Across the Great Divide

Chapter 1:

*****

During moments of introspective honesty, he openly admitted that he was running away, and had been continuously for the past two years... Dragging Ron and Hermione, always willing, from country to country, forever the dynamic trio; one adventure beginning as soon as another ended.

His best friends´ humored him - they always had. Ron impishly smiling as he claimed in boisterous tones that he had to be there to keep Harry out of the profound abundance of trouble that always seemed to find him... occasionally admitting in softer whispers that he had always dreamed of seeing the world when he had been younger and his family couldn´t afford to feed that particular ambition.

Hermione took the more direct approach to her continued companionship; she was there to gather as much knowledge as she could from the various cultures and locations they visited. Learning the various forms of magics, beyond what they had been taught their seven years at Hogwarts, all the while keeping a close, almost mothering eye on Harry - as if she expected the full trauma of his past to infiltrate his complete refusal to acknowledge such circumstances, at any moment.

For Harry they put their lives on hold; ignoring any inkling to settle down, buy a house, find a job, or form relationships that lasted beyond the few months they stayed in any one place at any one time. Instead they had their various flings: they flirted, they danced, they laughed, they read, they experienced, and then they moved on - just the three of them, their continued, platonic circle of friendship and their silently contemplative defiance.

By unspoken agreement they didn´t speak of Voldemort, or that final battle. They never brought up references to Death Eaters, or the names of those they had lost. Conversations seldom began with `Remember when you almost died - for the twentieth time?´ Ron and Hermione didn´t to bring up their past, brief, failed attempt at a romantic relationship during their sixth year at Hogwarts and they both turned a blind eye to Harry´s increasingly excessive absences. Absences in which he would disappear from parties or various other social gatherings with some nameless face, only to come back hours later looking sated, yet increasingly lost, confused, and lonely - almost broken.

And for that they never, ever mentioned the name Draco Malfoy.

It wasn´t that they were in denial, for they were each fully cognitive of the events that sent them away from all that they knew, but for the sake of their peace of mind they didn´t acknowledge severe psychological issues stemming from the imprints of their past. To recognize it would defeat the purpose of the escape. Thus, none of them woke up screaming every night with visions of mayhem, chaos and death - most of all Harry. They weren´t running from their combined insecurities of what their place was in the recently war-recovered wizarding world. They didn´t feel the constant restlessness indigenous to spirits who had spent far too much time simply surviving day to day to feel comfortable with any lengthy period of peace or quiet, and they weren´t nurturing their various broken hearts´, or weary souls. It was better to pretend that they were simply three, twenty- year-old, free-spirited, best friends who craved adventure and the thrill of the unknown.

For the most part their not talking worked for them - most of the time. Occasionally, however, Harry would look up from amongst a crowd and see a flash of sun-glistened blonde hair that he would urgently try and follow, only to be disappointed when the person turned and an unfamiliar profile was presented. And sometimes, in the dead of night, Harry would wake from a dream that wasn´t about blood, dying, and flashes of green light, but more of a memory of an untold number of encounters. Tender caresses, dizzying kisses, electrifying motions/emotions accompanied by hard, fast pushing, equally powerful prodding, passion filled exclamations and barely muffled gasps of pleasure - all with an intensity he had never been able to duplicate with any of his liaisons since the days of those sweltering Hogwart´s nights during his final year of school.

However, on the rare moments Harry did take the time to stop and reflect, he realized the truth for what it was. He had spent the whole of his life fighting for the innate right to simply be alive that he didn´t know what else to do now that the danger was gone. He had spent so much time living up to other people´s expectations, that he wasn´t exactly sure who or what he was.

He was a heroic, deceased couple´s son, the bane of the Dursley´s existence, the best friend of Ron and Hermione, the godson of the misunderstood Sirius Black, the favored pupil of renown headmaster Albus Dumbledore, the reluctant symbol of hope to the wizarding world... He was all of that, but none of it defined him. Some of it he hadn´t even asked for.

On top of all of that, he was emotionally despondent. It wasn´t a comfortable self-knowledge, in fact, he often felt powerless against it. But it was there, and it was strong; a force as insistent as his warring need for the precious, fragile, newly forming bond he had ran from.

He had realized his anxiety two years ago; it had come hand in hand with the recognition that he had fallen in love with an enemy-turned-ally. A man who had been just as lost, just as lonely, just as intense - whose foundations and beliefs were torn asunder by a society divided, and whose life was shrouded with lies and deceit, just like Harry´s own life... too much like Harry´s own life.

Harry had defeated a dark lord while fighting, as always, to live, and he had fallen in love with a man/boy who had sought him out for mutual release from the constant tension that had surrounded them. They were each other´s penance, each other´s insecurities, and each other´s saviors; years of intense and powerful feelings between the two of them escalating seamlessly from fighting to fucking shortly after Draco had defied his father and joined Dumbledore´s side in arms. But in the aftermath of violence, and in the post-coital of lovemaking, Harry, the frightened, oft rejected man-child, had an epiphany; realizing that his chosen union had evolved beyond mere release, just as his usefulness to the wizarding world had traveled beyond its blatant need. And so, in a moment so profoundly unGryffindor that Harry had to wonder again if he had been put in the correct house all those years ago, he had left; writing Ron and Hermione one week later to invite them to join him in his exhibitions.

To love his best friends was easy. He could love them without risk of breaking, and they could love him back unconditionally. There was no danger there.

To Sirius he had wrote to claim that he wanted to sow his wild oats and simply learn to be a kid again now that the danger had passed. He had added that he loved him, and that his disappearance had nothing to do with Sirius´ self-proclaimed failure as a godfather.

To Dumbledore he had wrote using Hermione´s excuse of knowledge gathering...

`I didn´t find out I was a wizard until I was eleven. There´s a whole world of magic out here, existing in cultures different from our own, all of it virtually new to me. I have ten years to make up for. I´ll be back... I promise.´

To Draco he had wrote nothing at all, saying with silence what he dared not speak of in person.

`You did it. You won. I feel for you; so much. It´s too strong, it´s too intense. You could hurt me. Everyone else has. Even you have... before we... I don´t know how to deal with this. I don´t know what to do.´

In retrospect he knew that he couldn´t keep running forever, that eventually he would need a piece of mind that wouldn´t be found until all past ghosts were laid to rest, and all remaining fears were faced with the courage he was expected to contain. For two years he had lived in a haze, denying himself and his two entirely selfless companions their past, and their future, until he could no longer ignore the call of home nor the emotional abyss in which he had fallen.

A letter had arrived via Hedwig. Arthur Weasley had been promoted to Minister, which correlated with the 30th wedding anniversary of he and his wife Molly. Naturally they were throwing a celebration in honor of both achievements, and naturally they wanted their son Ron, and their very nearly adopted son Harry, to be there. There could be no excuses to bow out of this particular function as they had for various birthdays and holidays over the past two years; they had exhausted them all. To not go would be a proverbial slap in the face towards two loving and wonderful people who had willingly accepted the role of surrogate parents - opening their hearts and often their house to a boy whose memories of a loving family life were nonexistent.

The choice to hide was no longer an option. The infamous Hogwart´s trio had to return home and Harry could run no longer.

And so it was during that brief, all-too-seldom moment of utter honesty that Harry couldn´t help but be relieved.

*****

Getting out of bed was never as fun as getting into it.

Draco couldn´t remove the scowl from his face as he acknowledged his predicament. His sleeping partner was lodged firmly at his side, making the possibility of a quick and effortless getaway without waking the other occupant of the bed nonexistent. Yet he hadn´t the least desire to face the man and deal with the post-coital morning after bullshit he generally preferred to avoid, particular since he had no intention of seeing the gentleman again.

Just like all the others.

A slight turn of the torso, accompanied by the ever-subtle sway of his legs, inched him slightly away from the warm body next to him without any hitches. One or two more calculated movements, and he would be free.

He paused a moment, took a breathe, and briefly cursed the libido that got him in this situation. And then, for good measure, he cursed the ever-present psychological issues of abandonment and hurt that sent him into one bed after another - or that´s what his psychiatrist claimed at any rate, absolving himself of the guilt of his crimes. Finally, he cursed last night´s sexual liaison for failing to live up to his part of the bargain... He was supposed to make Draco writhe in a pleasure so intense, that he would briefly forget that although the man he had picked up had the right hair color, and a similar enough build, his eyes were all wrong; they weren´t green.

They didn´t inspire Draco to want to stare into them for untold, breathless moments, they didn´t haunt his dreams during sleep, and they certainly didn´t entertain thoughts of connection just by looking into them.

Only one person owned a set of eyes that carried such power within their bright, emerald depths.

Oh how he hated Harry Potter. Hated him with a passion... Passion, one of the things that Harry had robbed from him, one of the things that he wanted to find again - no matter how futile the effort.

A nudge, than another inch, and he was far enough away to soundlessly stand and search for his clothing.

Why the hell did he allow himself to get into messes like this? Why the hell did those damn eyes still consume the bulk of his thoughts? And why the hell couldn´t he just let it all go? It had, after all, been two years - two long, lonely years of alternated anger, and profound emotional solitude, just like before Harry. The main problem, he supposed, was that now he knew what he was missing. He had been introduced, however briefly, to something wonderful two years ago. Something that had been stolen from him.

With a sigh he quietly pulled on his pants, vowing to himself to try abstinence for a while, while knowing simultaneously that the likelihood of that happening was laughable at best. It was stupid, really, this hope he had that some day, eventually, he would prove to himself that Potter hadn´t effected him in the least, that he could have a normal, healthy sex life without the ever present need... for what, exactly, he couldn´t say.

It was intangible; it was severe, forceful, powerful, and extreme and he had only ever felt it with Harry. That didn´t, however, prevent him from at least trying to find it elsewhere.

"Damn Potter," he muttered as he finished tying his shoes, standing hesitantly as he pocketed his wand and gave one final glance towards the sleeping man.

"Thanks, it´s been fun. Well, not really. You´re really quite lousy in bed. I highly suggest you get out more. The practice would do you good," he whispered, feeling vindicated, if not slightly remorseful.

Draco wasn´t under any false allusion nor could he deny his own accountability. It wasn´t the man´s fault. It was no one´s fault; save his own. He had made the mistake of doing something, two years earlier, that he had long ago vowed he would never do... he had given someone the power to hurt him; he had fallen in love. And he hadn´t fallen for just anyone, oh no, that would have been too easy. No, he had fallen for the only other person in the world as genuinely messed up as he was, perhaps more. Such a union was doomed, from the get-go, to cause pain, but then again, had he and Potter really known anything different? Their whole lives had been all about various forms of pain.

A cool morning breeze caressed Draco´s face as he exited the house, lost to his own thoughts. He could already picture the reproachful look that Dumbledore was going to give him as he apparated to Hogsmeade. The old man was entirely too insightful for his own good, and he seemed to somehow know what had went on between Potter and himself during their seventh year at Hogwarts, just as he seemed to silently be aware of Draco´s means of dealing with the shattering aftereffects.

Certainly the Hogwart´s Headmaster had taken it upon himself to inform Draco of the meanderings of his once favored pupil over the past two years.

`I got a letter from Harry today. He and Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger are studying the customs of a magical region in Tibet...´

As if he felt that Draco had wanted to know. As if he felt that information was his to share, and not Potter´s himself.

But thankfully the Headmaster would usually leave his news at that, just a location. They had argued about it once, and that was all it had took to stop the older man from meddling further.

"You know, Draco, Harry´s life has been anything but easy. When I think of all that he has had to endure..."

"Oh, and mine has been a piece of cake?! We´ve all had shit to deal with because of Voldemort and that damn war. I´m sick of everyone making excuses for him. He needs to grow the fuck up."

"All in good time, Mr. Malfoy, all in good time," the older man had replied serenely, as if he knew something that Draco, or even Potter himself, didn´t.

And that had been the end of that.

Following that brief exchange he settled for simply announcing South Africa, or the Fiji Islands, Malaysia, or Madagascar; a set twinkle in his eye and a small smile on his lips. Weasley had done this; Granger had achieved that; Potter encouraged it all.

More than once Draco had questioned the wisdom involved with accepting his position as a member of Dumbledore´s Order; an organization that the Headmaster had kept even after Voldemort had fallen, to ensure that any future wannabe dark wizards with extreme delusions of grandeur never achieved what Voldemort had. But he had accepted the position, and he continued to enjoy it despite the constant reminders of Harry, or, in all honesty, maybe because of the constant reminders of Harry. Draco had always been somewhat masochistic. He knew his position would be what Harry would be doing if he were here. It was for the good of the wizarding world, something Harry had always strove to defend, even despite his issues, and it was also a huge `fuck you´ to a certain Deatheater father who had been the source of Draco´s own bitter resentments. Poetic irony didn´t exist without its merits.

With a slight smirk, Draco noted that the secret tunnel that led from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts matched his mood entirely: dark, dank, cold. It was strangely fitting, particularly since he was already predicting how the day was going to start...

`Let me guess, China... no, didn´t he do Hong Kong last year? Okay then, how about one of the South American countries? Brazil? Peru?´

`Well, actually...´

`You know what? Never mind. I don´t want to know. Do we are do we not have business to discuss?´

The school never changed, but there was a small comfort in that... a comfort in the familiar. A large bulk of his childhood had been lost within these walls, far removed from the stringent expectations of a tirelessly overbearing parent. It was within these halls that he had squealed, ran, screamed, laughed, picked fights with Potter and later, picked Potter up with a suave, softly murmured line or two.

He had wanted him. He had taken him. He had bitten off more than he could chew.

Oh what the walls would say if they could talk... which, they probably could. It would certainly explain a lot in regards to the all-knowing Dumbledore. The thought was vaguely disturbing, yet not enough to where he´d show embarrassment towards his former headmaster when he saw him. He spent enough time feeling fazed in front of the old man, he didn´t want to add to Dumbledore´s rapidly growing repertoire.

"Chocolate Frogs," he called to the concrete statue of a gargoyle with a scowl, squelching to the urge to roll his eyes as a spiral staircase leading towards the headmaster´s office appeared and he stepped onto it.

He still felt like a student whenever he approached Dumbledore´s office; it was a habit he had tried desperately and repeatedly to break but he`d never been able... Like too many other aspects of his life.

He was in the process of forming a polite smile in greeting when the storm hit, fast and swift. The ground beneath him seemed fall out entirely, becoming an invariable abyss, and emotions suddenly seemed to surface from hidden depths he hadn´t even known he was capable of harboring; overpowering him with the force of an undertow.

There, sitting in Dumbledore´s office, was Harry Potter.

To be continued...