Between Heaven and Hell

"Rock-a-bye, baby,

In the tree top:

When the wind blows,

The cradle will rock;

When the bough breaks,

The cradle will fall;

Down will come baby,

Cradle and all."

*

There was a flash of green, and then everything went black.

- -

You're falling. You're flying. You're screaming. You're everything in a moment; everything you are and everything you aren't and everything you've always wanted to be.

Your hands are clenching white sheets, balling cotton into your fists, and you don't have time to think about the thread count of his linens, or ponder the rip in his pillowcase, suspiciously the size and narrow shape of a blade. There is only Harry. Harry's mouth on yours, Harry's hands gripping your back, Harry's nails digging pretty little crescents into your shoulders. Harry pressed hard against you, so good, so bad, so right and so wrong.

This is what you think when you come.

When it's over, and he pulls away, you're back to reality, you're back to everything you've always been, back to nothing, just panting breath and sticky skin and guessing the thread count of his sheets. You look at him, and his green eyes seem to flash without fading. It reminds you of an Unforgivable Curse cast in the dark, the light of its power lasting until it will be forgiven.

And you cling to that fire in his eyes, because you think it will always be there; that Harry is and will always be Harry, even when you're nobody, everybody, and something in between.

- -

(I'll wish for a lot of things.)

- -

The house was old. It had been falling apart by its hinges for ages, crumbling one decayed shingle at a time for as long as anyone could remember. Draco couldn't remember. The windows were crusted with dirt or dust or blood or all of those combined; it didn't really matter. What mattered was that flash of green, bright enough to blind in the middle of the night, untouched by the grime of the windows. And, of course, the black silence that followed.

- -

"You're so pale."

"Well, you're ugly, Potter, but you don't see me shouting it to the rest of the world."

"I didn't mean it like that."

"So you mean pale as in exquisitely handsome, then?"

"No--I mean, you are. I mean pale as in..."

"Death? The grave? I thought we'd agreed I was going to be immortal."

"Draco, would you cut it out? I'm trying to be serious. You are looking seriously unwell, and you were supposed to check in with us three days ago. Has He done something to you? Found something out?"

"Harry, shut up."

"Draco. Draco! What are you--? Oh. Oh..."

"Mmm hmm."

"Wait, wait. Seriously, wait... Mmm... Wait."

"Not likely."

"Ah. Wait. Wait!"

"Ow! Oh for--what is it?"

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"You just hit me."

"Yes, sorry. But, you're not having a hard time? With your father or Vol--anything?"

"Harry."

"Yes?"

"I'm here right now, okay?"

"Here?"

"With you. I'm with Voldemort and my father all of the time, and I just want to be here for now, while I can be."

"And how long are you planning on staying?"

"Here?"

"Of course, here."

"I think I'd very much like to stay here forever."

- -

Draco's feet gave out from under him as he ran, suede boots slipping and sinking into mud, and then everything else was in the mud. His black trousers and cold gray sweater and the metal clasp that held his cloak together at the throat, shaped and shining like a dragon, and his wand, too. Draco didn't even notice. He crawled, and then somehow found his feet again, and he was running, running, running. He was running so fast that the wind stung his eyes, and he blinked quickly so they wouldn't get too dry. But they weren't dry at all.

- -

When he sleeps, you think, he forgets. Forgets all about his unfinished Potions final, due the next morning. Forgets that he won't be sleeping here in another week, but in a bed that's too stiff, and in a house that's too cold. Forgets about things like destiny and sacrifice and good versus evil.

It's a peaceful sleep, rounded by twitching smiles and lazy half-turns. You picture his dreams as full of blue sky and green grass and white smiles, where laughter is a drug, and nobody has a single scar. Then you picture his nightmares.

Not because you really care, but because you have your own waiting, and it's easier to imagine his.

It's dark behind the curtains of the four-post bed you're sharing with him. You can't see a thing. But you can feel him. You constantly touch him, brushing against his skin with lingering, absent sweeps of your fingertips, through the strong silk of his hair, then over the softness of the back of his hand, and the hardness of the palm.

And if you hadn't been thinking about the nightmares, and if it hadn't been so dark, you would have noticed that it was your name you were tracing into his hair, his skin, over and over again.

- -

He froze. It was inexplicable, utterly. The door had been right there, the knob in his hand--he was touching it for Merlin's sake--just turn it, dammit, turn it--but he didn't. He didn't want to call it fear, but what else could he call it? It had been fear, cheap and common, stopping him dead. He didn't want to go inside. And so Draco waited until someone came to him.

- -

(I'll wish that my mother hadn't died. I'll wish that my father had. I'll wish for roses in winter and rain at the beach. I'll wish Tom Riddle's mother hadn't died, either. I'll wish I wasn't smudged all over with green. I'll wish I had taken Divination rather than Care for Magical Creatures. I'll wish blood washed away easier. I'll wish I had walked away when Harry Potter called me Draco for the first time. I'll wish I had been strong enough to walk inside. I'll wish for a shooting star to wish on. I'll wish blood didn't wash away so easily. I'll wish for not only his dreams, but his nightmares as well. I'll wish I had held him longer, when it counted. I'll wish it had all counted for something. I'll wish reality weren't mine. I'll wish a mark wasn't a scar, and a scar wasn't a mark. I'll wish for Harry. I'll wish for everything but Harry. I'll wish I hadn't been that something in between.)

- -

"Filthy."

"Yes, father."

"She makes me sick."

"It's the tears, father. Among--other things."

"Quite true. I have always detested weakness in the face of adversity. When the world is in flames, Draco..."

"...It will be the strong who collect the ashes."

"Get rid of her, won't you? One less Mudblood in this world is something to be thankful for, wouldn't you agree?"

"Of course, father. Ad--!"

"Draco."

"I'm sorry? Father?"

"Don't be in such a rush, my boy. Hasn't it been ages since you had some fun?"

"Quite true."

- -

He didn't have to wait long. There was a rustle from behind the door, a loud thump, and then The Boy Who Lived Again fell through the door. The Boy Who Lived Again fell through the door, and into Draco's arms. Draco caught him easily, and the explosion of relief in his stomach was almost painful, and he wanted so much to just hold Harry, but Harry cried out in pain when he touched him. That's when Draco realized. The Boy Who Lived Again had fallen through the door and into Draco's arms, and his blood had begun to mix with the mud on Draco's clothes. Draco tried to close the wound. He mumbled every healing charm he knew, words spilling like milk over ripped skin, but it wasn't much use without a wand.

- -

You think you might love him. No, worse than that, you know you do, but you don't want to admit it. Admitting it would make it real, and you've only lived this long because you convinced yourself some time ago that it wasn't. Real, that is.

You don't want him. You don't want to miss touching him, kissing him, taking him. You don't want to lie with him in the dark, and wonder what he dreams about. You don't want to be involved--with him, with Harry Potter. You don't want to fuck The Boy Who Lived. You don't want green stains on your soul. You don't want to have to choose between Harry and your father. You don't want to want things, things you can't have. You just don't. Can't. Love. Him.

"This isn't possible," you tell him. You're pleased to note that your voice doesn't waver. "We should stop this before it gets out of hand."

"And what if it already is?" he asks, though you know he isn't looking for an answer. His hand emerges from folds of robes to take yours. His skin is hot. So are your tears.

"It isn't... We can't. You- you're The Boy Who Lived, Potter, a walking Death Curse, and I'm the son of a Death Eater. I'll graduate in two months, and as a gift I'll get the Dark Mark. And you've always been marked--"

You want to touch that scar so badly that you tremble. But you don't move.

"--And it won't work, Potter. This will end badly. Death, destruction, regrets. Don't you see that? If we walk away now, it'll only be a matter of body. I don't want to get my heart involved."

"I think," he says softly, eyes like glass, "that my heart is already involved, Draco."

And your heart leaps, because he's never called you by your first name before, and you think for the first time that maybe real doesn't necessarily have to mean bad.

- -

(I'll remember my father used to say that if wishes were dragons, we would all burn.)

- -

"Something on you mind, Weasley? Assuming, that is, that you actually have a--"

"I know what you're up to, Malfoy."

"Not one for tact than, are you?"

"This- this... arrangement you have with Harry. Don't think I can't see right through it."

"Watch yourself, Weasel. You don't want to go stepping into something you can't even begin to understand."

"I'm not trying to understand it, Malfoy, I'm trying to stop it. Harry thinks you're being so brave, camping out with Voldemort and playing Snape, but I know it isn't bravery that keeps you on His side. And it isn't bravery that keeps you coming back to Harry either, is it? You're scared. Of Voldemort, of Harry, of your own fucking skin. You think you can play both sides and go unscathed, but you can't. And you won't."

- -

"You're going to be all right," Draco whispered.

Harry coughed suddenly, horribly, all lungs and blood, and it seemed to last forever. Draco cringed. When he finally stopped, Draco wiped the blood from his lips with fingers that weren't clean. "I'm not," Harry said.

He reached blindly with his fingers, dirty like Draco's, but red instead of black. His hand brushed against the clasp of Draco's cloak, first by accident, and then again to be sure. He closed his fist around the miniature silver dragon.

"Draco?" And his voice was hopeful.

"Yes. Yes, I'm here," Draco breathed, smoothing hair from Harry's forehead gently. He kissed his scar. "I'm right here."

"...Here." The word was just a breath, just a slip of bloody lips, but it made Draco's throat tighten, and he felt like his lungs had no air.

He covered Harry's hand with his own. "I'll always be here, remember?"

Harry's green eyes flashed, and then went black.

- -

(I'll wish not to wish, because it won't be hard to figure out what the flames will eat once there's nothing left but ashes.)

- -

Draco's wand will taste faintly of dirt, but mostly of ash, and the tip will burn the back of his throat like unanswered wishes. He will think of Heaven, then Hell, and he will realize there is no difference. Both will consist of a pair of eyes greener than a death sentence, and either is better than wishing for it.

There will be a flash of green, and then everything--