- Rating:
- R
- House:
- The Dark Arts
- Era:
- Multiple Eras
- Spoilers:
- Philosopher's Stone Chamber of Secrets Prizoner of Azkaban
- Stats:
-
Published: 04/24/2002Updated: 05/01/2002Words: 3,525Chapters: 2Hits: 4,786
Remember
Slightlights
- Story Summary:
- It is almost the end of term, the end of year, the end of Hogwarts. "In the end, it hadn't happened the way he'd dreamt." (H/D)
Chapter 01
- Chapter Summary:
- It is almost the end of term, the end of year, the end of
- Posted:
- 04/24/2002
- Hits:
- 3,503
Remember: I
(one half of the whole)
In the end, it hadn't happened the way he'd dreamt.
Those dreams were of violence: of Quidditch and battling in every way that mattered; of duels high on the battlements where the only way past was to fall; of potions gone awry and kisses that burned cold poison on his mouth. Those dreams had led to his laboriously sewing silencing charms into the inner lining of his bed-curtains, charms sealed by his own thumb-pricked blood, charms that--once invoked--would hold even as he slept. And dreamt. And, shuddering, woke.
Those dreams would haunt him even when he walked the halls at night, would lose him in the dungeon's caverns until he came to himself again, dizzied and lost anew. But his wand was always with him; and the serpent badge on his robes; and, opposite that, the prefect's shield that made of his wanderings a duty, a mere inspection.
This dream--and it was dreamlike, the moonlight filtering through rumpled dark hair to the pale, muscular jut of shoulder, the very air silent but for the regular ebb and flow of the other's breathing, of his own heart spilling awareness through his veins--was... peaceful. And so he let his gaze roam lightly, so lightly, let himself... inspect, only tonight it was less duty than a wonderment fit to still his breath.
He'd always remember.
That dark shadow of hair hid a scar he knew was there, a scar that reminded him of the lightning knowledge that had struck him, seeing that lithe figure round the corridor's corner: Potter. In his territory. Potter, without so much as the Weasel. Potter... all alone.
(And it also reminded him of why he'd had to look past the lion's table for so many years, why--except alone at night, in dreams--he'd not let his thoughts stray in such a way: someone else had gotten there first, someone else had marked the green-eyed boy for his own.)
Potter. He'd confronted him. Had met those so-green eyes, glittering emerald behind their lenses. Had said something sly about lights-out, about detention, had already been thinking of some creative service Potter could perform. And then, all at once, the words didn't matter, nothing but the name given potent emphasis by the other boy's lips:
"Draco."
'Draco'? What the--
And Potter had rushed to him, had gripped his shoulders--such strength in those Seeker's hands--and drawn him close; and startled as he was, having been braced for a shove instead, he'd given way...
He'd touched Potter back. Had shivered his way through robes and coarse shirt to warm himself on that bare, heated skin. Had traced the underlying bone up ribs and around to the column of spine, to shoulders' blades, even as smooth muscles shifted to invite rather than impede his touch--all the while kissing, deep and hot and tender even in demand; it was as if their mouths knew each other, as if he'd dreamed true, as if this were... re-discovery. The slick enamel of the other boy's teeth, one canine tilted so slightly out of place; the talent of his tongue, twining about his own; the sheer taste of him amid mint and sharp apple from dessert--
But that timeless urgency had passed; now he could map the slant of those ribs, and did, fingers splayed so that his hand was a star that fell slowly, slowly toward chest's faint drift of hair, toward the slow reverberation of heart's beat deep within. He let his own breathing linger to match, the better to remember the tempo: larghetto... and rested there, for some measures, until he was nearly lost in dream himself.
If he'd ever truly woken... Reminded, he stretched, careful not to wake the sleeper, relishing the sinewy limbs laced with his own: they were much of a height, and it showed, his own legs just slightly longer; he played toe to toe a moment, then caught himself smiling. Stopped. Looked, quickly, to see whether the other showed signs of waking--
Such green eyes, to still be hidden in dark-lashed sleep--dreaming? did he dream the same dreams? is that why?--and without the glasses in the way, he knew them to not be emerald after all, but agate, layered with emotion upon translucent emotion. Recognition. Desire. Desperation. Even falling into their little death, he'd kept that gaze.
He'd always remember...
Remember. Glasses. Where?
A quick scan of the disused classroom spotted them beneath a desk, upside down but unbroken, where they'd slid metres away from the warm pool of cloaks and scattered clothing. Warm. He knew everywhere else would be cold by comparison; yet even so he began to extricate himself. Slowly. Reluctantly. Found and donned his clothes, more quickly. And looked back.
From here, all he could see was that lithe, sleep-crumpled figure half-hidden within the folds of black. From here, their cloaks showed only their linings, not House badges; for a giddy moment he considered leaving both to keep the other boy warm... but the insignia was there, unseen or not, and it'd be found.
And what neither could afford was to be found out.
They had so little time left. Soon would come his own turn to be branded, among others of every House: it was almost the end of term, the end of year, the end of Hogwarts. Almost. And anything Harry felt could, and would, be used against him.
Gently, so gently, he ran his fingers along the roughened jaw whose stubble had, a moment and a lifetime before, burnt a different sort of knowledge into his hand, his cheek, his groin. A brief sleeping charm enabled him to retrieve his cloak--tucking the other close against the cold--and an aversion spell on the door ensured none would wish to enter after he'd gone.
He put on the cloak. Adjusted the collar. Straightened the wrinkles left by another's grasp. Shook out the folds so they swirled just so above his shoes.
...Retrieved the glasses; and, by the light from the high, narrow window, painstakingly polished away all the habitual smudges, all of the everyday smears, till they shone with clear, crystalline purity. Not a fingerprint was left.
...Replaced the glasses by the sleeper's side. And looked again, and long, at the exposed inner curve of forearm--virgin still.
He'd always remember.
And then he bent the rest of the way: set his lips to the fragile bone of his lover's temple; and, afterward, the tip of his wand. And murmured the only endearment he knew how to give: "Obliviate."
This one's for Seren, for tidying the corridors; for Plu, as always; for Rhysenn, whose HP fanfic was the first I ever read; and for all the Quidditch and duels and potions and poisons. It was first posted to FAP's S.S. Guns & Handcuffs, by way of thanks for the ficlets, the discussions, and the digressions, and was written to Air Supply among others: