To Go Beyond

To Go Beyond

Chapter One - Letting Go (I)

"You people always hold onto old identities, old faces and masks, long after they've served their purpose." ~Neil Gaiman, Sandman #20

Draco Malfoy kicked at his wardrobe door petulantly. It slammed back into the harsh stone of the wall with a crunching sound, adding yet another dent to the carved serpents that decorated the handle. Goddamned bloody Yule Ball, he thought rebelliously, yanking out the new dress robes his father had had delivered earlier that week and tossing them across his bed, then rummaging through the bottom of the cupboard for his boots. If he'd thought about it at all, he would have probably labelled his mood as 'high dudgeon.' However, rage and fury and the other bitter emotions were familiar states for Draco, and he rarely bothered to think about them.

Yanking on the black trousers and silk shirt quickly, Draco sent a heartfelt curse to the memory of whoever had designed the heating system in the Slytherin dungeons. His breath puffed out of his mouth in clouds of vapour, and he was shivering in his socks. Draco stamped his feet into his boots and sat down on the bed to lace them up. If it had been up to him, he wouldn't have bothered with the ridiculous Ball at all, would instead have curled up before the fireplace in the common room with a mug of hot Butterbeer and spent his time staring into the green-tinged flames. Imagining other shades of green.

It wasn't up to him, however, and that fact was what was fuelling his simmering anger. Damn you, Father, he thought in Lucius Malfoy's general direction, and damn your dynastic ambitions, and damn this whole stupid mess.

When Lucius Malfoy had sent the family owl to his son with orders to remain at the school over the Christmas holidays, Draco had immediately written back with an outraged protest. The next morning he had received a sternly worded missive informing him that he was not only to remain at Hogwarts but to attend the Yule Ball that had been permanently reinstated since his fourth year. Lucius and Narcissa, Draco had been informed, had 'business' to attend to over the solstice period, which of course meant they would be off doing whatever it was that Death Eaters did. Draco snarled, wondering what his father would give Voldemort for Christmas this year.

He fingered the expensive fabric of the new robes absently as he drew them over his head. They were rich velvet, black as night and fashionably cut, with tiny dragons embroidered about the throat and cuffs in silver thread. They had arrived on Wednesday morning as he sat alone over breakfast at the Slytherin table, and Draco had narrowly restrained himself from pulling out his wand and casting an impromptu Slashing Hex on them.

Fastening the silver laces at the throat carefully, Draco glared at himself in the mirror. He was instantly recognisable as a Malfoy, branded wherever he went by pale skin and sharp bones and white-blond hair and eyes like ice splinters. This is your destiny, his face told him every time he looked at it; you were born to follow your father. The ostentatious garments only highlighted that ultimate possession, made him a doll dressed up and paraded out at Lucius' whims.

Lucius had given his son explicit instructions for tonight. He was to be charming, polite, suave and elegant. He was to pay especial attention to the young, pure-blooded witches who would be attending the Ball, was to win their good opinions in preparation for a possible betrothal. He was to ignore what his father referred to as the 'riff-raff element' of the school, by which Lucius meant Harry Potter and his Muggle-loving Gryffindor cronies. Draco had had to forcibly prevent himself from sending off a desperate demand to know how on earth he could do that, when Potter filled his eyes and his ears and his every waking thought, made himself utterly impossible for Draco to ignore.

This latest incident only made the whole pathetic situation worse. Yesterday evening, while climbing the stairs up to the Prefects' bathroom on the fifth floor, Draco had been infuriated to encounter Potter, alone for once and looking achingly vulnerable in the overlarge clothes that Draco had heard were cast-offs from a cousin. Harry's messy hair had made Draco's fingers itch for a comb; the introspective look he had worn had made Draco long with a sick desperation to seize Harry by the arms and kiss him until he forgot his own name. Instead, he had sneered and sniffed and said "Abandoned by your little Mudblood girlfriend, Potter? Bet you wish she'd let you have some of what she's giving the Weasel."

And against all logic, against Draco's expectations and what he had come to think of as the established order of things, Harry hadn't hauled off and punched him one. Hadn't even gone for his wand (Draco had had his hand on his since he had first seen the other boy). Had instead looked him up and down with something approaching disdain and said, in a quiet, clear voice, "How do you know what I want, Malfoy?" Draco had been too surprised to react for a moment, and Harry had pushed past him with the least possible physical contact - although even that was enough to speed Draco's pulse and jelly his knees - and added without turning, "Besides, Hermione and Ron aren't going out." Draco had been left staring after Harry's retreating back, completely devoid of any kind of witty reply.

How do you know what I want, Malfoy? That single, simple sentence had filled Draco's mind since Harry had uttered it. The truth was of course that he didn't know - although he had a pretty good idea of what Potter didn't want. That list included publicity, being murdered by Lord Voldemort, and anything to do with Draco Malfoy. He had resigned himself to it long ago, gotten far too used to watching every move Harry made from a careful distance, far too practised at sublimating his feelings into hatred. Hatred of Potter, of the friends he had where Draco had only dull minions, of the respect he commanded where Draco had come to expect sneers. Of the hateful, inevitable way that Harry could reach into Draco's chest and tear out his heart without even realising it, leave him bleeding and broken without a single word.

Draco stared at his own reflection in the mirror. His image stared back at him from unimaginable depths, pale-faced and blank-eyed. He supposed he looked attractive enough, supposed that those pure-blooded young witches his father was always talking about would be happy enough to dance with him. They would be wasting their time, of course, but that was his secret. Always and forever, his secret.

***

Hermione smoothed the soft, velvet material of her skirt and considered herself in the mirror. Hair piled in a tumble of curls atop her head, a few stray tendrils coming down around her neck and shoulders. Dress robes in a rich red-brown velvet just this side of form-fitting, that emphasised the hazel of her eyes and the chestnut lights in her hair. Yes, this would do very well indeed. Now all she needed was for Harry and Ron to remember the dance steps she had painstakingly taught to them over the previous week, and tonight's Yule Ball would be perfect.

Her boys were waiting in the common room when Hermione descended the stairs, Ron in sensible black without frills (very few colours suited his rather shocking hair) and Harry in dark blue accented with silver. Hermione had tried to persuade him to have his new dress robes made up in that wonderful shade of deep leaf-green that brought out his eyes so beautifully, but he had pulled a face and insisted that he wasn't going to be seen in Slytherin colours. At which point Ron had chimed in with fervent agreement, losing her the argument.

Ginny was hanging breathlessly onto Harry's arm, and she was wearing green, a glowing silk that was woven viridian one way and topaz the other, and shimmered from one shade to the other as she moved. She looked very pretty, Hermione thought, and completely unlike the tomboy she tended to turn into around her brothers.

Hermione harboured a rather unworthy suspicion that Harry had only asked Ginny to the Ball out of guilt or pity. He had never been very good around girls, and Ginny had spent the weeks leading up to Christmas flashing him puppy-dog eyes every few seconds. He had never shown the slightest bit of romantic interest in her before, although of course Ginny had been absolutely delighted to be asked. Hermione thought it was rather sad, actually.

She gave Ron a little smile as he held out his arm to her, looking her up and down in a very flattering manner. Hermione was rather hoping that tonight might finally be the night he screwed up his courage and made a pass at her, or at least asked her out. Heaven knew she had been waiting long enough for the boy - but after all, what else was a girl supposed to do? Perhaps, tonight, she would finally have her hopes realised.

***

Harry smiled tiredly at Ginny as Seamus swept her off onto the dance floor, secretly rather shamefully glad that he had been relieved of her insipid presence at his side. He had tried hard to like her for her sake, for his own, for Ron's, who Harry knew would like nothing better than to become his brother-in-law, but he couldn't find her interesting. It worried him, in his more sombre moments, that there didn't seem to be anyone he did find interesting, no matter how pretty the girls in their brightly-coloured dress robes might be.

Harry slipped out of the Hall silently, with the vague idea of getting away from the lights and the music and the chatter for a while, having a few moments to himself. He almost wished that Ron and Hermione hadn't coerced him into attending the Ball; he had never entirely lost the embarrassment he had felt that first time, in fourth year, or the shyness that caused it. It was bearable, but however long he had spent at Hogwarts, however much it had become the true home of his heart, Harry had lived the greater part of his life in solitude. So he fled discreetly from the sparkle and glitter of the Yule Ball, wandered away down the side corridors where the air was fresh and cool on his skin.

He would never have found the room if the door had not been slightly ajar. Afterwards, Harry placed the blame for this squarely on Malfoy's shoulders; it had been his fault for leaving the door open, because if he hadn't...

Curious, Harry pushed at the heavy door; it swung open with a slight whoosh of displaced air. The room within was dark; it took a few moments for Harry's eyes to adjust to the lack of illumination, but when he did, he recognised his surroundings. This was the west colonnade, a long narrow pillared room that had many tall stained-glass windows opening onto the west terrace. In summer afternoons, it was a glorious riot of light and colour and heat, but now, in the depths of winter, chill draughts swirled about the tall columns. Where the main terrace entrance to the south had been Transfigured into a dainty grotto of fairy-lights, this smaller area was dim and still.

And right now it was occupied. Draco Malfoy stood with his back to the door, staring out of the window at the snow-covered grounds. Checking his forward motion, Harry stepped back and was about to ease the door shut again, praying that Malfoy hadn't noticed him, when the other boy spoke.

"What do you want?" Malfoy didn't turn; he kept right on staring out of the window, one arm propped casually against the frame.

"Um... never mind, Malfoy, I'll just go somewhere... else," Harry muttered, feeling unaccountably guilty.

Malfoy actually chuckled dryly, turning so that his pale hair was haloed by the moonlight leaking through the window, the light from the torches in the corridor just barely illuminating his face. It made no impression on his eyes; they were hidden in inscrutable pools of shadow. "Oh, there's no need to let me get in your way, Potter," he drawled, and Harry knew without needing to look that he had a vicious smirk on his face. "Unless of course you think you're too good for a mere mortal like myself..."

***

Draco wasn't quite sure why he hadn't just allowed Harry to leave with no questions asked. After all, the last thing he wanted was to expose himself to the temptation that being alone in a room with Harry offered... wasn't it? His mind kept coming back to Harry's earlier words in the stairwell. How do you know what I want, Malfoy? Surely, surely he couldn't have meant them in any subtler context... could he?

Harry paused, one hand on the doorframe, and Draco mentally cursed himself. Why couldn't he just let the boy be? "I don't think that, Malfoy..."

Draco managed a derisive sniff, praying that Potter would just leave and stop being such a walking temptation to indecency. "I'm sure," he sneered, and saw Harry's brows draw down and knot and his hands ball into fists as he stepped forwards until they were practically nose to nose. Up this close, they were practically the same height, and Draco swallowed the insane urge to lean forward and kiss Harry into submission.

"What is your problem, Malfoy?" Potter demanded, and Draco could tell that he was really furious now; his face was flushed and his eyes flashing emerald fire in the dimness. It was terribly, horribly arousing, and he tried to get a better grip on his rapidly diminishing self-control.

You. "I'd have thought that was obvious, Potter," Draco muttered, praying that it wasn't. He swallowed a groan as Potter moved closer still, until the need for contact whispered along his skin like torture. A sort of strangled squeak escaped him as his eyes locked with Harry's, and abruptly Draco lost all his control and gave in to the irresistible temptation that sang through him. Maybe this will make him go away, he thought, darting his head forward and capturing Harry's mouth with his own.

Instead of bolting, though, Harry froze, lips warm and soft and slightly parted beneath Draco's. Unable to stop himself, he leaned further into the one-sided kiss, touching Harry's upper lip delicately with his tongue. Suddenly, as though the world had shifted about them, Harry pitched forward, pressing his body up against Draco's and kissing him back as if their lives depended on it. As one tanned, callused hand slipped around his neck, fingers curling into his hair, Draco lost all ability to process rational thought, moaning wordlessly against Harry's mouth.

For long, incoherent moments, they stood there entwined in each other, lips and tongues and fingertips exchanging whispered secrets in the heady language of touch and sensation. Draco wondered whether this was even real, whether six years of longing had snapped his mind. Surely, surely, this was too sweet to be allowed, too wondrous to be real. After all, he thought, as if in a dream, wishes don't really come true - do they?

He had just slid his shaking hands up Harry's arms to rest on his shoulders when Harry pulled abruptly back from the desperate kiss, fighting free. "No - no..." he gasped hoarsely, voice sending shivers all the way down to Draco's toes. Completely involuntarily, Draco reached out for him; Harry flinched violently, shuddering away from the touch. Draco stared in utter confusion as the moonlight pierced the depths of Harry's green eyes, throwing up a strange mixture of desire and terror before it.

"No!" Harry all but wailed as Draco stepped towards him. "I'm not... you're... I'm.... no!" and he whirled, midnight robes swirling around his feet, and dashed out of the room as though the legions of Hell were behind him. Draco blinked as the door swung shut with a crash, remained where he was as the echoes rebounded and faded into silence.