Falling

FALLING

From the top of the hill you have a glorious view of the park and the lake. The manor house itself is hidden among the trees, invisible except for the southwest corner of the roof. It's a good place to come to think. You can stand there with the wind in your hair, gently ruffled if there's just a breeze, flung in your face and your eyes if the wind is strong. You can watch the lake, still and calm like a mirror under the blue sky, or stern and grey as lead, rippled by a myriad of angry little waves. You are surrounded by rolling hills that are naked and dreary in winter, veiled in tender green in spring, leafy and lush in summer, clad in fiery red and gold in the autumn.

It's autumn again now. I inhale the smell of earth and rotting leaves, the smell of decay, the smell of death. The air is clear and sharp, the sun warms my face while the wind chills my back. I gather my cloak tighter around me and let my eyes sweep over the hills, the roofs down in the village, the October trees shifting in all hues of green and orange, red and gold.

Red and gold.

I look at the trees, but see only my memories.

Red and gold.

I used to come here sometimes as a child, less frequently as a teenager. Then, for several years, I forgot that the place existed.

That's what the war did to us. We fought it, and we fought it for all the right reasons. But it made us lose sight of the very things we fought for. In the end, our eyes were blind to everything but evil; we saw nothing but darkness and treason and blood and death.

I'm twenty-five now. But age is just a number. Most days I feel older than the earth under my feet.

My eyes take in the beauty of the autumn leaves, trees like torches, flaming against the newly washed blue of the sky. There isn't a single cloud.

I take a look at my life. For someone looking in from the outside, there won't appear to be a single cloud there, either.

I'm still young (at least that's what my age, that mendacious, unreliable number, tells me). I've been blessed with wealth and looks and brains. I have a good job and a beautiful home.

Yes, it's beautiful. Polished wood, exquisite fabrics, comfortable armchairs by the fireplace. Big windows facing the park, letting the bright sunshine in. But who is there to run a finger over the shiny wood, who is there to open the heavy curtains in the morning and smile at the new day, who is there to share the warmth of the fire, play chess, have a glass of wine, discuss the events of the day? Who is there to clutter up the big empty spaces, to cake the carpets with mud from heavy boots, to fill the sink with dirty dishes?

My home is beautiful, but it lacks the very essence of a home. There is no one to share it with. My agenda is full, there are journeys and meetings. My rooms are filled with valuable belongings. But my heart is empty; empty except for those flashes of red and gold.

* * *

"Drake, darling," she says across the restaurant table, a long manicured nail flicking the crystal goblet in front of her. "I don't want to be nosy. And you know I never gossip. But... rumour has it that you are seeing someone...?"

Oh, Pansy darling, of course I know you never gossip.

Do you believe your little statements yourself? Do you really think I believe them? Or is the whole point that we both know it's a lie?

I answer her with the perfect smile. It's so small it's almost no smile at all. It just leaves her wondering whether she saw a shadow of it at the corners of my mouth or not, and what it means if she did.

Pansy has always desired me. She desires me even now; I can see it from the way her eyes linger on my lips. She regards me as her rightful possession, unjustly withheld from her. She is married now, she is a mother and pregnant with her second child, but she still desires me. In her world, I belong to her. And she has never quite forgiven me for never proposing to her. Or for never kissing her on the mouth, even when we were dating. I kissed her face, her ears, her neck, her shoulders, but never her mouth. I became an expert at gracefully avoiding her attempts to touch my lips with her own. She never said a word about it, but I saw her puzzlement grow with every evasive manoeuvre, I saw it change into anger and hurt. I think she still wants to settle that account, and I'm on my guard every second I'm with her. I haven't stopped expecting an attack. But only one person has ever kissed me on the mouth, and that's how I want it to stay.

I look down into my wine glass. The candle flame throws a glowing, ruby reflection through the liquid on to the golden oak surface of the table.

A vivid flash of red and gold through my mind.

Am I seeing someone? No, darling Pansy. When I need to touch skin, when I need someone to touch mine, I find someone to provide it. But I never have sex with the same partner twice. I never look at them. I don't see them. And there's no need for you to be jealous, dear Pansy, because I never kiss them, either.

* * *

That night I have the dream again. I dream of a body pressed against mine, of the corner of a Quidditch robe, red and gold, thrown around my shoulders, like a protective wing. Of warm breath against my cheek, a muffled laugh in my ear, my own body responding - not daring to respond but still responding. Of lips moving across my cheek to meet mine, covering my mouth with warmth, and of me trembling as my arms reach around his waist to have more of him. He laughs softly, the sound vibrating against my lips. He wants me. And, oh god, I want him. I am a Malfoy and nothing ever throws me off balance, but here I am, shaking, wanting, desiring, and unable to hide it. My nerves sing with the sweetest tension I have ever felt, and my mind dissolves in confusion. I cease to even attempt to understand what's happening. I just close my eyes and let my body melt into his. Lips parting, his tongue in my mouth. All I hear now is breathing, mine, his, and deep in his throat something that could be a groan. My hands smooth the bare skin of his back. I hadn't noticed that they had slipped under his jumper. My tongue in his mouth. I wonder why it makes me want to faint with desire. I have never felt anything like it. How is it possible to want someone so badly? Someone you have spent years of your life taunting, plaguing, avoiding? How is it possible that he wants me?

The dream speeds up. Clothes fall. Red and gold, green and silver, they all mix in a heap. When they are off, we are still different, but we're also the same. The colours that identify us as adversaries, opponents, antagonists, have been shed, and now there is only skin, our naked bodies, my arms so white against his tan, bare skin shivering in cold air, under urgent hands, smoothed under hot palms. The pace quickens as we rub and thrust, squeeze and caress, lick and bite and suck, push and gasp, and finally cry out. And on the note of that cry I wake up, my hands scrabbling across empty sheets in search of warm skin, searching to receive those hot spurts of ecstasy.

There are tears on my face, and the cries linger in my ears. They keep ringing in my head throughout the day.

* * *

The dream is a memory, a repeating script that cannot be erased.

It can't be erased, so what I have to do is try to bury the cries under a rubble of noise, lay other pictures over the painful ones of skin and hair and laughing eyes, of red and gold mixing with green and silver.

I work. I am good at my job. No one is as dedicated as I am. And no one suspects the real reason for my dedication. They have no idea that it's only there to blot out something else.

Someone else.

I shy away from it. But the naked fact is that he is missing. And has been for over a year now.

There is a Special Team of Aurors looking for him, but they have had no luck so far. None at all. Nothing.

We're still in the aftershocks of war. We're cleaning up and sorting out, filtering through the debris that the war has left scattered across the wizarding world. I had never imagined the extent of human suffering and misery that I would witness. My imagination couldn't grasp the unbelievable cruelty human beings are capable of. When it comes to pain and destruction, there are no limits to human inventiveness. It's an ironic contrast to our helplessness when we try to find treatments, to find effective ways to heal and restore.

We have already opened two trauma centres, and today we are opening the third one, in a wing building at St Mungo's. I attend the first morning meeting as a Ministry representative, and I'm impressed by the dedication of the staff. This is where the most difficult cases will be sent, the ones where there is practically no hope. I look at the focused faces around me and hope that these skilled witches and wizards will be able to cope.

When we get up from the table and I'm getting ready to leave, the head of the new centre comes up to me. I remember her from Hogwarts; a Ravenclaw girl a few years older than myself. She has a quietly efficient air about her.

"Mr Malfoy," she says in a low voice. "I have news for you. News about Harry Potter."

I crumble. She watches me crumble. She sees my hands begin to shake, she sees me steady myself against the table, she sees all colour leave my face and she hears me try to speak only to realise I've forgotten how to do it.

"The Special Team has found him," she says quietly. "He is alive. I don't know exactly what his condition is, but I've been told it's bad and he will need extensive treatment, physical and mental. Arthur Weasley told me it was so bad a permanent memory charm might be the only possible solution."

She takes the coffee mug from my hand. There are only a few drops left at the bottom, but I'm shaking so violently it sends them splashing over the rim.

"Are you all right?"

I nod, I manage to gather up my cloak, stand up, clear my throat.

"Please keep me informed of any development," I say to her, my voice like a rough bark. "I want to know where you place him, what treatment he receives, any progress."

Gravel crunches under my feet as I cross the yard, the sound too loud, shredding my nerves. Red leaves come floating down from the trees overhead, landing on the grey gravel like bright drops of blood.

* * *

I'm standing on the hill again, watching the glorious autumn leaves. I see the Gryffindor colours mixed with the Slytherin ones, just like that time, just like my dream. Like it was. Like it could have been again and again, if there had been no Voldemort, no Death Eaters, no evil, no war.

If. How I hate that futile word.

I have just had word from St Mungo's that Harry is better. He has spoken. He has spoken of me. And I have come here to try to gather up courage to go and see him.

* * *

I stop in the doorway.

Thank heavens he is not in bed. He sits in a chair by the window, a blanket tucked around him, his face turned towards the light, hands held still in his lap. He hasn't turned around at the sound of my steps.

"Harry."

It's only a whisper but he slowly turns his head. I crumble again, I'm drowning in waves of cold and heat, I have to fight an urge to run out of the room. Fear and pain roll and echo inside my head like screams, and I want to throw up.

His face is just paper-thin, near-transparent skin stretched over a skull. His eyes are bottomless, dark and empty. I'm seized by fury, a hatred so strong it terrifies me. If I can't break something this second, I will break. I lift my hand and the spell emerges from my mouth in a venomous, snake-like hiss . The mirror on the wall shatters; millions of shards and splinters spread over the floor in a sharply glittering cascade. They crunch under my feet as I cross the room. I pick one of them up, squeeze it in my hand until blood seeps out between my fingers, using the pain as a focusing point to stop myself from disintegrating.

Harry winces but doesn't make a sound. I fall on my knees in front of him, as if in prayer or worship, or, absurdly, as if I'm going to propose. I rest my forehead against his knee, and after a very long moment I feel his hands in my hair.

Red and gold streaks through my mind. Red and gold, silver and green, mixing like the autumn colours outside the window.

Harry takes my hand, opens up my clenched fingers and releases the shard of glass. It drops to the floor with a tinkle. I hear a whispered spell and my palm is washed with a quick wave of warmth as the wound heals. I marvel at his strength, I marvel at his presence of mind. After a year of torture, he is more composed than I am.

I feel his body warmth through the blanket, and his fingers are slowly combing through my hair, again and again, as if he's trying to caress my thoughts.

The blood that has dripped from my hand is drying on the floor. Outside the window, bright red leaves float and dance from the trees to land on the gravel.

Winter will come and we will rest in white stillness. The snow will cover our bleeding wounds. They will heal, and in the spring we will re-emerge, naked and new and shivering.

I have to believe this.

I have to believe that autumn is not all about dying.