cold. Draco would be gone, departed hours before. Harry couldn’t bring himself to look. Instead he watched the light and felt hollow.
Had he only spoken… But he hadn’t. His mind was a jumble, the previous night still tingling under his skin, and all his unspoken words crying in his head. He could hear the wind in the eaves outside, sweeping calmly through the trees. The ache weighing in his chest was too heavy for the light sound.
Harry sighed. It was no use. He’d been awake for some moments already. He would have to turn over at some point, and see the vacant space. There was no reason to put it off any longer. He blinked rapidly and shifted onto his back, lips pressed together, and as he turned, the sound of a soft breath met his ears. His heart gave a tremulous skip and he looked to his right.
Draco lay there, eyes closed, head turned slightly away. His pulse fluttered at his throat, slow and steady, golden hair drifting out over the pillow. One hand lay on the duvet, just where the hem covered his chest, and the light played over his skin in soft whorls. Draco breathed in as Harry watched, and exhaled the soft sigh of a sleeper.
Harry covered his face with one hand and began to laugh silently. His eyes filled and threatened to overflow. He wiped at them and glanced over at his bedmate, unable to stop the hand that stretched out. His fingertips brushed over Draco’s arm, feeling warmth, the fine dusting of blond hair, and presence.
Draco’s hand found his, a gentle shift of fingers over the duvet. The blond’s head turned toward him and Draco sighed again in his sleep. His grip on Harry’s hand tightened. Harry glanced up at the sway of light on his ceiling. He smiled, tears sliding down his face, and for once, did not think of snow.
~FIN~
...
Sequel: Three Vignettes After the Edge
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*breathes out* Okay, then. Thank you for reading!
Author: me
Pairing: H/D with some previous other pairings
Rating: Hard R. Hard.
Summary: In the harshest environment on earth, Harry finds that escaping is harder than simply running.
Warning: This is extremely angsty. There are difficult issues to deal with here.
Disclaimer: Not my boys, or my penguins. This story comes from the HP fandom, and was inspired by the gorgeous film March of the Penguins (American version). Please go see it.
Another disclaimer: In writing this fic, I have tried my darndest to follow the cycle of an Antarctic winter. But guys, I am not a biologist, nor am I a meteorologist, and I do not specialize in the Antarctic in the slightest. So, there are bound to be errors in this story. I am well aware of that. But for some of the other things that happen, suffice it to say that nature is a creature of extreme variance, and things never go quite the way they are expected to.
...
Part 1
World's Edge
Part 2
His house was dark, the faint warmth of the day still hanging in the air. Harry dropped his pack on the floor with a sigh, and set his camera case carefully on the mantelpiece. A soft hoot sounded, the rush of wings, and Hedwig settled on his shoulder in a ruffle of feathers and heat.
“Hi, girl.” He stroked her head with his fingers. The snowy owl nudged against him, turning carefully on his shoulder as she did so. After a moment of whispered greetings, she raised her head and hooted once. He opened the screen door and let her out into the twilight, then shut the front door behind her.
His message machine was blinking silently on the counter. Harry pressed the button and heard the tape rewind. The first was a telemarketer; the message cut off halfway through. Then Mariska Debeautaire, the head of the company, asking in the loud tones of someone accustomed to Floo-calling for double color prints of his photographs by next Tuesday.
The machine clicked a third time and Ginny’s voice sounded from the speaker.
“Hi. It’s me. I just…” A pause, some light breathing. “I wanted to see how you were doing, how your trip went. Maybe we can, I don’t know… meet for coffee. Just. Call me when you get home, Harry. I’d really like to see you. So. Well. Please call me.”
Harry let the machine whirr into silence. He went to the fridge and took out a bottle of water, then locked up the wards with a wave of his wand and headed for the stairs. He’d forgotten the steady creak-creak but now it reminded him of where he was, and the comfort in that knowledge was unexpectedly strong.
Harry barely made it out of his shirt and trousers before stumbling into bed. The soft down of his pillow tickled his nostrils. He rolled over, curling the duvet around his body and head until even the gentlest light from the streetlamp outside could not reach him, and slept.
He dreamt of Antarctica, of flurrying snow and raucous penguins, and the golden-green of the Southern Lights across the skin on the backs of his hands. It was odd because he could not remember ever having had his gloves off when the skies were bright with the Lights.
~*~
The café was half full. The clack of women’s heels and low voices on mobiles filtered in from the street outside. Harry watched a double-decker rumble past and blew on his tea until ripples spread across the surface.
Ginny reached out and hesitated, then touched his forehead. Her fingers trailed down to rest against his cheek just above his chin. She had a soft smile on her face. “I thought maybe you… But you look better.”
Harry smiled back and curled his fingers around his mug. “I feel better.”
“Was it cold?”
Harry looked at her and Ginny blushed and laughed. She shrugged. “I know. Silly question. But… how was it?”
“Cold.” He smiled at the quirk of her lips. “It was huge. And… quiet. I mean, it was windy and the penguins were loud but…” He smiled faintly, remembering. “It was quiet.”
“Lonely?”
“No.”
Ginny nodded and stirred her coffee. Her hair slipped over her shoulder and brushed the table. Harry watched the sun glow in its red threads.
“Mum wants you to come by,” Ginny said, setting her spoon down and crossing her arms on the tabletop. Harry glanced up at her face and found her blue eyes warm on his.
“I don’t…” He looked away through the large front window. The sky was the color of periwinkle, scudded with cirrus clouds. “Ginny, maybe that’s not a good idea. I’m not exactly—”
He stopped, unable to commit the thoughts to words. Ginny’s hand came across the table and covered his.
“Harry, no.” He looked up and found her watching him. Something painful flickered in her eyes. “You’re still family. Even if we’re no longer… Even without her.” She gave a soft sigh. “You always were family.”
Harry turned his hand over and held her smaller one, studying the pattern of freckles over the back of it. He used to know that pattern so well. “Ginny… do you blame me?”
There was absolute silence for an instant. Then Ginny jerked forward, hands rising to hold his face. Her eyes were so sad, so wide, he could see the tears glistening. “Oh Merlin, no, Harry. No. Oh gods, is that what you think?”
Harry stared back at her, chest tighter than anything. Her gaze roved his face and her mouth opened and closed once. She shook her head fervently. “Harry—Harry, how could you think such a thing?”
“I should have been watching more closely,” he whispered. Ginny stared at him wordlessly, turmoil pinching her pretty features. She stroked her fingers over his temples, thumbs tracking across his cheeks. An odd grimace came over her face.
“I’ve never blamed you,” she whispered. “Not even the day she— Not seriously. Never seriously.” She sighed, dropping her hands. A sound burst from her, a cross between a laugh and a sob. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. I should have taught her how to swim.”
Harry took her hands in his. “We both should have.”
They sat in silence for several minutes, just breathing. The door dinged open and shut twice, and friendly greetings were called from the counter. Ginny’s fingers squeezed his.
“Harry, it wasn’t your fault. It was an accident.” She was looking carefully at him, as if seeing him for the first time.
He took one of her hands and kissed it lightly. She watched him with suddenly shadowed eyes.
“Harry… don’t go away again.” Her voice shook, and he looked up at her. “Call me, please, and we’ll talk. I don’t know what would happen to me if you— If I thought you wanted to try to—”
“Okay,” he said. Her hand tightened around his. Harry blew out a breath slowly. “Okay.”
~*~
December
He stood in the middle of Maggie’s room, and the sunlight heated his bare feet. Tiny dust motes filtered through the air. There was a lazy sense of stillness. He reached out and ran his fingers over the multicolored quilt on the bed, feeling the slight prickle of wool. Maggie’s pillow rested, full and puffy, against the headboard. The black and red chessboard stood on her desk, pieces lined neatly for a game that had never been played. It had been a gift from Ron when she turned four, ever ready to mold his next rival.
Harry had not been in the room since a month before he’d left for Antarctica. It was just as he remembered, but for once he did not feel like running from it, shutting the door on all of her trinkets and board-games, on the memory of her laughter, the sound of her quick little footsteps. Instead he stood there and found the sense of calm pervading him, sweeping his weary limbs.
Ginny had a room like this at her flat. Or had, once, with different toys, different quilts and pictures. The same Maggie.
He moved toward the dresser and picked up the hairbrush that still rested there. There were three strands of silky red hair twisted in the bristles. Harry touched them tentatively, then laid the brush down and turned to the plush dragon beside it. It was bright pink, with a soft, red tongue lolling from between squishy fangs. The tail ended in a heart shape, and crystalline eyes blinked rapidly at him. He lifted it to his nose and inhaled. Maggie’s scent lingered, the gentle raspberry of the shampoo he used to scrub through her wayward locks. The dragon purred and curled toward him. Harry smiled and set it back down.
He picked up the only photograph from its place atop her dresser and made for the bed. The springs creaked gingerly as he sat down. Harry leaned over and ran his hands once more over the quilt and the duvet underneath. She was everywhere in this room; how had he not been able to feel her before? He looked down at the photo in his hand and found a bright grin, sparkling green eyes. Her hair was darker than her mother’s, who sat behind her in the picture and pointed out of the frame at him, murmuring silently in their daughter’s ear. Ginny smiled and Maggie waved frantically, wriggling in her mother’s arms. She touched one chubby hand to her lips and raised it to Harry.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Harry whispered. He kissed his own fingers and laid them against the photo with a sigh.
~*~
It was still dark when Harry awoke. He sat up in his bed, trying to catch his breath. Plumes of white, shifting snow still clouded his vision, the hiss of wind over ice. He blinked and rubbed his eyes.
His dream had been vibrant, intense. Air fresher than any city dweller had ever tasted, the milky yellow of a waning sun, the color of glossy cream feathers fading to charcoal silk under the sunlight… He’d looked over his shoulder and found Draco standing behind him, gazing across the expanse of ice, a soft smile on his lips. The hood of his coat was pulled high against his head, and glowing strands of blond fluttered in the wind. Grey eyes flicked to meet his.
A new emptiness crawled up inside Harry as he sat there in the warm darkness of his bedroom. He took a deep breath and let it out, squeezing his eyes shut.
~*~
The wind nipped at his hands and face. Harry walked home from the photo shop, fingering the buttons of his coat. He stopped in at a small cafe, bought a panini, and headed around the park toward his street. It was a long walk, slowly through late flurries of orange maple leaves. Harry pulled the last packet of photos from their plastic bag and thumbed through them.
His walk was quiet, broken only by the slap of trainers as runners went by, the giggling of children near the pond. Harry flipped through picture after picture, discarding the moving ones into the bag. The stark white looked so colorless next to the turning leaves and beaten park path, but clusters of shuffling, tuxedoed birds broke a smooth slice through the bleak landscape. The beaks of the penguins gleamed, their stripes bright yellow against the silver.
Draco’s hair looked like gold thread.
Harry ambled along, keeping to the side of the path. He had asked for a copy of Muggle stills for most of the rolls. The blue of Draco’s coat seemed as water caught in his palm, the sudden ruffle of his hair and squinting of his eyes captured forever in perfect stillness. Harry turned to the next picture and Draco was crouched on the ground, notebook in hand, head tilted. His bare fingers were pale around his pencil stub. The next photo centered on a small chick in mid-flap, beak wide open. Draco was caught in profile, a smile just inching over his face. The gentle pink of his cheeks splashed color onto the snow.
It was twilight when Harry reached his house. He sat on the front steps and flipped through the stills again, always coming back to the last one: Draco’s face turned directly toward the camera, the cloudy color of his eyes glinting behind a lock of hair. His hand was raised, poised to brush the hair from his eyes.
He saw it in his dreams that night, except he could feel the cold bite of the wind, hear the penguins croaking softly, and see the moment just after the shutter clicked, when Draco caught sight of his camera. Draco flushed and tucked his hair behind one ear.
Harry woke with a name on his lips. He turned onto his side in the darkness and imagined ghost fingers sweeping over his skin. His chest ached fiercely, and try as he might, he could not banish the feeling as he had before.
~*~
The doorbell rang and Harry put the knife down on the cutting board, wiped his hands free of breadcrumbs, and went to answer it. He was still brushing flour from the fingers of his left hand when he looked up. The person turned on his porch, and grey eyes met his. Harry froze.
“Potter.” Draco looked thinner than he had, and tired. His long-sleeved shirt seemed to cling to his frame under his coat, and one hand rose to smooth the hem.
Harry opened his mouth, shut it, and then pushed the door open. “Come— come in.”
Draco entered cautiously, hugging his arms around himself. Harry shut the door and looked at him, still not certain if he wasn’t seeing a mirage. Some sort of dream. “I thought you were still in Antarctica.”
Draco smiled thinly and shook his bangs from his forehead. “Only just got back. Yesterday. I’m still a little worn through.”
Harry nodded and looked around the room for… something. He turned back and Draco’s gaze skittered away from him. Harry glanced toward the kitchen and the smells wafting from it. “I… Are you hungry? I just made soup.”
Draco looked at him gratefully and nodded. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
Harry shook his head, hesitated, then padded into the kitchen. He heard rustling as Draco shed his coat, and then footsteps behind him. Harry got out two bowls, silverware, and butter and set them on the counter; the table was cluttered with photos. He ladled soup into the bowls and handed one to Draco. “There’s bread. Rosemary.”
They ate in silence, leaning against the kitchen counters. Draco’s fingers looked delicate as he held the bread and spooned soup to his lips. Small sips. He glanced at Harry from time to time, and Harry broke the gaze before the heat in his cheeks could show.
When the bowls were in the sink and Harry had put the leftovers away, Draco followed him out to the living room. They sat down across from each other. Draco settled into the couch cushions, closing his eyes briefly.
“Is everyone back?” Harry asked.
Draco nodded, his gaze warming a touch. “I left Sanoe to the last Port. She should have returned last night.”
Harry nodded and cast about the room again. “Have you… had time to develop your photos?”
Draco was not exactly looking at him. “Sent them in yesterday on the way home from the office.”
“You didn’t go straight home?”
“No.” A slightly pained look crossed Draco’s face. “I had… something else to attend to.”
They sat for a moment in silence. A ray of sunlight beat warmly onto Harry’s legs, another spread gold across Draco’s body. The blond’s eyes drifted shut again and he seemed to relax into the light. The skin of his hands and throat was a warm peach tone, and Harry found himself staring at it.
“Malfoy?”
Draco came awake with a tiny jolt, blinking. He sat up and rubbed at his forehead. “I’m sorry. Been a long day.”
Harry shifted, suddenly glad of such an excuse, for what he was about to offer. “You can… sleep. If you want. You can stay, I mean. I have something I need to…” He gestured mutely, and caught Draco’s eyes fixed on his. “You don’t have to go, do you?”
“No.”
Harry brushed his hands over the front of his shirt. “Are you thirsty?”
“Some water would be nice.”
Harry rose and headed for the kitchen. When he returned with ice water, Draco was dozing again, his narrow chest rising and falling with each light breath. Harry watched him for several moments, feeling oddly content, and then made his way quietly through the house, up the stairs, and into the attic.
~*~
Maggie’s boxes had been gathering dust. Harry could barely remember packing them, carting them up here. He wondered if Ginny had done the same at her flat, or if everything was still in its place in Maggie’s room. He barely remembered anything of the months just after… after.
Now, brushing the tops clean and opening the boxes, he was surprised once again by the colors. Even dusty, flowered in the scent of mothballs, Maggie’s belongings gleamed in the lazy evening sunlight that warmed the attic. Harry traced his fingers over soft, slightly squished plushies with googly eyes, stickered drawing journals filled with crayon scribbles, and old piles of photographs. He’d been up here for over an hour, and was surrounded in toys and games, the clutter of toddlerhood.
And he could breathe again.
There was a scuffing noise, the creak of floorboards. “Potter?”
Draco’s hair shone like a faint corona. He stepped carefully over the rocking horse, raising one hand to the ceiling beams to steady himself. The gentle heat of the attic air drifted between them.
Draco smoothed a hand over the buttons of his shirt. He surveyed the cluttered space. “What’s this?”
Harry lifted a raggedy beanbag tiger from the box next to him. “They were Maggie’s.”
Draco’s eyes met his quickly. Harry smiled. “I’ve been trying to… well. Put things in order. The things I have, I mean. I feel like—”
He let the sentence drop. Draco said nothing. Harry put two photos into the box and set a third on top of a small pile next to him. He glanced up at Draco and dropped his gaze to the floor, gesturing faintly. “You can… you know.”
Draco’s eyes were unblinking. Harry stared into them, and it felt soft and silent again. The stillness of the attic settled. Then Draco bent his knees and eased carefully down onto the floor amidst the mess. He tucked one knee up, the other butterflied out under him. Harry noticed he kept well away from the boxes.
“I’m going to make an album. One of these days.” Harry fingered the topmost photo, then passed it to Draco. Draco’s mouth opened, then closed, and he took the picture. Looked at it. Set it carefully aside.
Harry went back to the box on his right, running his hand over the fluffy lamb toy at the bottom. When Draco’s voice came, it was as startling as a whip’s crack.
“I’ve been thinking—” Draco stopped and blinked, as if noticing how deep the silence had become, and how suddenly he’d broken it. He took a breath and looked at Harry. It was abrupt again: Harry saw the small space separating them as if it were vibrating visibly. His mouth was dry; his breath hitched somewhere between his throat and lips. He began to wonder if it wasn’t the room’s warmth he was feeling, but rather Draco’s, expanding, embracing him again as it… as it had. Harry dropped his eyes, and Draco continued in a softer voice.
“I wanted to come by. I thought I should.” He trailed off and Harry looked at him.
“I’m glad you did,” he said quietly.
Draco’s face darkened. He looked away into the strand of sunlight spilling through the window. “I’m moving.”
Harry frowned. What? The word got stuck somewhere on its way out.
“That’s why I stopped by work.” Draco took a breath and let it out. “Give them my notice. I’m moving to Cornwall.”
“You are.” The thoughts weren’t forming correctly in his brain. He wasn’t getting enough air.
Draco nodded. His eyes darted to Harry’s and for a moment Harry thought he saw a flicker there. Draco looked away.
“How. How long since you…”
Draco lifted one shoulder in a shrug, trailing a finger through the dust on the floor. Harry was caught by the movement. “I used to live there. It’s… well. It’s time to go back, I think.”
All Harry could fix upon was the sad look on Draco’s face. Resigned. It was the same expression he’d worn just after they’d… Just after… Harry shut his eyes and pursed his lips.
“Malfoy,” he said. Draco lifted his head, but Harry wasn’t looking at him. “You don’t have to explain. I’m. I’m sorry if I…”
It hurt too much to lie like that. He wasn’t sorry. But obviously Draco regretted it. Harry had not thought about what Draco’s intentions had been; he’d been too thrown by that night and all it did to him. For him. But perhaps Draco had only seen what Harry needed and likewise… seen fit to help him. Harry swallowed hard.
“Harry.”
The sound of his first name made him look up before he could think about it. Draco had moved forward, on his knees only a foot away. He looked uneasy, earnest. Harry brushed an imaginary hair from his forehead.
“Draco, that night.” He inhaled and hurried on. “It wasn’t a big deal. It shouldn’t… You don’t have to leave over it.”
Draco’s face spasmed and his eyes darted away. His hands clenched on the legs of his trousers. “I…” Harry saw his throat bob. Draco shook his head. “It was a bad idea. I don’t know what I was thinking. You didn’t need that, then.”
Harry’s eyes were beginning to sting. He could barely sit still suddenly. He needed to run, to reach out and grab, to—He squeezed his eyes shut.
“When are you leaving?” It was a struggle; his voice didn’t want to cooperate.
He heard Draco sigh softly. “I’m going to find a house tomorrow. Early in the morning. I just wanted to… stop by.”
Harry gestured weakly at the rest of the room, not quite sure what he was moving his hands for. There was nothing there that could stop this, make sense out of this. “Well. I’m glad you came. I didn’t know if I’d—”
He stopped and found Draco watching him. His irises were the color of thunderheads, heavy and luminous. Harry’s body clenched on him at the realization that he’d tethered himself to that color, those depths, and it had all been based on nothing more than his own foolish vulnerability.
Draco’s mouth opened and shut. He looked down at his hands and shifted. Harry could feel how close they were. There were shadows falling over Draco’s cheeks from his hair, and his eyelashes were glittering in the light from the window. Harry blinked.
There had been a day, after that night, when Harry had looked up at the slanting, watery sunlight, and seen Draco standing with his hat off, eyelashes encrusted with fine ice crystals. He hadn’t been looking at him and Harry had held his breath, trying to keep the moment.
He moved closer, unable to help himself, and Draco’s eyes met his.
“Can you stay?” he asked, so softly he barely heard himself. Draco didn’t move for a long moment, and Harry had to look away. He leaned forward, inching his hand toward where Draco’s lay against the dusty floorboards. Their fingers touched and he looked up.
Something desperate flitted across Draco’s face. He was breathing hard, looking at their hands. “Harry…”
Harry shook his head and turned his hand over, squeezing Draco’s fingers. “I don’t want you to go.”
He heard Draco swallow. The blond had shut his eyes, a slight grimace marring his forehead. It hurt to see it, deep in Harry’s chest where his pulse beat. Draco’s eyes opened again, dark in his face. “I don’t want to do this if you…”
“Draco. Please.” Harry’s fingers were brushing his cheek, feather light. He could feel Draco trembling. One hand swept up Harry’s arm to his shoulder, a patch of heat pulsing through his shirt. He felt himself begin to shake, and it startled him, how much he craved that warmth.
Harry raised his head and their noses bumped. A hitch of breath brushed his face. Draco’s fingers touched his hair and Harry leaned forward. Draco murmured softly as their mouths met, and pulled back. His eyes were shut again. Harry touched his chin, his face, his hair, and made a sound he hadn’t intended, a soft half-word. Draco shivered and then his arm was around Harry’s back, a hand tangled in his hair, and he was kissing him, and they were falling.
Harry wondered if it should feel wrong, on his back across his daughter’s scattered pictures, the musk of mildewy toys and plushies tickling his nostrils, and Draco on top of him, touching his hair and kissing him breathlessly. But it didn’t feel wrong. He felt alive, as if that life were overflowing and trickling over Maggie’s old, forgotten things. They no longer felt so empty.
He felt… Well. He felt.
Draco’s body was warm and Harry arched into it, sliding his hands down his back and up into his hair. He tasted the rosemary bread they’d eaten on Draco’s lips. His hands found the other’s shirt buttons and then slender fingers were under his own clothing, tensing against his ribs.
Draco pulled away, breathing heavily. “Harry, shouldn’t we… Here?”
He nodded and Draco looked around. His white-gold hair swept over his forehead and touched his cheeks. “I don’t think…”
Harry heard him swallow. A hand squeezed against his side.
“Harry, not here. Not with—”
“Draco,” Harry whispered. But he couldn’t quantify his thoughts. It was alright, really it was. He wanted to say it. But Draco’s eyes were haunted, shuttering even as he watched.
“Please. Not here, Harry.”
Their quick breathing was all Harry could hear. He nodded. “Alright.”
Draco stood quickly, winding his arms around himself. His shirt was rumpled over his shoulders. Harry sat up and pushed himself to his feet. Draco looked at him for a moment, moved a fraction forward, and then halted. Harry made his way carefully around him toward the stairway, heard Draco coming behind. He did not look back as he passed out of the attic and down the stairs. Draco was so close his body heat pulsed into Harry’s skin. He was tingling all over, and the darkness of the hallway made him shiver.
He turned at last and found Draco several feet away, watching him. The man’s shoulders were rising and falling rapidly, face a soft blue in the dim light. Harry opened his mouth but couldn’t think of anything to say. Nothing sounded right. How could he voice what was going on inside him? He barely recognized it, and yet he did, and it made him think of flapping tents and soft voices, and a body above him – against him – in the warmth of a sleeping bag.
Draco stepped forward and reached for his hand. His fingers were quivering against Harry’s and he sucked in a small breath. Then they were together, pressed along the planes of each other’s bodies, and Draco’s familiar hands were climbing into his hair, sweeping down the back of his neck. Harry felt his lips part, and scooped his hand behind Draco’s head. The kiss was sensual, all tongues and teeth and tiny breaths. Draco’s entire frame shook suddenly and Harry made a small sound as the blond’s arms tightened, drew him against his body so swiftly that the air left his lungs. He was backed into a wall. Draco’s hips moved against his for a long, slow moment and Harry blinked, breathless.
He wanted… Harry pushed himself away from the wall and pulled Draco with him down the hall. His hands finished off the buttons on Draco’s shirt. A soft word was whispered into his ear, and then his own shirt was coming up over his head and Draco’s body heat hit him full on. He gasped and brought their mouths together again.
He was going to… His eyes were burning.
Draco found one of his hands, and Harry stopped halfway across the bedroom, suddenly afraid of what he would find when he looked at the other man. Draco was studying his hand with lowered eyes, turning it slightly in his own. He breathed and lifted Harry’s hand to his lips. Harry curled his fingers, felt the soft brush of Draco’s mouth. Heat spiraled through him. Draco pressed his lips to each of Harry’s fingers, and then his palm. Lingering. Harry touched his cheek shakily.
Draco pulled away with a hiss.
“Harry.” He squeezed his eyes shut. His body quivered. “That night… I shouldn’t have— But—”
Harry’s hands were on Draco’s cheeks, thumbs smoothing his lips into silence. “No, don’t.” He took a deep breath. “Don’t say… anything. Just—”
Soft rustles in the quiet stillness; clothing discarded by shaking hands. Harry moved them both without really seeing, staring at the motions of his own fingers over Draco’s shoulders. Draco knelt on the bed, eyes troubled, and grasped Harry’s hand. Harry let himself be guided into Draco’s lap, settling against the steady heat. He felt it pulse into the insides of his thighs, beating up into him from Draco’s legs. He breathed in and Draco’s stomach flexed at the touch of his skin.
“Draco, please.” Harry could find no other words. He didn’t ever want to be bereft of this; he needed it. But it was limited already, everything about it had an end point, and he could suddenly see it rapidly approaching, like the edge of an ice cliff. And beyond, an endless void. Harry shivered and splayed his fingers over Draco’s back, trying to feel him in every inch of skin.
The shadows under Draco’s eyes blended with the color of his eyelashes. The ocean tossed in his irises, forlorn and windless. Harry bent forward, touching his lips to Draco’s, hovering there. A breath – Words fluttered over his mouth.
“Harry, I… can’t… I.”
“I want to feel again, I want – want to feel—”
you, gods, you, make me feel you again, Draco, remind me why I kept breathing after that night – Harry choked out a sob and Draco was nodding, shushing him, fingers drifting over his ribs, touching the slope of his hips, caressing for a breathless moment, and suddenly there, easing him open. His eyes darted to Harry’s and something in his expression crumbled. He looked away, biting his lip. Harry opened his mouth, and then felt – realized – how carefully Draco was holding his body.
That night. Draco thought that he hadn’t wanted it. Well, how could he not, when Harry had barely known what he wanted himself? His chest tightened and he fought not to cry. All of Draco’s words fell into place, and it swarmed up against him: Draco’s hesitant touches, his unwillingness to speak of that night. It spoke of fear, of having done something harmful. Harry didn’t have the slightest idea how to begin refuting it. He shook, tangled his hands through soft, blond hair, and waited.
Draco pressed Harry’s hips forward until there was only heat between them. He rose slightly on his knees, stroked the small of Harry’s back, and entered his body as he lowered him down again. Lips parted in silence, ash-colored eyes blinking. Harry let his breath out in a hiss and dropped his head back. He felt the trace of lips against his throat.
There was no hole burning through him this time, no empty space devouring his chest and heart and mind. He could see clearly: the tiny beads of sweat forming on Draco’s back, the shortest of peach-fuzz hairs at the nape of his neck. Harry curled his fingers under the longer sweeps of blond and stroked the softest and smallest of them. An exhalation fluttered over his ear. Harry touched his chin to a small, dark freckle just above the curve of Draco’s shoulder. He could feel hands curled over his hips, trembling slightly. Harry raised his body, and let himself back down, shutting his eyes against the bloom of sensation inside him, the ragged gasp just within his hearing. He pulled back and opened his eyes.
Draco’s mouth was centimeters away, soft breath panting over his lips. Harry tightened his legs around the man’s waist and Draco’s hands swept up his back, shaking and coming to rest again over his hips. It was a helpless movement. Harry’s body rose and fell with each breath, following Draco’s in a slow slide-press. His lips touched Draco’s cheeks, parted over skin warmer than he remembered. He could feel each brush of contact, and felt like he was seeking, unable to find the thing he needed, but wanting to grasp it so desperately he could barely breathe. He bit his lip, head dropping to rest on Draco’s taut shoulder, and arms were suddenly around him like a vise, pressing him to slick skin and tortuous, aching movement. Fingers clutched at his back; Draco gasped into his hair. Harry felt lips there, pressing, a hand curling through tangled strands against his scalp, and lifted his head, suddenly afraid Draco would pull away, attempt to stop the mistake he thought he’d made. Draco’s mouth was right there, open, and Harry tilted his head and met his lips, and plunged deep. Draco murmured, sudden, startled. Harry swallowed it down. He kissed Draco as slowly as the other man thrust into him, as deeply.
His body was no longer his own; it moved with Draco’s as if it were part of him. Harry shivered, clenching. Draco broke away with a hiss and his fingers burned into Harry’s shoulders.
“Harry… you…” His voice faltered. Harry mouthed his cheek, his forehead. His breath was coming fast, Draco’s harsh pants gusting against his chin. Hands pushed him up and tugged him down, hips rolled to meet his and Harry’s fingers twisted in Draco’s hair, toes curling, legs squeezing, heart skipping. He sagged over Draco’s shoulder, holding on for all he was worth. Draco let out a broken mewl and went rigid for several full, glorious seconds.
The sound was perfect and pained, and it was then that Harry’s heart began to clench. He groped for the moment, trying to feel the silk of Draco’s skin again, hear the tiny catch in his throat before each thrust, the slow slide of Draco’s tongue against his; it was slipping away from him already, and Harry knew in that transient, terrible instant that he would never remember the exact sensation of it. Draco would go to Cornwall, and it, this, would go vague in his mind and fade in his nerves, and he would desperately fill in holes he could not recall. Pain like he’d never felt opened raw in his chest again, and Harry blinked, hating the sudden wetness in his eyes.
Words came at last. Harry whispered them into Draco’s neck, knowing he couldn’t hear.
“Please don’t leave me.”
Draco’s lips pressed at the skin of his shoulder and held there. His breathing was a steady flow under Harry’s fingers. The silence of the room was warm and clouded.
You didn’t hurt me. Gods, you…Harry wanted to cry. It was for a different reason than he was used to, and it stung, and hurt, and burned, and felt so wonderfully clean and fresh. He didn’t know how to keep it from sliding away. Everything slid away from him; he clutched at it, held it with all his might, and still it disappeared. He found himself wishing he had never kissed Draco as he had right before he’d come, because to have it, to have it at last and then to hold it in vain as it disappeared… Harry felt like he was being buried under ice.
You didn’t hurt me. But he couldn’t speak the words. They wouldn’t come.
All he could do was find Draco’s mouth again, cover it, bring them together, lips, tongues, breath. Hands came up to hold his face. They trembled against his cheeks for an instant, and Draco gave a soft sigh into his mouth.
Harry shut his eyes and felt the tears gathering on his eyelashes. If it was just for the next moment, it would be enough. It would have to be. Harry curled his hands into Draco’s hair, tilted his head, and shut out the cold spaces that would come afterward.
It felt like hovering, just Draco’s lips and the touch of his tongue. Draco pulled back slowly, and their noses brushed. “Harry?”
Harry shook his head. “Please stay. Tonight. That’s all, I… Draco…”
Draco’s chest rose and fell against his. His arms rested on Harry’s back, and Harry held himself still, staring at the smooth slope of his shoulder. Without a word, Draco eased himself down on the bed. One hand drifted over Harry’s arm. Harry followed, drawing the duvet over them, and shut his eyes before he could think of anything.
~*~
Sunlight flickered like water. White light, the outline of barren trees shifting against his walls, back and forth. Harry stared at the movement dully, tucked under the duvet in a pocket of warmth he did not feel.
The clock on his nightstand read 11:13 AM.
He knew what he would find if he turned over. The right side of his bed empty and cold. Draco would be gone, departed hours before. Harry couldn’t bring himself to look. Instead he watched the light and felt hollow.
Had he only spoken… But he hadn’t. His mind was a jumble, the previous night still tingling under his skin, and all his unspoken words crying in his head. He could hear the wind in the eaves outside, sweeping calmly through the trees. The ache weighing in his chest was too heavy for the light sound.
Harry sighed. It was no use. He’d been awake for some moments already. He would have to turn over at some point, and see the vacant space. There was no reason to put it off any longer. He blinked rapidly and shifted onto his back, lips pressed together, and as he turned, the sound of a soft breath met his ears. His heart gave a tremulous skip and he looked to his right.
Draco lay there, eyes closed, head turned slightly away. His pulse fluttered at his throat, slow and steady, golden hair drifting out over the pillow. One hand lay on the duvet, just where the hem covered his chest, and the light played over his skin in soft whorls. Draco breathed in as Harry watched, and exhaled the soft sigh of a sleeper.
Harry covered his face with one hand and began to laugh silently. His eyes filled and threatened to overflow. He wiped at them and glanced over at his bedmate, unable to stop the hand that stretched out. His fingertips brushed over Draco’s arm, feeling warmth, the fine dusting of blond hair, and presence.
Draco’s hand found his, a gentle shift of fingers over the duvet. The blond’s head turned toward him and Draco sighed again in his sleep. His grip on Harry’s hand tightened. Harry glanced up at the sway of light on his ceiling. He smiled, tears sliding down his face, and for once, did not think of snow.
~FIN~
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Sequel: Three Vignettes After the Edge
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*breathes out* Okay, then. Thank you for reading!
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no subject
Date: 2006-01-02 03:36 am (UTC)From:I'm crying, in such an entirely good way.
That was beautiful and intense and wonderful. All the way through.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-02 08:13 pm (UTC)From: