- Rating:
- R
- House:
- The Dark Arts
- Characters:
- Draco Malfoy Harry Potter
- Genres:
- Slash Angst
- Era:
- Multiple Eras
- Spoilers:
- Goblet of Fire
- Stats:
-
Published: 11/14/2002Updated: 11/14/2002Words: 1,692Chapters: 1Hits: 889
Heaven and Hell
Beckalina
- Story Summary:
- Heaven could be just as tortuous as hell. A Pensieve allows Harry to revisit memories of both natures. Set post Hogwarts. Harry/Draco slash.
- Posted:
- 11/14/2002
- Hits:
- 889
- Author's Note:
- There are offstage and onstage character deaths in this story.
The Pensieve had been gift from Albus Dumbledore after the final defeat
of Voldemort, and a very welcomed gift. Harry wanted to forget the hell he'd
been through, the screams of those unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end
of the deadly whispered, 'Crucio,' and the blinding acid green that
followed the same calm uttering of, 'Avada Kedavra' - yet he knew that he
couldn't forget. To completely block them from his mind with a handy spell or
two would be a disgrace to the memories of all that had fallen victim to the
Dark Lord's followers.
Bad memories weren't the only ones he'd wanted to forget, heaven could be just as tortuous as hell. Memories of forbidden hands sliding across his sweat slicked skin under the cover of nightfall, blond hair glinting gold in soft candlelight, clandestine rendezvous in forgotten broom closets. He wanted those banished from his mind as well. But as with the horrors, to forget the passions would be to disgrace the memory of the one they involved.
There were days when Harry would want to relive everything, whether through morbidity or masochism - perhaps a macabre combination of both. He kept the Pensieve locked away in a magically hidden closet. His memories were his, and as much as he loved his wife, there were things he couldn't help but feel should be kept from her. Ginny had seen her share of hell in the years after they'd left Hogwarts, but he liked to still think that she retained much of her former innocence.
The stone basin looked much like the one he had found in the professor's office during his fourth year - so much so that he'd been certain it was the same one. But when he'd asked Dumbledore, his only answer had been a small and secretive smile coupled with a slight wink. The great wizard had never been one for the straightforward. Harry often marveled at the fact that the almost smoke-like wisps of bright silver were actually his own thoughts. Sometimes, just watching them swirl and move about the basin was enough to satisfy his need to remember.
The tip of his wand lightly touched the top of the bright substance and he watched with rapt fascination - it always seemed to fascinate him, no matter how many times he repeated the action - as it became clear and his Hogwarts dormitory came into view. Closing his eyes and leaning forward, he fell into the memory.
Outside of the tower windows, a heavy snow fell, light frost covering the panes of glass. The room was quiet, a majority of its occupants at home for the Christmas holidays - the rest most likely enjoying a lazy afternoon in the Great Hall. Only two people were in the room, hidden by the heavy velvet curtains hung around the large bed that had been his during his time at the school. One, his seventeen-year-old self, the other, his former mortal enemy. He didn't have to open the curtains to know what was happening behind them, and so he perched on Ron's bed, listening.
"This," a low moan interjected the voice that had been his, unencumbered by age and memories, "Does not mean I hate you any less, Malfoy."
"Believe me, Potter. I've not changed my opinion of you in the slightest." A familiar nasally voice, laced with the malice that never completely left it, punctuated by a slight grunt.
Just as suddenly as he'd fallen into the past, Harry blinked and found himself sitting in his study once again. The memory wasn't much, when compared to the others that swirled about the Pensieve. But it was important and harrowing all on its own. It had been the first time. It was hard to explain, even now, what had led to the consummation of a relationship that was based in hate as opposed to love. He had stopped attempting to justify it to himself years ago - yet he often felt compelled to ruminate the actions and the consequences that had followed them.
With a sigh, his wand touched the top of the Pensieve again - a dark and apparently abandoned classroom coming into view. There were cobwebs stretching across the high arches of the room, moonlight and the light of a single candle meshing in the relative darkness. He didn't need to look out of the windows to know that the scene before him was taking place in May of his seventh year. It was one that had haunted him until taking its place amongst the other silver wisps in the basin.
Dark and light hair - pale and tanned skin - lay entwined on makeshift bed of black cloaks. Slightly heavy breathing from both boys seemed to echo throughout the cavernous classroom. It was the only sound coming from the two prone figures, a drastic change from their modus operandi of verbal sparring. In the dim light, Harry could just make out the hands of his younger self running through fine blond hair that he knew was like liquid silk.
"I do still hate you, Malfoy." The tone of his voice wasn't as convincing as it had been in the last memory, it shook slightly and his mouth seemed to have difficulty forming itself around the words.
"And I, you, Potter." Nearly and uncharacteristically free of malice, drowsy and complacent.
Words unsaid seemed to penetrate their respective subconscious minds, and the figures in the center of the room clutched each other closer - almost desperately. And Harry was pushed back into the present, his eyes still locked on the again swirling contents of the basin. He had never understood his penchant for reliving things he had banished from his mind for concrete reasons, but once he began to traverse the past, it was hard to stop. His wand hit the substance again.
The night sky was dark, a spare star or two twinkling faintly in the relative blackness of the night. A sliver of the new moon shone behind the cover of a few clouds, and Harry could see himself running down the street - his feet pounding fast and his body almost a blur. His vision didn't have to be clear to know that the two and a half years since leaving Hogwarts had taken an extraordinary toll on the man who was sprinting through an otherwise quiet Muggle neighborhood. His hair was longer, even more unkempt than it had been in younger years - and his eyes reflected knowledge far greater than his twenty years. Harry took his time following, he knew where he would end up. Even from two blocks away, he could see the burst of sharp green light and hear the anguished screams that followed it.
"Ron! Ron! Expelliarmus! Oh Gods, Ron! Expelliarmus!" A voice that had looped through his nightmares for three years after this night - a girl's voice, barely recognizable through the shrill and frenzied pitch. Hermione's voice.
"Honestly, Mudblood, think you can disarm me?" The utter malevolence and darkness that literally dripped from each word rendered the voice almost non-human.
Harry heard himself begin to scream the disarming spell, only to be cut off by another shout.
"Avada Kedavra." Another bright flash of green and barely restrained glee at the uttering of a curse that would guarantee one a lifetime of Azkaban and Dementors. Then - and now - he could almost hear the smirk.
He caught up to the scene and watched it like one would watch a movie in a Muggle cinema. Draco stood in the open doorway of Ron and Hermione's home - what had been their home - his eyes crazed, his face set in a smug grin that had been so prevalent during their school years. Himself standing in the yard a few feet away, hand and wand extended, a look of grim determination painting his features.
"And now, Potter, the true prize of the ev -"
"EXPELLIARMUS!" Draco's wand flew from his own hand and into Harry's outstretched left. His own wand was still pointed out from his right hand, wavering slightly as the appendage shook.
Another situation, another lifetime, and the look on the distinctively paled face would have been something to laugh at. Instead, Harry watched himself level his wand at the other man and take a deep breath. His mouth opened and closed several times, knowing what he had to do but unable to follow through.
"Can't do it, can you, Potter? Goody little Gryffindor even now. Suppose you'll turn me over to the Aurors and make sure I'm all nice and cosy in my cell in Azkaban. Then the great Harry Potter triumphs again, showing a true sense of justice in the face of adversity," he spat vehemently at the ground, "You're not worth the dirt under my shoe, Potter."
"Crucio."
Draco doubled in intense pain, falling to the ground seconds later. He screamed as though his entire body had been thrown into a pit of fire and bitten by venomous snakes. The screams made Harry's skin crawl as if no time had passed between the past and the present. He knew that pain. He watched himself again, the look of horror at what he was doing, the sad realization at what he would have to do. It wasn't right, nor was it fair. But he took minute consolation in the fact that it was necessary.
"I did love you, Malfoy. Avada Kedavra."
The flash of acid green stayed with Harry as he relaxed back into the soft leather chair in his study. He opened his eyes, half expecting to see some form of Draco Malfoy outlined in the green haze that seemed to float in front of him. He blinked and shook his head, picking up the Pensieve and placing it back in its closet. He uttered the words for the various charms and wards in a voice that sounded far older than its thirty years. His memories would stay hidden, locked away from even himself - until that niggling voice in the back of his mind forced him to relive it all again.
Bad memories weren't the only ones he'd wanted to forget, heaven could be just as tortuous as hell. Memories of forbidden hands sliding across his sweat slicked skin under the cover of nightfall, blond hair glinting gold in soft candlelight, clandestine rendezvous in forgotten broom closets. He wanted those banished from his mind as well. But as with the horrors, to forget the passions would be to disgrace the memory of the one they involved.
There were days when Harry would want to relive everything, whether through morbidity or masochism - perhaps a macabre combination of both. He kept the Pensieve locked away in a magically hidden closet. His memories were his, and as much as he loved his wife, there were things he couldn't help but feel should be kept from her. Ginny had seen her share of hell in the years after they'd left Hogwarts, but he liked to still think that she retained much of her former innocence.
The stone basin looked much like the one he had found in the professor's office during his fourth year - so much so that he'd been certain it was the same one. But when he'd asked Dumbledore, his only answer had been a small and secretive smile coupled with a slight wink. The great wizard had never been one for the straightforward. Harry often marveled at the fact that the almost smoke-like wisps of bright silver were actually his own thoughts. Sometimes, just watching them swirl and move about the basin was enough to satisfy his need to remember.
The tip of his wand lightly touched the top of the bright substance and he watched with rapt fascination - it always seemed to fascinate him, no matter how many times he repeated the action - as it became clear and his Hogwarts dormitory came into view. Closing his eyes and leaning forward, he fell into the memory.
Outside of the tower windows, a heavy snow fell, light frost covering the panes of glass. The room was quiet, a majority of its occupants at home for the Christmas holidays - the rest most likely enjoying a lazy afternoon in the Great Hall. Only two people were in the room, hidden by the heavy velvet curtains hung around the large bed that had been his during his time at the school. One, his seventeen-year-old self, the other, his former mortal enemy. He didn't have to open the curtains to know what was happening behind them, and so he perched on Ron's bed, listening.
"This," a low moan interjected the voice that had been his, unencumbered by age and memories, "Does not mean I hate you any less, Malfoy."
"Believe me, Potter. I've not changed my opinion of you in the slightest." A familiar nasally voice, laced with the malice that never completely left it, punctuated by a slight grunt.
Just as suddenly as he'd fallen into the past, Harry blinked and found himself sitting in his study once again. The memory wasn't much, when compared to the others that swirled about the Pensieve. But it was important and harrowing all on its own. It had been the first time. It was hard to explain, even now, what had led to the consummation of a relationship that was based in hate as opposed to love. He had stopped attempting to justify it to himself years ago - yet he often felt compelled to ruminate the actions and the consequences that had followed them.
With a sigh, his wand touched the top of the Pensieve again - a dark and apparently abandoned classroom coming into view. There were cobwebs stretching across the high arches of the room, moonlight and the light of a single candle meshing in the relative darkness. He didn't need to look out of the windows to know that the scene before him was taking place in May of his seventh year. It was one that had haunted him until taking its place amongst the other silver wisps in the basin.
Dark and light hair - pale and tanned skin - lay entwined on makeshift bed of black cloaks. Slightly heavy breathing from both boys seemed to echo throughout the cavernous classroom. It was the only sound coming from the two prone figures, a drastic change from their modus operandi of verbal sparring. In the dim light, Harry could just make out the hands of his younger self running through fine blond hair that he knew was like liquid silk.
"I do still hate you, Malfoy." The tone of his voice wasn't as convincing as it had been in the last memory, it shook slightly and his mouth seemed to have difficulty forming itself around the words.
"And I, you, Potter." Nearly and uncharacteristically free of malice, drowsy and complacent.
Words unsaid seemed to penetrate their respective subconscious minds, and the figures in the center of the room clutched each other closer - almost desperately. And Harry was pushed back into the present, his eyes still locked on the again swirling contents of the basin. He had never understood his penchant for reliving things he had banished from his mind for concrete reasons, but once he began to traverse the past, it was hard to stop. His wand hit the substance again.
The night sky was dark, a spare star or two twinkling faintly in the relative blackness of the night. A sliver of the new moon shone behind the cover of a few clouds, and Harry could see himself running down the street - his feet pounding fast and his body almost a blur. His vision didn't have to be clear to know that the two and a half years since leaving Hogwarts had taken an extraordinary toll on the man who was sprinting through an otherwise quiet Muggle neighborhood. His hair was longer, even more unkempt than it had been in younger years - and his eyes reflected knowledge far greater than his twenty years. Harry took his time following, he knew where he would end up. Even from two blocks away, he could see the burst of sharp green light and hear the anguished screams that followed it.
"Ron! Ron! Expelliarmus! Oh Gods, Ron! Expelliarmus!" A voice that had looped through his nightmares for three years after this night - a girl's voice, barely recognizable through the shrill and frenzied pitch. Hermione's voice.
"Honestly, Mudblood, think you can disarm me?" The utter malevolence and darkness that literally dripped from each word rendered the voice almost non-human.
Harry heard himself begin to scream the disarming spell, only to be cut off by another shout.
"Avada Kedavra." Another bright flash of green and barely restrained glee at the uttering of a curse that would guarantee one a lifetime of Azkaban and Dementors. Then - and now - he could almost hear the smirk.
He caught up to the scene and watched it like one would watch a movie in a Muggle cinema. Draco stood in the open doorway of Ron and Hermione's home - what had been their home - his eyes crazed, his face set in a smug grin that had been so prevalent during their school years. Himself standing in the yard a few feet away, hand and wand extended, a look of grim determination painting his features.
"And now, Potter, the true prize of the ev -"
"EXPELLIARMUS!" Draco's wand flew from his own hand and into Harry's outstretched left. His own wand was still pointed out from his right hand, wavering slightly as the appendage shook.
Another situation, another lifetime, and the look on the distinctively paled face would have been something to laugh at. Instead, Harry watched himself level his wand at the other man and take a deep breath. His mouth opened and closed several times, knowing what he had to do but unable to follow through.
"Can't do it, can you, Potter? Goody little Gryffindor even now. Suppose you'll turn me over to the Aurors and make sure I'm all nice and cosy in my cell in Azkaban. Then the great Harry Potter triumphs again, showing a true sense of justice in the face of adversity," he spat vehemently at the ground, "You're not worth the dirt under my shoe, Potter."
"Crucio."
Draco doubled in intense pain, falling to the ground seconds later. He screamed as though his entire body had been thrown into a pit of fire and bitten by venomous snakes. The screams made Harry's skin crawl as if no time had passed between the past and the present. He knew that pain. He watched himself again, the look of horror at what he was doing, the sad realization at what he would have to do. It wasn't right, nor was it fair. But he took minute consolation in the fact that it was necessary.
"I did love you, Malfoy. Avada Kedavra."
The flash of acid green stayed with Harry as he relaxed back into the soft leather chair in his study. He opened his eyes, half expecting to see some form of Draco Malfoy outlined in the green haze that seemed to float in front of him. He blinked and shook his head, picking up the Pensieve and placing it back in its closet. He uttered the words for the various charms and wards in a voice that sounded far older than its thirty years. His memories would stay hidden, locked away from even himself - until that niggling voice in the back of his mind forced him to relive it all again.