Beautiful Illusion

CHAPTER 04 - Extremes

***

"The mirror on my wall
Casts an image dark and small
But I'm not sure at all it's my reflection.
I am blinded by the light
Of God and truth and right
And I wander in the night without direction."

***

The essence of life is all in the details.

If it was not so, an ocean could be described simply as water and sand and that would be enough. Yet how can water and sand possibly describe the hunger of the roaring waves as they ravage the beach, the invisible currents that linger beneath the sparkling surface, just waiting for the chance to sweep a powerless swimmer into the depths of its embrace, or the tang of the briny air as it burns your lungs?

If the minutiae of life were not so important, the current race between Harry and Draco could be described as merely a race, and that would be enough. However, to label their mountain descent a race would be a gross inadequacy. A race is not enough to set hearts pumping so fast it seems that the rest of the body cannot keep up with the blinding rhythm of its beats. A race is not enough to set minds so intently on winning that to lose would be an inexcusable travesty. Merely a race is not enough to conjure up resolve so blinding that it seems as though the frost should steam in its path.

Draco's eyes were full of icy steel as he sizzled down the incline. That ice was the product of years of razor-sharp barricades built out of disappointment and failure; barricades that shielded him from all distraction, barricades which grew higher and more impenetrable with every loss and worked to ensure that he would not lose again. Years of being distracted at the most crucial point of the game by his competitor had not been without their advantages. Draco had now trained himself to reach a stage where his opponent was only the slightest factor in his equation of success, and the stakes would have been just as high had he been contending with his closest friend or his bitterest enemy.

Harry's eyes were full of raging fire as he fumbled his way along the track. This particular fire had always been inside of him. It was a blaze kindled upon the death of his parents and gently coaxed to flame with every expectation that had been thrust upon his shoulders and every smiling face that was so supremely confident in him rescuing the world from the jaws of devastation and being the hero at the end of the day. This fire licked at his heels, reminding him of just what he stood to lose the day that he fell short of these expectations, the day that the wizarding world finally became disillusioned and realized that the All-Powerful-Boy-Who-Lived was, in reality, just a boy.

So, who do you back when you have two extremities battling for supremacy? Fire or ice, good or evil, light or dark, life or death? It frequently happens that the extremes become so consumed in conquering each other that they forget about the innocuous shades of grey in between. They burn each other out; quench their power, until all that remains are those shades of grey that are neither here nor there.

The two boys were not prepared to accept the shades of grey as they wove their way down the snowy mantle. For them, there were only two possibilities: winning, or losing. Truthfully, the latter was an option that neither of them was willing to acknowledge. Once again, this was to be a case when neither extreme was the victor.

***

The miniscule shards of ice peppering his vision were doing nothing for Harry's mood as he struggled to keep up with Draco's fluent pace. These glinting hindrances were the product of his current position trailing in Draco's wake, and he almost wished that he still had his glasses to create some form of barrier between his eyes and the stinging missiles. He supposed that he should be grateful that he was managing (barely) to keep up with Draco's pace, even if the ice was an unfortunate byproduct of this.

As the two boys slalomed along the mountainside, Harry couldn't help but feel grudging admiration for the way Draco's body moved as one with his skies, or for his natural, flowing movements that belied the difficulty of skiing. On Harry, his skis were metal instruments that hindered his pace, and reduced his body to fumbling, unbeautiful movements. On Draco, his skis appeared to be an extension of his slender torso, swerving and curving dexterously at the lightest signal.

Admiring Draco's inherent grace was nothing unusual for Harry. He had often wished that his own movements could be as effortlessly smooth and poised as Draco's, then reprimanded himself for wanting to be more like his enemy, even in this small way.

The mountain air shrieked against Harry's face as he skied, biting at his skin until he was sure that it was red raw. Thankfully, the frigidity of the wind had numbed the exposed areas, so he couldn't feel any soreness. His ski goggles shielded his eyes from the wintry gust and enabled him to see just what treacherous obstacles lay ahead of him.

Malfoy wasn't kidding when he said this was for skiing freaks only.

At his current wild pace, Harry was screaming past the snow-capped trees and bewitching scenery so fast that they appeared only as blurred streaks of colour against the overwhelmingly white trail. Unfortunately, he wasn't going fast enough to prevent himself from seeing the wickedly steep descent looming in front of him, an apparent sub-zero deathtrap.

Oh shit.

That being the most coherent phrase Harry was capable of forming in his current state of blind terror, he shot out over the icy crest and became airborne. For one mesmerizing second of dazzling clarity, Harry found out what it felt like to be flying without wings (or a broom, for that matter).

For years he had loved flying, had relished the feeling of invincibility he experienced as the air parted for him. This, however, was completely different. With nothing magical or otherwise supporting him as he sliced through the frost, Harry was exposed. He knew that he was going to fall down, but this vulnerability only made the experience all the more enthralling. It was in the split second before his skis grazed the snow once more that Harry truly understood why Muggles so longed to fly.

His fleeting epiphany was broken as he touched the snow once again. The jolt caused by his skis shearing into the silky ice blanket seemed to simultaneously melt and freeze his body. Bracing himself for another sliding somersault over the snow, Harry was shocked to find that he was able to retain his balance through a combination of acrobatics that defied the laws of physics.

Was that a lucky break or what?

Harry's momentary increase in self-confidence lasted for as long as his epiphany had, before what emerged directly in his path drove all other thoughts from his mind.

***

The very air seemed to sing of his imminent victory as Draco cruised down the peak. The elusive scent of triumph lingered ahead of him, tempting him to reach forward and snare it within his grasp. Draco's sharp hearing registered the laboured breathing of Charlie behind him, and the almost painful sound of his skis grating forcefully against the snow, compared to the adroit whisper of his own.

This race is mine.

The crest ahead of Draco presented no great challenge, and he savoured the feeling of freedom as he flew past it, sniggering inwardly at Charlie's terrified whimpers to his rear.

As he moved, Draco contemplated what he would say to Charlie when they reached the conclusion of the trail and he emerged conquering.

You raced well.

Better luck next time.

The best man won.

Do you realize how fucking long I've waited for this?

Yes, success would be sweet.

Just as Draco was revelling in his impending victory, his peripheral vision began sounding alarm bells. He had skied this trail many times, and never before had there been a large, dark object marring the pristine path.

What the hell is that?

Common sense overtaking curiosity, Draco attempted to slow his pace. Considering the proximity of the object, his efforts were fruitless. The moment before impact, his last rational thought was 'Oh fuck, it's a tree. This is going to hurt."

The crack of his head connecting with a protruding branch stymied all further considerations and senses, but when Draco woke up he was going to have one killer headache.

***

For Merlin's sake, not again.

The thrumming of Harry's head synchronized with the pulsing of his limbs as he lay sprawled in the snow. The whimpers of his throbbing body, along with the fleeting memory of Draco's pale cranium colliding with the tree seconds before his own combined to create a strong sense of déjà vu.

Two skiing accidents in two days. I'm on a roll.

The powdery cocoon of snow encircling Harry's torso was a welcome cooling sensation against his broken skin, and he lay still for a while, wondering just how much bad luck one person could have in two days.

As the throbbing gradually ebbed from his limbs, Harry cautiously raised his head and promptly gasped at the cruel bolt of agony that flashed through his skull. The earth trembled, wavering in his pain-scarred vision, and then clicked back into focus, affording him a clear view of his current undesirable position.

When Harry had smashed into the unforgiving tree trunk, he had rebounded slightly and fallen sideways, skis cleaving through the snow and the tips becoming firmly embedded under the densely packed surface. Judging from the intense pain radiating from his left leg, he had also broken a few bones as well. Settling gingerly onto his elbows, Harry prepared to hoist himself upright.

This is going to hurt.

Straining, Harry pushed upwards with all his might, and waited for the relaxation of his taut ankle muscles as they were freed from their tremendously uncomfortable position. It didn't come. Cursing quietly, he heaved again. Nothing happened.

"Damn it!"

Harry's frustrated cry echoed unnaturally in the hushed air, raising a carpet of goose bumps on his skin. The feeling of absolute solitude that his unanswered call generated made Harry automatically extend his hand in an attempt to find human contact. His gloved hand brushed the sleeve of Draco's ski jacket, and he recoiled in horror at the dark, clammy fluid that tainted his fingers.

Horror-struck, he belatedly noticed that the flawless snow was tainted by a pink halo surrounding Draco's skull. Stretching as far forward as his limited mobility would allow him to; Harry lifted Draco's head up ever so slightly and saw that the blood flowed from a nasty-looking wound near the base of his neck, creating a crimson stain against his ivory skin.

Bloody hell, how did I not notice this before?

Cursing vociferously now, Harry's stressed brain struggled to remember elementary Muggle first aid. Was he meant to apply pressure to the injury, or numb it with ice, or both? Maybe it wasn't any of those at all.

"I can't bloody remember!"

Hermione would know what to do.

Harry pictured his friend's warm face smiling soothingly at him, heard her speak to him in her best mother-hen tone.

"You're a wizard, Harry! Remember that healing course we did together last year? I had to practically drag you and Ron along to it, so now that you have the opportunity you'd better use the skills that we were taught! Now calm down, and think back to what you learnt."

Feeling oddly comforted, Harry closed his eyes and remembered back to the classes. He heard the Medi Wizard's nasal tones droning on about the human anatomy, and how it was extremely important to remember the specific differences between each section of the body, as these affected the incantation and intent of the spell.

Head injury, head injury, what did he say about head injuries?

The unpleasant tones once again reverberated through his mind.

"The brain is the most complex and least-understood organ in the body. When healing injuries relating to the cranial area, you must first determine whether the wound is superficial or serious."

Now what did that mean? Harry had a vague notion that it meant that he had to determine how deep the gash was. Straining once again to cradle Draco's head in his hands, he gingerly examined the damaged area. While there was certainly a copious amount of blood, the actual wound seemed to be reasonably shallow.

Ok, shallow is good. Now what was the spell?

Once more, Harry tried to recall the room and the Medi Wizard's voice. He could hear it murmuring in the background, probably revealing the exact incantation that Harry needed.

Why can't I hear him?

His mind's eye showed Draco standing in the corner of the space, flanked as always by Crabbe and Goyle, and watching Harry intently. His stare was boring into Harry, sending heat through his veins and pounding in his ears, and in doing so drowning out the information that Harry needed to hear in the present time. Just as Harry was despairing of ever remembering the spell, he saw Draco's lips form the words 'Capitis Vigoratus', then throw his head back in a mocking laugh.

"Remember that one, Potter. With a head as swollen as yours, you're bound to need it."

Capitis Vigoratus. Capitis Vigoratus.

Harry chanted the words softly to himself as he placed his hands at the base of Draco's neck.

The Medi Wizard's voice rang out a final time as Harry prepared to speak the incantation.

"The most crucial aspect of healing is the will. The healer must truly wish to heal for the spell to work; therefore wands are unnecessary, as the will to cure can be most potently harnessed through bodily contact."

I want to heal Draco. I do.

With that concluding thought, Harry whispered "Capitis Vigoratus" and sighed as he felt the magic coalesce in his veins and run smoothly into Draco's wound. He sensed, rather than saw, the split tissue bond and soothe until all that remained was an inconspicuous, light scar.

Feeling drained by even this minor healing, Harry let his eyelids fall and expelled a long, weary breath.

At that moment, Draco stirred.

***

Draco awoke expecting pain. After many years of skiing, and experiencing the accidents that inevitably walk hand-in-hand with the sport, Draco knew that an acute, agonizing ache where his head had collided with the tree trunk would be the least he could expect. Frankly, he was surprised to be conscious, given the severity of the accident.

Yet Draco awoke feeling only minor twinges where his appendages had been bruised. His head was clear, and this clarity provided him with the only possible explanation for his miraculous lack of harm.

Magic.

Abruptly becoming aware of the solid, comforting, human weight cushioning his head, it all became obvious.

Charlie was a wizard.

A damn good one too, to have been capable of healing a head injury under pressure.

Despite himself, Draco was impressed. He doubted whether he would have been able to perform complex magic such as that after slamming into a tree at over 80 miles per hour. Nevertheless, this newfound respect for Charlie came coupled with an increased sense of suspicion. The likelihood of an aristocratic [pureblood] wizard vacationing at a Muggle ski resort was exceptionally low, and the chance of most probably the only two teenage wizards at the resort running into each other was about as likely as Crabbe passing his OWLS.

As Charlie's hands shifted beneath him, transferring a wave of heat through his body, Draco decided that right now, he didn't really care. The silence was a contented one, but the snow slowly seeping through his supposedly waterproof jacket (Madame Malkin and her sub-par ski-wear had a lot to answer for, in his opinion) forced Draco to break it.

"Well, Charlie, life is certainly never dull when you're around. Two impressive skiing accidents in two days? I do believe you've set a new record."

Draco could feel the boy's cheeks colouring, and he smirked almost imperceptibly.

"I swear, this is the most horrible déjà vu I've ever experienced."

Smiling softly, Draco noticed for the first time that Charlie's body was twisted at an uncomfortable angle next to him. Rising gingerly, and feeling an inexplicable sense of emptiness at the loss of Charlie's warmth, he realized that the boy's skis were implanted deeply in the snow.

Draco couldn't repress a snicker at the sight.

"Come on, I'll help you out."

Bending a little, Draco extended his hand to Charlie for the second time in as many days, and Charlie took it.

Their combined strength accomplished what one alone could not, and unexpectedly they were facing each other, their heads ridiculously close. Draco's breath caught for a moment as he marvelled at the picture the other boy created. Charlie's tan hair was dusted lightly with bright fragments of ice, cheeks glowing from the exertion of the day, and the strength of his gaze made Draco's legs feel disconcertingly unsteady. The fragile clouds of wispy frost created by their warm breath mingled softly in the air. For one breathless instant, they could not have been any closer.

Charlie's jagged cry of pain as his legs folded beneath him shattered the moment. His face was lined with agony and his eyes, though dry, were abnormally bright.

"For Merlin's sake, what's wrong?" Draco was somewhat annoyed at the hint of panic that crept into his voice as he said this. Malfoy's never panicked.

"My...leg" was all that Charlie managed to utter before grimacing and shutting his eyes in an ineffective attempt to suppress the pain.

"What about your leg?" Draco was quite pleased to hear that his voice had reverted to the brisk, business-like tones appropriate for the situation.

"I think it's broken." The expression on Charlie's face was enough to tell Draco that he was definitely right.

"Alright, I can fix this. Hold still for a minute." Draco's assured tones disguised the nervous energy he could feel gathering inside him.

Gracefully sinking to his knees (a task remarkably difficult to accomplish whilst on skis), Draco delicately placed his fingertips on the cool cloth near Charlie's calf and summoned the magic inside of him. If only he could remember the incantation...

The force of Potter's stare was frankly alarming as they waged a silent battle across the room. The incessant monotony of the Medi Wizard was incredibly dull, and Draco was almost glad for the distraction. The constant reproachful stares Granger kept directing in Potter's direction were highly amusing, as was their complete lack of acknowledgement. As he and Potter looked fixatedly at one another, the Gryffindor's mouth twisted into the shape of the words 'Cruris Vigoratus'.

"You keep that spell in mind, Malfoy," he uttered flippantly. "You'll need it when someone gives you the kick in the shins you deserve."

Cruris Vigoratus.

"Crucis Vigoratus," Draco whispered, his voice so low that it was almost as if he hadn't spoken at all. The answering rush of magic to his fingertips told him that he obviously had, and he exhaled quietly as the healing energy shifted to Charlie's torn muscle and bone.

Abruptly realizing his discomfiting position kneeling at Charlie's feet, Draco tried to stand too quickly, and the world shifted dizzyingly as he stumbled. A strong hand at his back bolstered him, and Draco was upright once again.

"Thanks," he muttered quickly, feeling peculiarly embarrassed at both his moment of weakness and the way that Charlie's fingers had seemed to linger for a fraction of a second longer than required.

My senses must be over-stimulated after the healing.

"No problem," was the easy reply, and Draco suddenly felt overwhelmingly grateful for the English aristocracy's convenient dismissal of any sign of discomfort. However, the rose that suffused Charlie's features as he spoke betrayed the fact that he may not have been quite as oblivious to the situation as he seemed.

"You never mentioned that you were a wizard." There wasn't much to be grateful for about Charlie's lack of tact, however.

"It's hardly an ideal conversational topic at a Muggle ski resort," Draco remarked.

"That's true, which makes it all the more surprising that you'd so obviously use magic in front of someone you've just met."

"Charlie, I've been skiing long enough to know that when you crash headfirst into a tree and come to with absolutely no injuries to speak of, magic has to be involved. Once I knew that you were a wizard, it wasn't difficult to figure out that I would much rather heal your leg than carry you back to the lodge. It's far less effort."

I'm such a bloody liar.

Healing was certainly not an 'easy' option. To heal someone required the combined use of mental, physical and spiritual energy, and although initially the effects were lesser, the aftermath that the two boys would soon experience surpassed the effects that literally carrying one another back to the lodge would have had.

Charlie seemed content to ignore this fact, and accepted Draco's explanation outwardly without question.

"I suppose you're right. You're a very analytical type, aren't you?" There was a shadowed question lingering in Charlie's eyes that Draco couldn't quite decipher.

You think I wanted to be like this? Try being Lucius Malfoy's son and see how far being sensitive gets you, Charlie.

"I've always been taught to weigh up my options, analyse each objectively and make a decision based on whatever outcome is in my best interests."

A perfectly reasonable response.

Whatever question had danced elusively in Charlie's countenance seemed to have been answered, and his next words were spoken in a far breezier, but somehow less real tone.

"Well, now that we've realized we're both wizards, we should probably think about how we're going to get back to the lodge with this great bloody tree in front of us. I don't fancy freezing out here all night." Charlie's lips quirked slightly, and Draco saw that he was trembling faintly.

"Sounds like a plan, Charlie."

Dusting the clear ice fragments off their clothes, the boys surveyed the scene. To their rear was an impossibly sheer trail, ahead of them was an 8ft tree lounging horizontally on its bed of white.

Efficiently weighing up the two options, Draco made his choice. Both boys were weakened by their respective healings, so skiing back uphill was clearly not an option. Onward it was, then.

Performing a levitation charm on the tree would appear to be the smart option, but Draco decided not to risk it. If the Muggle ski instructors were already aware of the fallen tree, its sudden removal would lead to awkward questions, and his father's unremitting warnings about avoiding difficult questions wherever possible had not been without avail.

Draco supposed that he and Charlie could both perform levitation charms on themselves, but if his own exhaustion was anything to judge by, neither of them would be capable of human levitation.

There's only one way forward. Thank Merlin that Potter isn't here to witness this.

"Charlie, would you mind giving me a boost?"

The snort of unsuccessfully hidden laughter from Charlie warmed Draco's skin to a crimson tint.

It wasn't that odd of a request!

Draco waited (in what he hoped was a dignified manner) for Charlie's mirth to subside.

"You've forgotten the magic word." The twinkle in the other boy's eye was sufficient to make Draco overlook the ignominy of what he was about to do.

"Please." As the simple word flowed from his tongue, Draco was surprised at the glitter of deep satisfaction, contrasting with mild surprise, which suddenly trembled within the brown of Charlie's eyes.

He chose to ignore it.

"Er...how do I 'boost' you when you've got those skis on? I don't want to poke my eye out or anything..." Charlie was still smiling, although his hands were shifting uncertainly at his sides.

"You make a good point." Bending lithely, Draco's gloved hands released the locks on his skis, creating a gentle 'snap' as his feet were freed. Leaving the now-more-than-a-little-battered skis on the snow for the time being, he picked his way over to the pine trunk; slipping a little as he did so (even a Malfoy couldn't walk gracefully in ski boots).

After a few moments of waiting rather foolishly next to the snow-frosted tree, hands clinging to an overhanging branch, Draco snapped impatiently, "Are you waiting for a personal invitation? Boost, now!"

"Oh, sorry." Charlie hastened over, shaking his head slightly as if trying to clear it. Crouching down and looking decidedly awkward, he placed his hands under the soles of Draco's boots and pushed.

***

Harry was fortunate enough to receive an unobstructed view of Draco's rear end as he physically forced him upwards to the crest of the tree trunk. Panting from the effort, he averted his eyes as Draco wriggled into a more comfortable position and reminisced about what had just transpired in the past minutes.

He recalled Draco extending his hand to Harry, helping him up. Helping him. He thought back to that crazy few seconds where they had been so close, and the expression on Draco's face so utterly blissful, so totally unfamiliar that it had stolen Harry's breath. He remembered the rush of peace flowing into him as Draco's magic entered his body, the earnest need to help pulsing through the Slytherin's lightly-breathed incantation.

He relived the cool detachment on Draco's face when he spoke of how he had only healed Harry because it was the easier option. He felt the rush of pleasant surprise he had experienced as Draco had said please, and meant it.

How can one person be so warm and open one minute, and such a cold bastard again the next?

That was how it had always been with Draco. The ever-changing moods, such polar opposites of each other it was astonishing to think that one person could hold all those emotions inside them, masked as always behind the carefully-maintained façade.

Mentally laughing bitterly, Harry realized that he had been stupid enough to entertain the notion that Malfoy might actually have shown him the 'real' Draco now that he didn't know he was talking to Harry Potter. It was idiotic, really, to think that Draco would be a changed person just because Harry didn't look like himself anymore. It had been moronic of him to think that Draco was only a bastard to people he thought were below him.

That illusion had certainly come crashing down with those emotionless words, "Whatever outcome is in my best interests". That was always how it was with Draco; he would do whatever was most convenient for him, and screw anyone who tried to get in his way.

You can take your stupid blushes, and hitched breaths, and healing fingers and go screw yourself, Malfoy. I'm not going to care anymore.

"Are you going to dawdle down there all day? Pass me up my skis, would you Charlie?"

Draco's voice breaking through his muddled thoughts, Harry scooped up the strips of metal and passed them to him, moving almost automatically.

Harry listened vaguely to the snapping noises as Draco's feet were ensconced in his skis once more, and then heard Draco call out to him.

"Come on, it's your turn to get up." Harry allowed himself to be lifted upwards by that strong right arm, honed by years of Quidditch, and soon he was sitting on top of the tree, abreast with Draco. The two slid off the trunk and onto the white simultaneously, and then paused as they realized just how much of the track they had left to ski.

"Draco...I..."

As if reading his mind, Draco placed a hand lightly on Harry's shoulder.

"I'm tired as well, Charlie." Looking at Draco's face for the first time since his musings, Harry registered with mild shock that the blonde looked just as drained as he felt.

"Do you want to take it slowly, then? Going back to the lodge, I mean?" Feeling more than a little flustered at his own incoherency, Harry waited for Draco to reply.

"I think that's the best idea you've had all day." Harry saw the small, weary smile cross Draco's face and inexplicably felt his fatigue increase tenfold.

"Let's go, then." Moving together in a slow rhythm, the boys began to head back towards the lodge, creating a bizarre, touching picture on the mountainside.

As Harry watched Draco's skis move in sync with his, and felt the boy's weariness soundlessly reverberating with his own, he realized that his biggest problem now wasn't how he was going to get the information from Draco. It was how he was going to make it through these weeks and continue with this deception, knowing that as many times as he tried to tell himself that he didn't care about all of Malfoy's many different shades, he did.

He found himself caring about them more than he wanted to, and each smile that Malfoy graced Charlie (not Harry) with, each step they took together, each teasing word they shared, only served to wind themselves around him like spiked vines, choking him in their grasp.

Like the ticking of the clock, Harry could feel his point of no-return slipping past him, and the further away it moved, the greater his suspicion grew that he was getting himself in way over his head.

***

"Through the corridors of sleep
Past the shadows dark and deep
My mind dances and leaps in confusion.
I don't know what is real,
I can't touch what I feel
And I hide behind the shield of my illusion."

***