#fwoosh writes

[fw00shy]

back to the basics

“Remember third year,” Harry said.

Draco glanced up from the evening paper. “I try not to, no.”

The clock on the mantle read half past eight. Harry itched his ear and yawned, his legs sprawled over the sofa arm. “Third year’s the dementor year,” he said. “The year they followed us to Hogwarts. You remember.”

“Yes, school was rather like a prison, wasn’t it.”

“Every time the dementors got near, I relived the death of my parents—”

“Merlin, how many times do I have to apologize for dressing up as a dementor, I mean how could I have known—”

Harry laughed. “I’m not looking for another apology, Draco.”

Draco paused. “Then what are you doing?”

“Just reminiscing. Funny how angry I felt back then but it’s all so funny to me now.”

Draco made a face. “I was a pretty rotten kid. But I’ve changed. Like, a lot.”

Draco always looked nervous when talking about the past. Like he thought Harry would leave him if he suddenly remembered the day he let the Death Eaters in and Fred died. But Harry never forgot anything.

Harry closed his eyes, remembering that first day at Madam Malkin’s. He had been so unconflictingly angry. But children were malleable, half-formed things. No child was a bad person. They were just dumb mean kids.

Harry reached over and pinched Draco’s nose. “I don’t think you’ve changed much at all, actually. You weren’t all that bad from the start.”

[fwoosheye]

A couple of years ago I found this prompt on pinterest and wrote a story there which I've now decided to put here too, but as I can't find @writing-prompt-s original post so... This was the prompt:

Story under the cut:

The Forgotten Prisoner

Time flows oddly when you have no way to measure it.

They knew they had been sole prisoner in the underground facility for 200 years when the earthquake buried them completely. Two of the three guards had died in the collapsing dorm, leaving the last guard trapped in darkness. No electricity, no water, no food, no heating. They could remember hearing the young guard – barely more than a child – screaming in the dark as he tried to find his companions, and his anguished cries when he found them.

When the lad eventually fumbled past their cell, close to delirious with exhaustion, they spoke to him. Soothing, comforting, but never lying. It had been the first time since they arrived that they were let out. Together they had searched for a way out, and found none. Far too soon the boy passed, and they turned an old office into a burial chamber. Dragging out cabinets, the couch and everything else but the lone desk which they left in the middle as an altar upon which they laid the body.

Then they had continued their quest on their own, but immortal does not mean immune to exhaustion or the need of food and water.

They were eventually forced to give up and settle to wait for rescue, and so they did: Outside the last guards resting place. They had settled down on the couch as if in meditation, and stayed there. To weak to move, to weak to stay alert for more than a few moments at a time, but never able to slip into the eternal sleep.

And so they sat there. Collecting more and more dust, through additional earthquakes and everlasting darkness and solitude. Then one day, their monotone existence changed. A rumble of shifting rock, so unlike that of an earthquake. When the rumbling eventually stopped, they heard something even more rare:

Voices.

Voices coming ever closer, their words incomprehensible but still familiar enough they could tell their tongue stemmed from the one they had last heard. Then, through closed eyelids, they could see light.

At last they had been found.

[fw00shy]

Slow Days, Bad Habits

When Draco told Pansy he was moving to Los Angeles, Pansy said, "Fuck off, you're not." It was a Thursday and the afternoon sun stretched over Pansy's fire escape patio like a lazy cat. Draco fished out the olive from his glass and ate it, saying, "No, I really am," when he really wasn't — lying was a bad habit of his, and he was five martinis deep — but the next day he woke up thinking: Why not?

Doing what he wasn't supposed to do was a relatively new bad habit of his (sure he used to break rules, but he never broke Father's rules) but it was by far his favourite. Doing the unexpected. Turning heads. Like when he wore the shirt the Muggle orphanage gave him for painting walls to one of his mum's "Sorry We Lost the War" benefits and Daphne said, "You? Volunteering? No way, I bet a thousand Galleons you bought that from a thrift store."

Los Angeles was everything London wasn't and everything Draco wanted to be. Cars built to go 300kph putting bumper-to-bumper down wide, yawning freeways. Plastic surgery to cover up whatever you didn't like about yourself. Every day Draco looked in the mirror and changed something different. What if he had a different nose? A larger mouth? Would his life change for the better? Some days he wished he had more time to figure out how to turn his life around. Other days it was a lot easier to let his eyes droop until every second stretched long and he lost track of it, another day lost in the waste of his life. 

When Draco saw Harry at the farmer's market he knew Harry had moved to Los Angeles to disappear. He knew this because Harry wore dark glasses and a cap pulled low over his scar. He knew this because the papers had reported Harry missing four years ago, and had never found him since. He knew this because he had moved to Los Angeles to disappear, too. Draco bought his oat milk and his strawberries and walked back home with them tucked under his arm, like his little secret. That was another bad habit of his now: secrets. Anything could be a secret if he wanted it to be. His favourite bench at the park. The line from an Ada Limon that made him cry. Waves crashing against the pier. The scent of jasmine in his mother's garden. And now, Harry, in LA. All his secrets. All just for him.

Draco saw Harry at the farmer's market again the following week, around 1pm when the stalls were packing up and the baskets of strawberries numbered in the ones and twos. Draco came to the farmer's market every week and some weeks they ran out of what he liked, but he was fine with that; this was the time best suited for him.

Draco watched Harry meander past the stalls, his hands behind his back, like he was browsing with no intent to purchase. But why? Maybe he was a ghost. Draco chuckled at the thought, and then he saw Harry walking toward him.

"I won't tell," Draco said. "So don't Obliviate me, please. I like my memories. Or the recent ones, anyway. I mean, they're nothing special. Just things like, eating a good peach. The sun sinking into the sea. Waking up and not being too hot or too cold. Normal things." (Running his mouth: maybe the original bad habit?)

Harry blinked slowly, his mouth slightly agape. He didn't look like he was going to attack Draco. He wasn't even carrying a wand. 

"So," Draco said, smiling, a little more confident now. "I won't tell if you won't tell?"

"You live here too?"

"Sure do," Draco said. "Do you want to come over?"

So it was their secret now.

Which was fine. More than fine, even. Draco didn't normally like to share, but he sure did like breaking rules. Especially his own.

[fw00shy]

Accio is the only spell I know

part 2 of Slow Days, Bad Habits because I wanted to know what happened next

When Draco took someone home in LA, there was no cobblestone path, no chirpy doormat to prime guests as they walked up to his door. Instead, they entered through the garage and walked past the shelves of ancestral junk straight into his living room, where he forgot to clean up the takeaway from last night. It felt a bit like exposing all his guts to a stranger, and Draco blushed, plucking a fortune cookie wrapper from the carpet while Harry was distracted by a set of photographs hung up on the wall.

"You were so young in these," Harry said. He pointed to the one in the middle. "This is from first year, yeah? When you had your hair slicked back like a helmet."

"I'll never forgive Mother for that haircut," Draco said. He peered over Harry's shoulder and shivered with disgust. He wished he'd never been that boy.

"Oh come on," Harry turned, grinning. "It wasn't so bad. I thought it looked rather fetching, actually."

Draco raised a brow. "Really?"

"Really — well, I'd never met someone so blond in my life before. The perpetual sneer, however —"

"Let's not talk about the past," Draco said. He crossed the living room to the kitchen, his fingers drumming over the wine rack. "Cabernet? Pinot? Or, I've got a chard in the ice box —"

"Any will do," Harry said. He'd followed him into the kitchen and pulled out a chair from the little table in there.

"Oh," Draco said, watching Harry sit down at the scratched up table. Harry's skin looked sallow under the harsh lighting. Draco had thought they'd be in the living room — he hadn't thought — if he had known, he'd bought better lighting for the kitchen. He hadn't thought this through at all, this was a mistake, truly —

"Is everything alright?" Harry asked.

"Sure," Draco said. "Sure, let me just pop the cork—" he took out his wand — "Accio!" 

The wand flew across the room and hit Harry between the eyes. Draco watched with horror as the spot welted up and reddened an increasingly concerning shade of crimson.

"If you were trying to kill me —" Harry started, rather churlishly. 

"I wasn't!"

"— you missed. Again." Then he laughed and Accio'd the wine to himself, where he drank it straight out of the bottle.

"That's disgusting," Draco said, but he took the bottle and swigged when Harry offered it back. 

"It's lonely in LA," Harry said. He sighed, sinking into the chair. "I've been here four years and nobody knows who I am, which is great for the most part, but then there are moments when I feel — I feel like a part of me's gone missing. Like I look in the mirror and I can't remember who I used to be." He looked over at Draco. "I'm not like you." He smiled. "I change wherever I go. You haven't changed at all."

Draco tensed. "Let's not talk about —"

"The past, I know, I know," Harry said. "Say, you go to that farmer's market a lot?"

"Every week," Draco said.

"Even when it's raining?"

"It never rains here. That's the best part about LA. Sunshine every day whether you're up for it or not."

"And you like the sun?"

Draco wrinkled his nose. "Not really, no."

"You really haven't changed," Harry chuckled.

Draco frowned. "I don't know why you keep saying that."

"Saying what?"

"Saying that I haven't changed. That's — I don't like that. I've changed. I'm not Draco Malfoy anymore—"

"You've changed your name?"

"What? No. You know what I mean. I'm not the same boy who — who was a bully and a snob —"

"Still a bit of a snob. Not that I mind." He raised the bottle. "Snobs serve great wine."

"Are you even listening to me, Potter?"

Harry tipped back in his chair and grinned. "You really haven't changed a bit."

"Look here, Potter, I'm trying to apologise and —"

"Apology accepted," Harry said.

Draco blinked. "What?"

"Besides," Harry continued. "I think you've got my words all mixed up. Which, again — typical Malfoy behaviour. What I mean is you're still the same inside. You've changed your mind but not yourself. Even if you believe different things now — better things, in my opinion — you're still a posh git."

Relief spread warm across Draco's chest. "So you don't hate me?" 

"No, on the contrary. Being here's the first time I've felt at home in a long time. And you've still got that —" He blushed, looking away.

"Got what?"

" — nevermind."

"Tell me."

"No, I —" Harry's blush deepened. "It's a secret."

"I can keep a secret," Draco said. He lowered his voice. "Whisper it in my ear."

"Okay," Harry said. He leaned forward, cupping Draco's ear with his hand, his breath hot. "You've still got that cute dimple in your cheek."

Draco sat up, his hands flying to his burning cheeks. "Merlin!" he squeaked. Then he asked, maybe a little too eagerly, "Really?"

"You're so funny," Harry said. "Really."

"I've got a secret too," Draco said. 

"Whisper it to me," Harry said, offering up his ear.

"Okay," Draco said. He scooched their chairs closer, his hand on Harry's thigh as he leaned in and said, "You haven't changed either. You still drive me insane."

Harry's eyes squinted in confusion. "So does that mean—"

Draco kissed him on the nose. Then he pressed their mouths together, his hands on Harry's waist.

"I never know what you mean," Harry said, breaking away with a ragged breath. "At least, not at first."

Draco closed his eyes and breathed against Harry's neck. He thought about what Harry said, about how he'd changed his mind but not himself. Why had he spent so many years denying who he used to be? That Draco who made those mistakes was the same Draco who learned from them. One could not exist without the other. Was that so bad?

"But do you know what I mean now?" Draco asked.

"Yes," Harry said. "Do you?"

"Yes," Draco said. Harry's arms came up around Draco. Draco sighed, pulling him in closer.  And in that moment, he finally felt like himself again.

[fw00shy]

today is the only day that matters

When Andromeda brought Teddy over to the Malfoy’s the first time, Harry tagged along, all six feet of him sulking with distrust. The Malfoys, once a family, was only Draco now — and Draco lived in a flat so that was where they sat, the four of them, crowded around the round table in the kitchen with their four mismatched cups of tea — Teddy’s exceptionally large in his child’s hands. Harry didn’t say a word but Teddy had mountains to say. He said how he liked his cup with the dragon that chased its tail, said the weather which was too hot, said hi to Draco’s cat. He had more to say the next time, and the next, and the next. He said Gramma Andy couldn’t come today but that was fine. He said he liked Draco’s flat and Draco’s tea, said it was better than Uncle Harry’s which was always stale, said it with his nose stuck up so high that Draco laughed, knowing in that instant this boy was his blood — and when he looked up, he saw Harry was laughing too.

“Uncle Harry doesn’t know how to laugh,” Teddy said to Draco when Harry excused himself to use the loo. “Is that so?” Draco said. Teddy nodded solemnly, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “Yeah, he sounds like a troll that swallowed a toad.”

“I hear you talking about me,” Harry said, his voice down the hall but traveling closer. When he re-emerged in the doorframe, Draco saw a different man, a man who didn’t know how to laugh.

What else had the war taken from him? Joy? A family? Good tea? Whatever it was, Draco was determined to give it back.

[fw00shy]

he’s still got it

“Fuck it’s hot,” Harry said to no one in particular on the walk into the locker rooms. He peeled off his sweat-soaked jersey and tossed it against the wall. Then he watched it slip down the tile, wondering why he did that.

“Got scrambled eggs for brains today, Potter?”

Harry turned in time to see Draco take off his jersey. Without the fabric, Draco’s abs glistened from sweat. Harry followed a bead trickle down Draco’s chest, past his naval, down to his —

Merlin. Maybe Malfoy was right for once; his brain was frizzled, the little neurons in his brain sending messages to the only organ that mattered (his dick).

“Hot,” Harry said lamely, hoping the heat would also explain the sudden flush across his face.

“Thanks,” Draco said. “You too.” Then he slapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes widened in horror. A twin flush spread across his face, creeping up his ears.

“Err,” Harry said. He didn’t know what to say. But that didn’t matter, because his body sure knew what to do. And his feet were swaying decidedly toward Malfoy. Draco. Whatever.

“Nice game we had today,” Draco said. Harry could feel his breath.

Oh right — the game. Pickup Quidditch. Except the Prophet had predicted (quite accurately) record high heats and nobody showed up except Harry, who as organiser had felt obligated to, and Malfoy, who didn’t read the paper.

“You’ve still got it,” Harry said.

“Got what?”

The moves. Quidditch prowess. A great dive.

“A banging arse. Wait, no. Shite.”

“Oh,” Draco said.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Of course not. But.”

“But?”

“But if you did, and supposed if I—”

Draco paused, wetting his lips.

“If you—” Harry prompted, a tad too eager.

“If I were to, say, agree and reciprocate in kind—”

Harry kissed him. Draco kissed back. It was very hot. And hell, it only got hotter from there.

[fw00shy]

proof of purchase

Draco pays for Harry’s beer then his dinner then his broom. Harry says, “You don’t need to, really,” and Draco says, “No, I do” because when you are taught to treat love with suspicion it is hard to accept love without equal payment in return. If not paid in full then who’s to stop them from giving you a rotten love, a love with rotted teeth. How would you know the worth of their love unless you paid for it with Galleons from your own pockets. How would you know it’s yours until you’ve received a receipt, a certificate of ownership. How else?

[fw00shy]

the ravenous beast

Harry woke up deaf in one ear and the healers couldn’t do anything about it. How can it be, he had yelled, that you can regrow entire bones overnight — that I could bring back men from the dead — but you can’t fix my ear? The Muggles, Hermione said, knew nothing either. It didn’t happen often enough for them to know. There was no money in the research.

Draco held Harry against his chest that night and felt Harry’s fear beating against him like it was his own fear. So again Harry was the chosen one. How could it be, Draco thought, that one man could be so unlucky in life. Why did fate take and take and take? Why wasn’t Harry’s childhood enough for the ravenous beast. Why couldn’t it have eaten Draco instead?

There were things Draco wanted to say that he couldn’t yet:

It is only your left ear

You can still hear me

Our lives are not ruined, only changed

But Draco’s hearing was fine. How could he understand? Worse yet, how could he feel as if his life had changed? Was he really that selfish? Or was it more selfish to feel untethered? To feel removed?

Whenever Draco thought of Harry — really focused on him, really tried to emphasize — he got stuck in a loop of: Life was unequivocally unfair. And it just got harder and harder and harder, until you died. Every year finding joy took more effort, happiness only hard earned through intention. They could weather through this, Draco knew. They would find ways to cope. They would remember the joys in life beyond sound. But what about the next? What if Harry loses a hand? His tongue?

Harry twitched twice in sleep. Draco’s eyes closed. But he did not sleep.