Threadbare

Nineteen: Beginning

Harry.

It is only when you step through the doors of Azkaban prison that you realize it's over.

Initially, the success of the mission prevented you from thinking too deeply about what might have happened if something had gone wrong. You were happy about the triumph and treated it matter-of-factly, preferring not to dwell on its prior impossibility and the great danger you had to overcome. But now, as you see the empty faces of all the Death Eaters, as you notice the ragged sideburns that have grown over two days and the wrinkles that have been formed by their frowns, a complacent wave of happiness washes over the gnawing hole in your heart. It's not merely because they're now in the place they truly deserve to be in, but also because there is no more prophecy and no more responsibility. You're on the way to being an ordinary boy. Nothing remains of Voldemort but a lousy scar.

Some of the Death Eaters are still asleep, but those who are out of their comas glare and stare at you so piercingly that they remind you of the Muggle laser guns you've seen on television. You walk as nonchalantly as you can, hands in your pockets, eyes directed at the floor—but you can feel them sneering, hear them snorting at your audacity in coming here.

"Here we are," the guard tells you, Dumbledore, and Draco. You're rather glad that the Dementors have gone. After the events of the past days, you don't much feel like fainting again.

The guard stops at the door of a cell as small, dark, and dirty as all the others. Lucius Malfoy is inside, sitting prostrate on his wooden bed. He has small wrinkles on his face, his hair is disheveled to a laughable degree, his skin is pallid, his lips are bloodless. He seems to have lost much weight, and his eyes are as empty as his expression.

Dumbledore steps forward to talk to him, gesturing for you and Draco to stay back awhile. The window is so small that when you step backward, you can't see him from your angle. Their talk is quiet and devoid of any visible feeling. You can almost imagine Dumbledore speaking with Lucius as if the latter were still the former's student, full of gentle criticism, even if Lucius deserves so much worse. Afterward Dumbledore tells you and Draco that he will wait at the lobby. He goes off, his steps echoing down the dank corridor.

"Draco," Lucius greets once he's gone. He seems not to have noticed you're right outside his cell. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Hello. How are you? I expect you're feeling a bit better now that you're awake."

"Yes. I feel a whole lot better, actually. Thank you for asking." Lucius leans forward to look around Draco, where he spots you waiting half-beside, half-behind him. He stares at you for what seems to be a century. When he turns back to Draco the image of his blank eyes have burned into your brain: the anger has been replaced by apathy, but they are as heartless and as soulless as they were one October Saturday.

Your skin twitches suddenly at the remembrance, tingling with indescribable sensations that leave the bitterness of disgust in your stomach. You somewhat want to fall into another coma. You somewhat want to run to the bathroom and vomit the emptiness. But you keep your feet firm on the stone floor, knowing that the only way to forget is to wait.

Lucius tells Draco, "I thought you and Potter were finished."

You can feel his hands on your skin.

"I lied." And the Malfoys glower at each other, their eyes so fierce that you have to look.

You can smell his smell; it washes through your nostrils and into the tunnels of your mind, the sharpness of freshly cut grass, of rain flooding woods of pine trees, of fresh storms through oceans as gray as his eyes, Draco's eyes, Lucius's eyes—

"You're a bastard."

Father and son look at you. Father smiles, deepening the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. He turns up his lips in the most condescending manner, but you remain staunch as you wait for his reply.

"So I've been told," he says, apparently amused.

"You know as well as I do that you deserve to be in this place."

"That's some consolation, at least."

"It's a good thing you don't seem to feel too bad about it, because I assure you, you'll be here for a long, long time."

"We'll see about that."

But you can already see that you don't have to speak as eloquently as a self-satisfied Death Eater to annoy one. His gaze fades into the faraway look of despair or resignation. You cross your arms over your chest, stepping back to observe him more clearly. He sits back down on his bench, pretending that there is no longer anyone at his door: a sign that he considers the conversation over. After a minute of silence Draco asks you if he can speak with Lucius alone.

You've said what you had to say, and you see no reason to hang around and endure Lucius Malfoy's pathetic presence. But when you take the first step to leave, you remember something and step back.

You pull Draco close and kiss him more passionately than you ever have before.

Draco is speechless when you end the kiss and walk away.

Revenge at its finest, and a good snogging too. You're becoming more like Draco everyday.

.:.:.:.:.:.

Draco.

...

When you were eight years old, Lucius taught you how to fly for the first time. He showed you how to mount properly, then handed you the broom and watched until you could do it on your own. Afterward he mounted the broom as well and flew in tandem with you, guiding your hands from behind so that you would know how to control the direction. The flight was exhilarating: it was in the middle of summer and the wind was fresh in your face and all you could think of was how much this resembled the paradise you had always read about in books. As long as your father was there to make sure you wouldn't fall, you'd be safe and happy.

But the next day, when you wanted him to take you flying again, he told you he was busy. He locked himself up in his study. You wanted to fly so much that you decided to do it yourself. Mounting the broom was easy enough, and pushing off was a breeze. You flew in circles until your head spun with the sky. Once you got tired you flew downward, thinking that landing would come as naturally as the steering, but you didn't know how to slow down and raise the shaft upward before reaching the ground. You ended up with two badly scraped knees and tears falling down your face. A house-elf spotted you, and a minute later it came back with your father, who was livid with disappointment.

"Couldn't you have waited?" His scowl was so ferocious that it couldn't have been out of love.

You sniffled at him, unable to control your tears and the blood seeping from your knees. You looked down to see the raw skin stinging out crimson water.

"You should take care of that," he said. Then he walked away.

You didn't know any healing charms yet, so you had to do it the Muggle way, washing your knees with soap and water, and wrapping them up in bandages afterward. They stung with every slight press, and your eyes didn't stop watering. At one point you asked a house-elf to cast at least a numbing charm, but it shook its head. Lucius had ordered all of them not to help.

...

When Harry kisses you in front of him, it feels like flying and knowing how to land.

You know that Lucius has always thought, at least secretly, that you are too weak and spineless to accomplish anything without his guidance. And he has always thought that you should rightly suffer if you go against his will or act without his consent. Lovingly he teaches you how to live; and in the most hostile manner he makes sure you suffer from your mistakes.

It is over. Even the moment you turn back to him you know that you are a Malfoy only by name and nothing else. He keeps his expression impervious, but you know without speaking that he has already been hit.

All those years you loved him without knowing who he truly was. All those years he let you curl up next to him on stormy nights, and all those mornings he pushed you away. All those afternoons he spent with you in the gardens, telling you stories about how they used these flowers and those leaves for potions-making centuries ago; all those midnights he prohibited you from going to bed before mixing the correct ingredients for sleeping draughts. All this time you loved him because you could not understand him.

Now you do. Now you know.

"I didn't plan to visit you," you tell him. "But I have questions to ask, and I would appreciate it if you answer them."

He continues to look at you, refusing to say a word. Is this what we've come to, then? It would be easier, you think, if you could have a shouting match with him instead, if you could release all your emotion in a burst of rage and be over with it. But he's prepared to make this difficult, as he always has whenever you so much as form an opinion without his approval. He so loves being your father that even now, behind bars, he still insists on molding you in his image and likeness.

"Father, why did you rape Harry?"

"I only did it for your sake, Draco. It was the only way I could keep him from you."

You want to ram your fist against his jaw for thinking that the universe would so easily bend to his will. But you want to hit him also because he could have succeeded. If you hadn't tried to get back together with Harry, if you had allowed him to live his life and ‘heal,' Lucius would have triumphed while you recognized it as merely something Harry needed. Lucius did succeed, for a moment there.

"There must be another reason, one that's not nearly as selfless." You sneer at him to show your sarcasm. "Did you do it for power? For pleasure? To avenge your past?"

"I don't have the obligation to justify what I did."

You want to pummel him to the floor. You'd do anything.

You swallow forcefully, gathering your wits, before speaking again. "I've written mother all about what really happened when she thought she had Bedivere. There's no need to hide your reasons any further." Lucius blinks twice in succession, and then adopts his expressionless stance again. "Please. Just tell me the truth. It's my last request as your son."

You know the truth. He did it for love long past, and for revenge. But you want him to tell you himself, because maybe in these late moments there is still hope that he loves you, somewhere deep inside him, enough to treat you as a human being and not his perfected heir. Maybe something in him has learned to accept you and your decisions and the one person you have chosen to love. Maybe you can make him see, in his past, possibilities for the present. Maybe.

He lowers his gaze.

You realize there can never be hope in despair.

He is not about to speak. You pull yourself up to your full height, swallowing the tears that threaten to spring to your eyes. You gather your breath trying to think of what to say and a logical order for it, but in the end you know that this is not a business associate or a professor, but your father. It is your duty to speak to him from the core of your emotions, at least for the last time.

"I—I would like to say thank you," you begin, finding your mouth dry and your throat on the verge of choking. "You were never a good man, but I recognize that sometimes you were, after all, a good father to me. It was during these times that you taught me how to stand up after every fall; when you taught me how to face the world with honor and pride and even courage; when you taught me not to let anyone push me over. The most important lesson I learned from you, Father, was how to take care of myself. And I am glad to have you as witness as I do it this very moment." You step back, your shoes scuffling nervously on the floor. You strain to hear sounds of the outside world, but silence rings in your ears.

"Goodbye," you say at last, and it echoes on the walls.

You begin to walk away.

But he calls you back.

"Draco—"

And his voice is that of a desperate man, a voice full of shattered pride hoarse with a recognizance that he also needs someone to care for him.

You cannot stop yourself. You turn around and wait for a miracle.

"I did not do the deed to avenge my past." He keeps his eyes trained somewhere below yours. "I did it to relive my past."

Your lips part involuntarily. You gape at him, and for a moment your breathing is all that exists, piercing the air and racing with disbelief. So finally you know why. So for the last time you are overwhelmed with disgust and abhorrence. Apart from his master you have never met a man so selfish, one who is willing to leave a boy's future in shambles on the way to nostalgia. Perhaps he did want to break you and Harry up. Even if he had no right, that would have been a less self-centered reason. But now you see that it was all about him as usual, sacrificing James's son to resurrect James for one fuck.

He is your father. All your life he has sheltered you. He has protected you from all the harm in the world.

But he is the one you most need protection from.

Time suspends itself. You shut your eyes and think of how Harry cried when, only days ago, he retold what happened. You think of the anger with which he burned the slashed bed. You think of how he said "Avada Kedavra," firm and clear but only after a few hesitations. You think of him falling unconscious on the stone floor and you rushing to him, knowing that you would spend the rest of your life with him, if only he were awake, if only he wanted to, if only Lucius hadn't destroyed him so irrevocably that sometimes he still sees your father in your eyes.

When your eyelids flutter open they are sticky with tears.

Lucius remains expressionless, still avoiding your gaze.

For the second time, for the last time, you walk away in silence.

He watches from behind his bars, but you don't look back.

.:.:.:.:.:.

Harry.

When the sun has kissed the sky good night, you elbow your way through the sizeable crowd in the Gryffindor common room to reach the portrait hole. No one notices when you step out of the hole, escaping the party that they prepared, ironically enough, for the occasion of your return. The open space in the hall is a strong relief, and you lean against the wall for a while, catching your breath. Then you start walking at a leisurely pace, enjoying the corridors and corners you often love to explore. You find a certain security in the mystery of Hogwarts that you haven't felt in a long time. There is no one out to get you except maybe for hook-nosed professors who have nothing better to do with their lives.

When you reach the door to the disused drawing room on the second floor of the Astronomy tower, you can't help pondering on how you're back where the pain began. The polished frames of the door stare at you, and you remember how you once entered to find Draco so far slouched in his armchair that he was almost supine. His spirit had been left in shambles by a Quidditch match, and yours by his father.

For some odd reason, you know he's already inside. You knock instead of just entering as you usually do. You hear the muffled shuffling of his steps before the door creaks inward, hesitant in its slowness, half-expecting somebody else.

Immediately you trap him in your arms, shut the door, push him against it, and devour his mouth.

"Har—mmph—"

He loses himself; so do you. When the kiss ends and you see his swollen wet lips and the ruffle in his hair, you have to smile. He looks quite endearing. "You know, I've always wanted to do that." You release him from the door but keep your left arm around his waist as you begin to observe the room. It's changed quite a lot in three months.

What you first notice is that your armchair is gone, and that a comfortable yet simple-looking bed is settled at the corner. Draco has always been good at Transfiguration, and you're glad to see his talent come into practice. You look around to see that he has repaired the paint of the walls; they are no longer chipped sea green but perfectly textured beige, which appears orange in the dancing firelight. The fireplace is made of beautiful adobe bricks. The carpeting is lush under your feet. All that is actually left of the room is the small window and Draco's armchair. This is the past made new, molded to forget regret.

He leads you to the bed. When you sit it is so soft underneath you that you have to enjoy the silk on your skin. As if in a dream, with almost foggy perception of your surroundings, you lie on your side, pressing your cheek against the cool smooth sheets. You're not sleepy, but you feel like you might wake up anytime now; everything here is so different and wonderful that it's almost absurd.

Draco lies facing you, leaving only a few inches between your noses—just enough for you to clearly see his serene smile and burning flames reflecting in his eyes. Looking at him makes you want to fly, and even makes you feel like you're flying already: the wind breezes through your heart; somehow you feel like you can do anything you want to. It's not Voldemort's death or Lucius's punishment that gives you this enthusiasm, but Draco: Draco, who is still here after so many months, after so much waiting.

This is how we can tell that we are loved: that we are invincible despite our flaws; that we remain staunch despite our weaknesses; and that we remain courageous despite our fears. That we stand at the end of each tragedy feeling not as if we killed our souls, but gave them life.

As Draco leans toward you, you close your eyes and sigh, thinking, this is what life is; this is what I've waited for. Finally you can have what you've always wanted. Finally you can lie down and be yourself—not the hero of the wizarding world, but Harry, just Harry with Draco at his side. Finally you can end the day knowing that tomorrow you have something to wake up for.

The blood rushes through your veins and you know you're finally alive.

FIN.