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Polar Star
Rating: K+ Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't own the song at the end. I don't own the quote in the beginning. Character and Quote are JK Rowling's. Song is Christine Glass's. Notes: -Summary- Harry loses his memories and is trying to find his way back home.
~0x0x0~
-29 November, 2012, 00:19-
He felt it. Something warm. It brushed against his senses, teasing him, taunting him. A stroke there, a caress here, and yet he couldn’t reach it. There was a memory there, but he couldn’t touch it. What was it? What was he forgetting?
The feeling wrapped itself around him. It was so gentle that he barely noticed it, but it was there. Something was missing, something so fundamentally a part of him that he shouldn’t have lost it, but he didn’t know what it was. He couldn’t remember.
It was bright. Too bright, beating against his eyes. He squinted, but it did nothing to help. The light was blinding, everything too white. He was alone. Words that sounded familiar echoed somewhere in the back of his mind, but he couldn’t quite remember where he’d heard them.
“Where are we, exactly?”
“Well, I was going to ask you that.”
“It looks like King’s Cross station.”
He thought of another white-washed setting from another time. Was it another place? Or the same? He couldn’t remember. Was he dead? Had he died, then? Was this what death was like? Something told him he should know and yet….
Slowly the white faded, faded, faded. He opened his eyes to a ceiling covered in shadows, but he could tell it was white. The room felt familiar, and yet, something wasn’t quite right. Beeping instruments surrounded him, and there was a strong smell of disinfectant. Turning his head, he could make out gay holiday tinsel decorating the room. But who put that up?
Hospital. That seemed the right word, but still something was off. It’s the wrong one, he thought, but how he knew this he couldn’t be sure. An instinct?
A woman stepped in, carrying a clipboard. He just stared at the clipboard, like it was out of place.
“Ah, Mr. Doe, how good of you to finally join us,” she said, smiling brightly at him. She had blonde hair, pulled back loosely to keep it out of the way.
Too long. Too wavy. Not pale enough.
“Doe? Is that my name?” he asked her.
“Well, it is for now, until we find out who you really are,” she was still smiling.
Smiling too much. Too curvy. Female.
He blinked up at her.
“Don’t worry. We’ll have you sorted out soon.”
::**::
The darkness wrapped itself around him. There was nothing and no one. He was alone. A single path shone through the blackness, set aglow by its own resonating light. With nowhere else to go, he followed it, the sound of his every step echoing through the caverns. Soon it started forking, splitting left and right, surrounding him with choices. Having no idea which way to go, he kept going straight…
::**::
-4 December, 2012, 16:32-
He sat in the canteen eating pudding—pudding seemed to be the only somewhat edible substance they served here—watching the people walk past. Did any of them know him?
Three days, his nurse, Leah, told him. He’d been there for three days. Someone had found him half frozen to death in the middle of the road and brought him here. He’d woken up once before, but he couldn’t remember any of it. Or apparently anything at all, really. It seems he’d only been up long enough for them to figure out he hadn’t a clue who he was or where he was from before passing out again.
Leah came every day to check on him, always smiling in a charming way. He liked that bout Leah. She never made him feel awkward for having no recollection of anything. She spoke to him the way she would anyone else.
It’d been almost a week since he woke up and, so far, he hadn’t remembered anything significant. He felt a sense of wrongness everywhere he went, but it didn’t help him find his rightful place at all. He just knew here wasn’t where he should be. But where there was, was a mystery to him.
They started him on some sort of therapy session to try and help him remember, but so far nothing has worked.
Sometimes he would have these strange dreams.
A woman with bright red hair flying around on a broomstick carrying a ball he knew was called a Quaffle but didn’t know how he knew it. She would always have a smile for him, unless he did something stupid. An easygoing man, also with red hair—siblings perhaps—throwing his arm around him. He’d say something, and everyone would laugh. Sometimes, a stern-looking woman with wild brown hair would come over, and the man with red hair would wrap his arms around her…until she scolded him.
Sometimes he saw someone completely different. He had blond hair and sharp features. He didn’t smile at him like everyone else in his dreams did; he smirked. Or scowled.
“Do you remember anything new today?” Dr. Ashford asked, the same way she’d ask every day. Her hair was brown, straight, and cut into a neat bob.
Too tame. Too short.
“No,” he said, the same way he answered every time she asked. She nodded and started the day’s session.
::**::
The path he chose kept splitting, forking left and right. But he kept going forward with no destination in sight. As long as he kept walking, he’d end up somewhere.
::**::
-5 December, 2012, 14:22-
He was staring at the ceiling again, thinking again of his dreams. Could they really be memories? Were they people he knew? Family? Friends?
The door swung open. He didn’t bother looking since it could only have been one person. He no longer needed to have checkups or be monitored, but Leah still dropped by occasionally when she had time.
“New plans, Doug!” Leah said, still too cheerfully.
“Doug?” he asked.
“You look like a Doug. Mum said it’s too pitiful for you to stay here when it’s almost Christmas so she offered to take you in.” Leah smiled. She had a pretty smile.
“Home? Your home?”
“Of course my home; where else would my mum be living? Besides, you’re too healthy to be staying here. You’re taking up space.”
Leah walked around the small room, checking this or that and straightening things that didn’t really need straightening. He watched her for a moment, then decided to ask, “Can people fly?”
It took her completely by surprise, and she dropped the cushion she was fluffing onto one of the chairs.
“Fly?” she asked incredulously.
“Yeah. On broomsticks.” He felt stupid the second the words left his mouth, but he couldn’t take it back now.
“On…on broomsticks?” she paused for a second, just staring at him, before she burst out in laughter. “Br-broomsticks?!”
“Oh, never mind, forget it.”
“I’m sorry…hol-hold on,” she said trying to catch her breath.
“No really, forget it,” he said, his face flaming up, “I think your reaction pretty much answered that.”
Just a dream, then. He wished it weren’t. They seemed so happy.
::**::
-6 December, 2011, 10:10-
The room they put him in was comfy, but just a tad stuffy. It was mostly cleaned up, but one could smell a hint of sweat still lingering. There was a single bed in the corner and a desk with a computer on the opposite wall. It wasn’t a big room or a big bed, but he didn’t mind. Somehow, it gave him a bit of a nostalgic feel.
Mrs. Bennett was still in her fifties and had energy befitting of someone even younger. Like Leah, she was incessantly cheerful. He met her once when she came to scold Leah about a proposal she had turned down, causing Leah to turn bright red and the rest of the patients in the vicinity to stare. The nurses and doctors, however, ignored it, so it must have been a regular occurrence.
He had turned bright red as well, though, when Mrs. Bennett had turned an appraising eye at him and asked if he was married.
Since he was here, it seemed she hadn’t quite given up yet.
::**::
-6 December, 2012, 20:25-
The Bennetts had four children—three sons and a daughter, Leah. On his first day there, he found out that the brothers were not happy with him being there and made no attempt to hide it. It seemed they were well aware of their mother’s tendencies and would glare at him whenever he happened to meet one of them in the eyes.
Other than that, the Bennett’s home was always warm and welcoming. There was the scent of gingerbread and pine and sometimes hot chocolate (coffee in the morning) in the air. They were a welcoming family and reminded him a bit of the red-headed family in his dreams, though less crowded and less…red. Still, it was the same feel. Family. That was probably what it was.
“Oh, Doug, you don’t need to help out,” Mrs. Bennett said as he stood to help collect the dishes.
“Oh no, Mrs. Bennett. It wouldn’t be right if all I did here was eat and sleep,” he told her. Strangely, he found he had a knack for doing dishes. And cooking.
He probably shouldn’t be encouraging her by helping out, but it was better than sitting at the table with the brothers glaring at him.
“I’ll help!” Leah said, standing up as well.
He almost snickered at the looks her brothers had when she did. Together, they brought the dirty dishes into the kitchen.
“Shall I wash or dry?” he asked her.
“Wash.”
It was growing comfortable. Very much so.
::**::
Something twinkled in the distance, a little away, off to his left. Flickering. Sometimes brightly, sometimes not. His steps faltered for a second. Was this the wrong way?
::**::
-12 December, 2012, 20:35-
“Leah? Where’s London?” he asked as they did the dishes.
The nurse stopped what she was doing.
“London, Doug?”
He nodded. “London.”
“It’s a bit far from here. At least three hours by train,” she told him. She resumed the washing. He was drying tonight. It all seemed routine now, only a week in.
“So it does exist then, London?” She looked up at him, curious. There was a little twinkle in her eyes.
“Yes. It does. Did you remember something?”
“No. Just London.”
::**::
All the paths disappeared, and once again he was bathed in darkness.
The guiding light twinkled and shone, glowing brighter.
::**::
-14 December, 2012, 17: 47-
“Can you go with me to London, Leah?”
::**::
He took an uncertain step forward.
::**::
-17 December, 2012, 15: 05-
London was not what he had expected. For one thing, it was large and crowded.
“Doug, this way,” Leah called. But he couldn’t move, so transfixed was he on the place.
“Leah? Where are we?” he asked.
“We’re in London, Doug. And if you don’t keep up, you’ll get lost.”
“No. Where is here?” he asked, emphasizing what he meant.
“Here? This is King’s Cross Station.” She watched as he looked around, forehead creased in a frown, “I’m not surprised you recognize this place. It’s quite famous,” she told him.
He nodded. After a moment, he allowed Leah to pull him outside.
::**::
A path appeared before him, this time leading right up to the star.
::**::
-22 December, 2012, 19: 42-
There was a lot to see in London, but besides the Station, nothing else meant anything to him. What was in London?
The dreams he had were more vivid in London, as if the proximity to the place enhanced the quality of the dreams, though that seemed ridiculous, even to him in his current state.
Who were those people in his dreams? The tall, lanky ginger man. The woman with the mane of seemingly untamable brown hair. And the blond man with the insufferable smirk.
“We’ll be going back tomorrow, Doug. Have you got your things together?” Leah stood outside his door with her hands akimbo. She had a frown on, the first she’d ever directed at him. He understood though; he’d been so reluctant to leave, and she’d been so kind as to stay. They should have left today, but he just couldn’t let it go.
“Can’t we stay a little longer?”
“It’s Christmas, Doug. I need to go home to my family.”
Family. Did he have a family? Did he have someone waiting for him for Christmas? Inexplicably, he thought of the blond man. Brothers? No, couldn’t be.
::**::
He raced down the path, breath heavy. Underneath the star stood a person, but he couldn’t see who. Despite the brightness of the star, the person was shrouded in shadows.
::**::
-23 December, 2012, 01:54-
He stared up at the house. How he got there, he did not really know. He’d been dreaming. Then suddenly, an unpleasant feeling overtook him, as if he were being sucked in through a hose by a powerful vacuum. He was on the ground when he came to, and in front of him had been the house. It was the House, though. Why was it the House and not just a house? He couldn’t say. But it was there and it was familiar. Did he know the people who lived there? Was this ‘home?’
He didn’t know where he was or how to get back to the hotel. Leah wouldn’t be happy about this.
“How long are you going to stare at your house, Potter?” The voice was cold. He looked up at a man with pale blond hair. The man from his dreams.
“Potter?” he asked, looking up dumbly at the man.
“Always on your arse…I see that hasn’t changed,” he sneered.
“Do you know me?” he asked, “Do I know you?”
The man narrowed his eyes, “Don’t fuck with me, Potter! Where the hell have you been?”
“Wait, if you know me, could you tell me my name? I don’t think Doug is my name, even if Leah says I look like a Doug.”
“Leah?”
“I need to get to the Westbury Hotel. Could you help me?” he continued.
“ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME, POTTER?” the man shouted.
“Please? Leah can explain things when we get there. I don’t quite get it myself.”
“You—FINE!” The blond yanked him to his feet, and without any warnings, did something strange. Again the sensation of his entire body being jammed into a space too narrow for him seized him. When he opened his eyes, they were standing in a side street he sort of recognized.
“How did we—” the man didn’t let him speak, but continued to pull him towards whatever their destination was.
When they reached the Westbury Hotel and the blond man started to drag him inside, he couldn’t hold back a blush. Somehow, entering a hotel with this man felt incredibly…naughty, not to mention embarrassing, even though he knew they were just going to find Leah.
He led the way to their rooms and knocked on Leah’s door. He had no idea how late it was or whether she’d be asleep, but the blond man was glaring at him and didn’t seem like he’d be willing to wait until morning.
“Leah!” he called, knocking again.
Sounds of muffled shuffling could be heard through the door and a few minutes later, the door opened. Leah looked up and turned pink when she saw him.
“Doug! It’s two in the morning!”
“I found someone who knows me!” he said cheerfully, “He calls me Potter.”
Leah stared at him dumbfounded. “Potter?” She turned to stare at the blond man standing with his hands in his coat pockets behind him and, for a second, he was overcome with a feeling of strong dislike towards Leah for staring. Which was irrational.
“Hold on, do you really know who he is?!”
The man was glaring as well. “Of course I do!”
::**::
Expensive loafers. Clean, pressed trousers. Fancy coat. And a red and gold scarf. The man stood staring as he continued to run towards him. He didn’t smile. He smirked. He shone brighter than the stars that appeared above them.
::**::
-23 December, 2012, 13:12-
He was back in Newcastle with the Bennetts. The blond man, Draco, said he would come for him here. Somehow, it only made him anxious. Draco had only stayed long enough to hear Leah say someone found him frozen and without his memories and any form of identification before leaving as he cursed someone named McDougal under his breath.
He wondered when Draco would come back. He wondered why he had to wait when he already knew where…no…he only knew what his house looked like. He didn’t know where it was at all. Would Draco be there? He didn’t know why he assumed Draco would also be living there. Their last names were different. Not related, Draco said.
Barely an hour after he’d settled into the room, two people showed up for him. The ginger man and the brunette woman.
“Harry! Thank goodness you’re alright!” the woman shouted the second she saw him as she flung herself at him. They’d been at the front door and he on the stairs, causing them both to tumble down.
“Mmmm…” Harry mumbled, not quite sure what to do. He recognized her—she’d been the one in his dreams—but still didn’t really know who she was.
He could see Mrs. Bennett glaring at her. “Is she his wife?” she asked the ginger man.
“No. She’s mines,” he said glaring at her.
“Oh, Harry, we’ve been so worried!”
He glanced at the person named Ron. “Where’s Draco?” he asked.
The man raised an eyebrow. “At home. Didn’t seem like he wanted to come, really. What’d you do to him?”
“I’m not sure. He’s been angry with me the whole time.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised, disappearing like that.”
::**::
Draco.
::**::**::
-23 December, 2012, 22:57-
Harry opened the door to Number 12 Grimmauld Place with a bit of apprehension. Draco was upset with him, he knew. Ron and Hermione had taken him straight to St. Mungo’s after they left the Muggle hospital in Newcastle to get his memory problem fixed. They had to get some paper work done. Not that he or Ron did anything. Hermione handled it, thank goodness for that. The house was more or less how he remembered it before that little accident.
“Draco?” he called out.
No answer.
“Draco? Are you home?” Harry heard a sound from the living room.
“Come on, Draco. You can’t stay mad at me forever,” he tried coaxing.
When he entered the living room, he found Draco sitting by the fireplace, a wine glass in hand. He watched as he swirled it just a bit before taking a sip.
“What? Aren’t you going to stay with your new friend, Leah?” Draco asked.
“Draco…”
There were so many excuses. He was lost. He couldn’t remember anything. Leah was just his nurse. Nothing happened between them. She was a friend. But they seemed pathetic now as he watched Draco.
“I’m sorry…” Harry whispered.
Draco sat there gripping his glass of wine. For a second, he thought maybe it’d be better to chance it at Ron and Hermione’s place when Draco leaned forward and placed the glass down.
“I was sure you were dead in a ditch somewhere.”
“I’m sorry.”
Draco stood up.
“You don’t know how worried I’d been.”
“Sorry…”
And, slowly, walked towards him.
“While you…you…were with some pretty young nurse playing house!”
“I’m home now…”
He stopped in front of him, glaring with hurt eyes.
“You—”
“I kept dreaming about you. Every day. I couldn’t remember anything, but I kept dreaming about you. And this house. But mostly you.”
Draco said nothing. Harry took a chance and pulled Draco into an embrace. Draco didn’t move at first, but then Harry felt his arms wrap around him.
He sighed, relieved. Draco probably hadn’t quite forgiven him just yet, but he was, at least, willing to believe in him. Just this once. There’d be consequences later, he knew.
“I’m home, Draco.”
::**::
If you wander off too far, My love will get you home. If you follow the wrong star, My love will get you home.
~My Love Will Get You Home, Christine Glass.
Sun
Rating: PG13 Disclaimer: No owny wony rights. Notes: If you have trouble understand what the hell is going on, don’t worry, the author knows how you feel.
.x.x.
I feel like I know you.
You don’t.
Have we met before?
Get some sleep.
I sigh, and turn my head towards the window with its frosted edges and its blurry, wonderland view. I try and I try, every day I do, but he won’t give up his name, his affiliation with me. I know we must have known each other in my previous life, I’m sure of it. There aren’t many things I’m sure of these days. I know that when the sunlight reaches my knees, the nurse will come in with my food; I know that when the sunlight falls on my elbow, another nurse will come in and ask me questions, questions like how I’m doing, whether I feel up to getting up, if I’d like a change of scenery; when the sunlight begins to warm my face, he walks in. I caught my reflection on his round, scratched glasses once, and my eyes sparkle in the light. I don’t mind the sunshine; it’s warm and feels like I’m being cleansed of all the drugs they give me. My feet are always cold, and every single day I tell myself to ask the first nurse to roll up the blanket so my feet aren’t covered and I can feel the heat of the sun, and every day I forget.
Since most of my day is spent sighing and looking outside, I try to talk as much as my body will allow me when he comes. He doesn’t like me, I think, because sometimes I catch him looking at me with such dark contempt masking his face, it almost makes his eyes seem black. But then I think about how he visits every day, and how he sits there with his head hanging and his hands in his pockets (Why does he wear such baggy clothes? Why do they irritate me like an itch I can’t locate?) and listens to me talk to him in my whisper quiet voice, responding whenever necessary, and I don’t feel his hate anymore. I wish he would talk to me more.
Every visit makes him seem more familiar. He’s becoming more comfortable being with me, I think, and he doesn’t speak so formally anymore. He’s looked me in the eyes four times this week (one of those being when I saw my reflection in his glasses, but I didn’t recognize myself until after he had left) instead of watching my mouth as he listened and answered. Yesterday we spoke of the weather and colours of nature, and my night was spent reliving the moment where he said that my eyes were the colour of ice and the sea, my reply being that his skin was the colour of a dying fire. The look on his face (his mouth had dropped open, his eyes, the colour of freshly mown grass, grew large and he just breathed). was what drove me to ask him again, today, if we were acquaintances. The feeling that I had perhaps said something to trigger that reaction from him before nagged at me all through the night and day.
The sunlight begins to make me see red, so I turn back towards him. He’s looking back at the tiled floor, his unruly black hair falling over his glasses.
I’m hungry.
Haven’t yo- didn’t they feed you already?
Can I have something else?
Uh- yeah. I guess. Let me get someone.
No, can you get me something?
He sighs. You’re going to ask me for something you’re not allowed. I’m not going to go against the doctor’s orders, you know.
He’s mumbling now, and I don’t know why I thought to ask him. The nurses would be more than happy to give me whatever I requested; I’m sure it would please them to know I’m getting my appetite back. Sometimes words just leave my mouth but I don’t remember thinking about them.
Never mind.
He’s looking at me now, and I wince as a pang of familiarity bursts inside me that I can’t place. It’s only for a second, but I think he catches it.
Tell me what you want.
Nothing really, I don’t know why I asked.
Drac- Malfoy. Just tell me what you’d like.
Gingerbread. Ginger nuts. Something that smells of ginger.
He’s blinking at my arm. I look down and see the patch of bright white light lying on top of my body like a blanket and wish, while mentally scolding myself for wishing, that I could feel the warmth on more than just my arms and face. Wishing won’t get me anywhere.
You want ginger nuts.
Yes. And maybe some… some of that…that drink…
I rub my forehead and squeeze my eyes tight until I hear a loud buzzing in my ear. That drink, what was it called? It was black or brown, and tasted sharp. Sweet and sharp and it’s just a word, I should know words. My head turns back towards the sun and I can see red again through my closed eyes. I want to cool them down, look at the snow, but a voice inside me says, ‘not until you remember,’ and I’m grinding my teeth now.
Do you mean-
No, let me remember. I know what it’s called. Wait.
I turn to look at him, opening my eyes at the last moment and catch his wet eyes. He’s about to cry, I think, but his lips are forming into a small smile. I forget what I was thinking about, just watching his lower lip spreading out and causing laugh lines to appear.
He looks up, raises an eyebrow that shouts, ‘well?’ and smirks at me.
What? I say in surprise.
The drink.
The drink…the…
Just water would be fine.
His smile is gone. He’s nodding at the floor, like some dwarf is standing there talking to him. Like my answer has disappointed him. What other drink could I want? I hardly have any appetite these days.
How about some coke? Would you like to have that instead?
Is he talking to me or the dwarf? I’m not sure why he’s still here. Isn’t it about time he left? And where is the last nurse? She’s always here by the time the sunlight starts to go back downwards. What on earth is coke?
I don’t know what that is. I’m sure I wouldn’t like it even if I did.
His face scrunches up and the last nurse enters a nanosecond before words leave his lips. She’s surprised to see him, as much as I am that he hasn’t left yet.
Oh, Mr. Potter, I- sorry, it’s time for his sleeping draught. I could come back in a few minutes, if you like?
I look back and forth between them, this Potter and my nurse, watching their expressions.
Please, he says.
I don’t much want the nurse to leave me with this…this man. Didn’t I just- his name was- Never mind.
He’s standing next to me and I can see how the fabric of his shirt falls over his chest as he breathes. His teeth are clenched and if I could see his hands, I’m sure they would be fists.
You used to. You used to love coke, the only muggle thing you’ve ever fucking liked in your entire life. Don’t tell me you don’t remember. I know you can. You said it tasted like vanilla and potions and burned your throat as it went down if it was too cold, but left a bad after taste if it was too warm. You said it was like fireworks going up in your mouth and then settling down in your stomach like a glacier. You hate the way the bubbles pop in your face when you bring the glass to your lips, and you can’t stand how sticky it is if it you ever spill some on your skin. Don’t tell me you don’t know what it is. Don’t tell me you don’t fucking like it. It’s a drink. It’s the drink you wanted two fucking minutes ago, with ginger bread, because only you, Draco, can eat something that tastes of ginger, fucking ginger, with coke. Who even-
His jaw clenches and he’s backing away. I can see his hands now, and just before he shoves them in the pockets of his jacket, I catch his fists growing tighter.
I don’t know what to say. Even as I fumble with the words in my head, his words are already drifting away. I gulp, and begin.
Coke, then.
He stills and I think he stops breathing for a moment, catches my eye and there’s that smile again.
Maybe he should be in here too. In that short time, he went from speaking in a harsh whisper to smiling. Surely there’s something wrong with him.
One slow nod, a quick licking of his lips, a deep breath.
I’ll see you tomorrow.
The nurse enters as he leaves. She smiles at me, as is usual, and touches my leg. I only know because I can see her.
I shake my head at her unasked question, wondering if there’s anything from today that I will remember tomorrow, and lie in wait for the sun to reach my face again.
The Mug of Magic
Title: The Mug of Magic Rating: PG Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters are property of J.K. Rowling and/or associates. No copyright infringement intended. Warnings: None. Except possibly more use of dialogue when the characters become completely comfortable with each other. Notes: Word Count is about ~3300. Summary is: Draco doesn’t know why the hell his wishes are coming true, but he does know how. Also, thank you to the mods for both running such a great project and granting me a little leniency with the Dec. deadline. I needed it. :) I had wanted to make this longer, but time does not like me this year. I hope it’s okay anyway.
::~::
“How can we help you today, Mr. Malfoy?”
Draco pulled off his gloves finger by finger and examined the creature in front of him. It looked even more malignant than usual due to the festive red and silver tinsel that decorated its booth, and he felt his lips twitch.
Gringotts, impervious as always, was once again tall and wide and immaculate. The lighting was daunting, even more so than before the most recent war, as if the mood itself could prevent a break-in. To make up for it, Christmas decorations were draped all over the room, though he was quite certain goblins couldn’t care less about such a cheerful holiday celebrated by humans.
“Mr. Malfoy,” repeated the goblin with flagrant impatience. “Is there anything that I can do for you today?”
Draco pulled his coat more tightly around himself. No use casting a warming charm; despite the forgiveness he had been shown in the past few years, most couldn’t help but flinch at the sight of him taking out a wand. The goblins were especially tetchy now, and Draco knew those rumors he heard about them never forgetting were true.
“I’d like to see my vault, please.”
The goblin hummed suspiciously and held out his hand for Draco’s wand. He took it out of his pocket slowly and handed it over. After the goblin mumbled under his breath, the wand was surrounded with a bright blue light. Draco recognized it as the standard test for identification, and lifted his hand to retrieve it when the lights faded. Instead of giving it back, the creature cast another spell, and now his wand was coated with a light green.
When he did get his wand back, Draco took it more tersely than was perhaps necessary. He felt the slightest bit indignant and tried to remind himself that goblins weren’t ever trustworthy, and without his old wand, there was a possibility of someone making an attempt to steal his money.
The goblin accompanied him down to his vault with obvious reluctance, and Draco had to fight to not snap at the thing. Capability for more tolerance now or not, there were few wizards that felt that way about goblins. Still, they arrived with no obstacles. Unless the frightening amount of life-threatening wards that had to be dismantled could be counted as obstacles.
The stone concealing the door to his vault was smooth but bumpy, and there was nothing to distinguish it from the rest of the wall that stretched on for what looked like miles. It felt like a dead-end. Draco hated it down here.
The goblin – Draco now remembered his name was something like Tagnak – turned away from Draco while he performed the esoteric unlocking charms. With the key Draco then gave him, Tagnak twisted it completely around in the keyhole and stepped back to watch the door open.
Neat piles were separated from each other based on what coin they were, galleons being furthest from the door. Valuable jewelry and other items sat on a metal table near the back of the room. Draco went there and carefully placed the purchase he just made on top of it.
Gringotts was lately not only the safest location for keeping things, but also the most convenient. Every time his mother visited she went through his drawers to make sure he was staying organized – he hardly wanted her to find her Christmas present the next time she came over. He still remembered the time she opened the drawer to his bedside table. The pale, sickly look on her face hadn’t been forgotten.
“Thank you, Tagnak,” Draco told the goblin reluctantly when they were on their journey back.
“It’s Tognak,” he grumbled in reply.
Freezing rain was pouring down when he left the bank, and he Apparated straight from the outside steps. His home was warm and cozy, and he sighed in relief when he appeared a foot from the front door. He toed off his shoes and hung up his scarf, preening as his eyes fell on the decorations around the entryway, and the reflection on the windows of the lights that shined outside. He’d put blood, sweat, and tears into those – the sweat from climbing a ladder to the roof of his house and the blood and tears from the accidentally stapled finger he’d obtained after the store owner suggested he try doing it the Muggle way.
“Oh, Draco,” a female voice called down the hallway. “You’re home. Hello.”
He’d recognize that voice anywhere. Draco’s eyebrow rose as he entered the drawing room and saw Pansy sitting in an armchair by the fire, reading theProphet.
“You know, Pansy, when I gave you a key, I didn’t mean to imply that you are welcome to lay about my home when you know I won’t be there.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” she smirked teasingly at him and settled further into the chair. Her legs were crossed as best she could in her black business skirt, and Draco thought not for the first time that they would make a good-looking couple if he had been interested in her. “Besides, I was lonely.”
“I can’t very well entertain you while I’m at work.” Draco huffed and fell onto the couch. His feet itched when he glanced at the coffee table. It was tempting, but then again he just cleaned it—
“Draco,” Pansy’s voice was softer and more somber now, and Draco schooled his expression into one of concern when he turned toward her. “Blaise wrote.”
Draco froze. Pansy’s relationship with their other closest friend did not end on a note most would consider good – he was fairly certain she threw a lamp at him and told him she never wanted to see him again – but Pansy had still been pining ever since he moved to France. He wouldn’t be surprised if she always carried a torch for him.
“What did he say?”
“Just that he’s doing well and we shouldn’t worry about him as if he’s made of glass. Oh, and he broke up with that complete wretch he’s been seeing.” She waved her hand in the air and swallowed down half the glass of firewhiskey he hadn’t noticed her holding.
Draco stifled a smile; Pansy didn’t like to admit to her feelings often, and this time was no exception.
“No inquires about how we are. Apparently, it might kill him to care about us a little. He just holds grudges like a…”
“Slytherin?”
“Yes, like a Slytherin. Honestly, it was one year ago. Does he really need to move on so quickly?
“I guess it’s just us two, once again.” Pansy said it so mournfully Draco would find it insulting if she didn’t get this way every time Blaise wrote. “What should we do, Draco? Drink until we’re smashed? Would you help me with my makeup if we’re going out?”
“We aren’t going out,” Draco deadpans. “And me liking blokes isn’t equivalent to me being female, so no, I’d rather not help you with your makeup. It’s noon on a Monday, Pans, why would we get drunk now?”
“Fine,” she sniffed. “But I at least need some sort of comfort drink.” Her frown transformed into a mischievous smile. “And I know just the place. Come on, Draco, you won’t believe who works there.”
::~::
When Pansy brought him to a coffee shop he had never seen before, he wasn’t quite sure about it.
“I’m not sure about this,” he told her shortly. “I’ve never been here before.”
“That’s why I took you, Draco,” she gave him a Look and strode inside and out of the rain.
Draco gazed up at the sign. The Mug of Magic, the store declared itself as. Draco snorted; the name was almost criminally cliché. Next to the sign was an image of a cup of hot coffee, sparkling as if influence by some sort of spell. He hurried after Pansy.
“Coffee here doesn’t actually have an enchantment on it, does it?” He whispered to her, feeling insane, as she headed toward a window table.
She rolled her eyes. “No, Draco, it doesn’t. I swear on your mother’s grave.”
“Thanks.”
“Always. Anyway, you’re in for a surprise. I wish I had one of those cameras so I could capture the moment forever.”
“Oh. You mean that employee you were talking about earlier?” He shook his head at her. “I don’t know, Pansy. I’ve seen practically everything now.”
“You’ll see,” was all she said back.
Draco tuned out the world around him while he thought up his order, and didn’t look up until someone approached their table. Then, he couldn’t look down.
“Um, hello Pansy and…Malfoy. What can I get you two today?”
Draco almost choked on his next inhalation. There was Harry Potter, plain black apron, pink cheeks and all. He looked pointedly at Pansy, pencil pressed against the small notepad for orders that he held.
“I think I’ll just have tea today, Harry. The usual.”
He nodded furiously and turned to Draco. His hand shook as he held it above the pad.
Draco made his voice work. “Cinnamon Dolce Latte, please.”
Potter nodded again and left. Draco realized he had been gripping the edge of the table and let go.
“You could’ve at least acknowledged his identity, Draco.” Pansy scolded him.
Draco was barely listening. Potter had grown up to look decidedly better than at school. Specifically his hair. Back then, it had made him look unkempt, like he let toddlers pull at it every day before going to class. Now, it suited him. It brought out the green of his eyes and an anxious feeling in Draco’s stomach that disturbed him deeply.
In no time, Potter was back, setting their coffees on the table carefully. He straightened up, and Draco noticed his cheeks were even pinker than earlier.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” He asked formally, wiping his hands on his apron.
“Nothing.” Pansy smiled sweetly. Too sweetly. Potter turned away again and was gone.
Draco cleared his throat and drank about half of his latte in one sip. Pansy chuckled.
“Gorgeous, isn’t he? I’ve yet to find out his orientation, though. Who knows, Draco; you may be in luck.”
“Doubtful. He dated that Chang girl, and the female Weasley. Besides,” he glared at her. “Who says I would be interested if he was gay?”
“Your actions all through our school years.”
“Oh, shut up. Not this psychoanalysis shite again. You two seem comfortable enough. You’re on a first-name basis already.”
“Mm, I insisted that we be.” She smirked at him. “The war being over, and all that. I can get him to call you Draco, if you like.”
“Let’s leave that for another day. Alright?”
Rather than replying, she drank her coffee.
It was several minutes later when she finally said, “Why are you wearing gloves while drinking a latte?”
He blinked. “Is that not acceptable hot-beverage drinking etiquette?”
“It’s just strange, is all. They’re lovely gloves.”
“Thank you.” He frowned. “They are nice, but I do have this penchant for leather recently. I’d love a pair of those gloves. You know, the leather ones for this time of year that are still warm?”
“Draco Malfoy and leather?”
“I’ve been known to indulge in Muggle ideals every once in a while.” He scowled. “I have a television.”
Potter came to clean off a table near them as Pansy said, “That you do. And I suppose leather would be nice. Especially with fingers like yours.”
Draco smiled. Pansy had been telling him for years that one of the most attractive things about him was the length and slenderness of his fingers. They made his hands look aristocratic, she would explain.
“Yes, well. I just wish I had some.”
Potter dropped a bill off at their table, saying, “Feel free to stay as long as you like—”
“It’s perfect timing, Harry. We were about to leave.” Pansy dropped some coins into Potter’s hand and squeezed it gently. “We’ll see you around.” She got up and fixed her cloak.
Not completely sure what to say, Draco murmured, “Thanks, Potter. My compliments to whoever made the latte.”
“Oh,” Potter smiled slightly. “I made it. There are only a few of us working here at a time, so…”
“It was good. I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah,” Potter mumbled. “Right.”
Draco shook his head and followed Pansy’s laughter back outside.
::~::
He woke up the next morning with his head pounding consistently every couple of seconds before realizing that it was actually rain hitting the roof of his house.
Draco went through his morning routine in a kind of trance that he was sure exhaustion had caused, and was drinking his morning coffee – black – when he heard it.
A loud, confident knock at his front door, sounding four times.
He groaned silently and prayed it wasn’t Pansy. She had ranted to him about Potter’s attractiveness, of all things, when they arrived back at Draco’s house, and when the caffeine wore off, she was back to Blaise and Blaise’s ex-wretch. He hadn’t gone to sleep until one in the morning.
But when he opened the door, no one was there. On his doorstep sat a box. It had red wrapping paper with a green bow, and an envelope was taped to the package. He took it inside.
The envelope contained a single message – Happy Christmas, please enjoy this gift, I hope it solves your wish – and no name. Not willing to wait until Christmas, he tore off the paper.
Inside was a pair of leather gloves. They were gorgeous – and comfortable, he noticed when he put them on. They fit his fingers perfectly and were just snug enough on his hands.
There was only one person that knew about his love for leather. Pansy. She was the only option. But when he contacted her through Floo, she simply yelled at him for interrupting her beauty sleep and informed him that she was not the gifter.
Who, then?
::~::
Around a week later, Draco was once again sitting in The Mug of Magic.
For the fourth time.
“Malfoy,” Potter smiled pleasantly when he entered. “Cinnamon Dolce Latte, right?”
“Indeed,” Draco’s lips twitched at the thought of Potter remembering his order.
“Be right up,” Potter said quickly and hurried away.
Draco made himself stifle his laughter and looked out the window. It was dry outside today, and the sky was mostly clear. He sighed and wished there was snow falling. It was the season of Christmas, after all.
He drank his latte slowly when Potter came back with it, and thought about the gloves which now covered his hands. He still wasn’t sure who’d sent them. The note had been written in a calligraphy he didn’t recognize.
And the note itself was strange. It pointed out that Draco had made a wish for the gloves, which, to be quite honest, frightened him a bit. No one could have possibly known how he’d wished for them.
“Here’s your bill, Malfoy,” Potter said, and Draco almost jumped; he hadn’t seen Potter standing there.
“Thanks. You make a great latte.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Potter smiled, but it faded fast. “And, um, I was wondering if you were doing anything tomorrow night.”
Draco felt his eyes widen. “Nothing, actually. Why?”
“I was thinking that maybe you would like to go out. On a date. With me.”
Draco ignored the way Potter’s words all sounded like they were ending a sentence – and the feeling that grew in his stomach at Potter’s voice – to say, “Oh. Alright.”
“Alright?” Potter looked astounded.
“Yes. I would like to go on that date with you, Potter. Harry.”
“Wonderful.” Harry’s entire face brightened. “I’ll owl you tonight.”
Draco nodded, paid, and left the coffee shop in a daze.
He barely noticed the snow falling as he Apparated away.
::~::
I wish for my date with Harry to be great.
::~::
“What is this exactly?” Draco asked in a not at all fearful voice.
Harry chuckled. “It’s just a play, Draco.” He rubbed the back of Draco’s hand, which was gripping Harry’s arm tightly, with his fingers. “Nice gloves, by the way.”
“Yes, I like them, too. They were a gift. I think. And what is the play about?”
“You’ll see.”
A Christmas Carol was an excellent show, Draco found. The main character reminded him of Severus so much that he couldn’t help telling Harry, who in turn informed him that he had just ruined this story for him. Forever.
It was too late for dinner at a restaurant after, so they headed back to Harry’s place, where he sheepishly presented a simple meal of spaghetti that, while messy, was delicious.
“This was…really nice.” Harry said when they finished eating.
“Yes,” Draco agreed, grinning. “It was.”
Harry kissed him before he left. And it was funny, really, because Draco had been looking down, and then suddenly there were lips on his. Soft lips, lips that he liked more than any others he’d ever felt.
Harry’s tongue pushed slowly into his mouth, curling around his in a way that made Draco’s knees buckle at the sheer tenderness of it.
He resolved to send a thank you to Pansy for introducing him to The Mug of Magic.
::~::
Draco sipped his latte. It was difficult to do when he couldn’t keep a smile off his face.
I wish all this work I’ve been doing would pay off in the end.
::~::
“We’d like to use your books in our Potions classes, Draco. Would that be alright?”
Draco pinched himself. Not dreaming, then.
“Yes, Minerva. That would be wonderful. Perfect in fact.”
He heard a chuckle on the other end, which, if not already in a state of shock, would have put him there.
After Minerva hung up the firecall, Draco collapsed in an armchair.
This was certainly not normal.
::~::
“Dinner tonight?”
Draco interlocked his fingers with Harry’s. “Pay for my latte and maybe I’ll consider it.”
Harry laughed, pink cheeks and all, and Draco thought that he was perhaps very lucky.
I wish for Harry to spend Christmas with me.
::~::
Pansy slapped an envelope down in front of him.
“Is there a reason you’re giving this to me?”
“Blaise is coming back for the holidays. Seeing his mother and all. He wants to visit with me.”
Draco rubbed his temples. “Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
“I guess you’ll just have to start dating again.”
“No, Draco—”
“Congratulations, and all that. Now get out; I’m working.”
Pansy glared. “You’re awfully inconsiderate for a friend, you know.”
She left before Draco could respond.
::~::
I wish for Pansy and Blaise to get back together.
Maybe then the bint will stop bothering me about it.
“Okay. Here’s your latte. I’ll pay for it. I expect another dinner for this.” Harry hesitated. “And maybe breakfast?”
Draco smiled. “I think I might be able to arrange that.”
::~::
Dear D.M.,
You were right. Don’t boast. It isn’t attractive.
P.P.
::~::
“It’s beautiful, Draco.”
“I was surprised when you didn’t barge in—I mean, visit my house unexpectedly this year.”
His mother laughed. “I must’ve forgotten. I’ll remember next year.”
“Lovely.”
She chastised him and fastened on her necklace.
::~::
“I’m glad you’re here for Christmas.”
“Fond of me already, are you?”
“I might be. Just keep buying my lattes.”
“You know, I’m supposed to be making money at my job,” Harry deadpanned.
“Yes, yes, whatever. Do you want to hear my secret or not?”
“Go on.”
“Your coffee shop makes my wishes come true.”
“I’m sorry. What?”
Draco grinned. “Every time I go to The Mug of Magic, I make a wish. And it always comes true.”
“You know that’s it’s probably a coincidence, right, Draco? I already told you the gloves were from me. Everything else could’ve happened even without your wishes.”
“Sure.” Draco answered.
He didn’t mean it for a second.
So November Ends...
What a busy month! Hang in there, it's almost December! Did everyone love this months submissions as much as we did? We sure hope so!
Since we are so grateful to all our followers and submitters, we've decided to do something special for December, as we hinted at earlier this month, so keep on a look out for that.
Next months theme: Light
November Reveals
And You Don't Know by thisisasickness
Better than Fireworks by kimm-chi
Blazes by Anonymous
Bloom by lusterofgems
Breathe by smuglikesmirk
Chibi Jam by cremebunny
Colours by Anonymous
Time by backtocheyenne
Turn Me On | Don't Stop by cremebunny
Bloom
Title: Bloom Rating: K Disclaimer: Do not own Harry Potter. Making zip money. Warning: pre-slash i guess.
...
A field of flowers bloomed in the sky before disappearing into a cloud of wispy smoke. They came at odd intervals with no real set pattern and yet everyone paused to watch. Weasley products, they were. Harry could tell, and no doubt everyone else as well.
No one celebrated. It seemed more like a collective sigh of relief, something people wanted to put behind them. Not even the fireworks seemed very celebratory. It was the end of one story and the beginning of another.
He wasn’t sure where Ron and Hermione had gone, but he knew they were most likely together. There were many things Harry should or could have been doing, but wasn’t, like looking for Ginny. That should have been the first thing he did, but he didn’t. He just…needed a moment.
His eyes drifted away from the sparse blooms in the sky towards the devastated castle ground. There were a few people there, pulling survivors and dead bodies alike from the rubble when their eyes weren’t drifting upward. That was another thing he should have been doing: helping. In a moment, he tells himself. Right now, though, he just wanted to sit here, alone, watching the head of pale hair wandering around below.
Title:Turn me on | Don’t Stop Rating: T Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the property of JKRowling. Warnings: Sexy Tom felton, suckyness Notes:I like Jam on toast and i have a large toe
