theHDproject

thehdproject is a community for Harry x Draco shippers on tumblr. This is a concept which aims to raise awareness of new talent - writings, art, graphics, gifs - basically anything you take fancy to. Please read the Intro, Rules and Guidelines post to find out more information. WARNING: Some content may be explicit.

[thehdproject]

[thehdproject]

Thanks to those of you who have already taken the survey! We're diligently going through the answers and giving much thought into how we can better this blog when we come back :)

We're taking all your suggestions quite seriously.

So help us out! We want to hear from you!

Love your HDP mods

xx

[thehdproject]

Hi folks!!! Miss us yet?

We've put together a survey for all you HDProject readers and followers! We'd like to find out what you liked about the blog, what inspired to submit, why  you may not have submitted, etc etc.

PLEASE take the time to fill this out :) It would mean a lot to us if you did and help us in the future whenever we decide to restart the blog. It'll be fun! Clickly clicky!!

Go on... the link loves you. Yes. Loves You. Here it purr?

Love your HDP mods :)

xx

[thehdproject]

Announcement: A Parting of Sorts

It's now the last Friday of 2011 and It's been five months since the H/D project launched. We've had a lot of fun along the way but it's time to take a little break now.

We genuinely appreciate everyone who has participated, submitted and supported us along the way; we couldn't have gotten this far without you! If you have any inquiries at all, feel free to contact us here, we'll continue to have one eye out for our ask box. Unfollow if you must, but we do plan to be back, hopefully soon.

A heartfelt thank you to you all, and goodbye for now. Happy New Year <3

Love your mods

xx

[thehdproject]

We are pleased to announce that the winning entry was Sun by backtocheyenne!

[Artwork by roosterblue]

[thehdproject]

December Reveals

Lights Out by serpante-amour

Luminescent Reminiscence by amayasora2992

Polar Star by lusterofgems

Silent Sincerity by twelvefootmountaintroll

Sun by backtocheyenne

Time and Again by kimm-chi

The Mug of Magic by hopelesslyintricate 

What’s Left When Stars Burn Out by Anonymous

[thehdproject]

Polls are now closed. We will announce the winner and the REVEALS soon.

[thehdproject]

December Poll

So that’s all for December!

We hope you’ve enjoyed it as much as we have :)

It would also be very nice of you to click on the following button to vote on your favourite entry this month. Remember, the author of the winning entry will get a specially commissioned art dedicated to them, so please vote!!

CLICK HERE TO VOTE!

(The poll closes on the 27th Dec 0500 GMT.)

[thehdproject]

December Poll

So that's all for December!

We hope you've enjoyed it as much as we have :)

It would also be very nice of you to click on the following button to vote on your favourite entry this month. Remember, the author of the winning entry will get a specially commissioned art dedicated to them, so please vote!!

CLICK HERE TO VOTE!

(The poll closes on the 27th Dec 0500 GMT.)

[thehdproject]

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. 

[thehdproject]

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. 

[thehdproject]

Luminescent Reminiscence

Rating: G Disclaimer:I don’t own Harry, Draco, or any other part of JKR’s wonderful Potterverse. I do not get any profit whatsoever from writing this, and do so only out of love for the characters and the craft. Warnings: None Notes: Kind of inspired by the song “Once Upon a December” but not really. Set in the Muggle world primarily. Summary: Scents, colors, and above all lights keep nudging Harry toward something he’s forgotten, a lonely ache he hadn’t noticed until now. But it will take a true Christmas miracle to pull all the pieces together.

...

Harry had always liked Christmas. Everyone was always smiling and holding doors for people, carols rang through the streets and over the intercom in shops, and snow fell to blanket the city in crisp newness. Although most of the Londoners around him didn’t, he also loved the general hustle and bustle of the season. It made him feel like he was part of something bigger. Above all he liked the lights that peppered every pole, window, and square. He was drawn to them, inexorably, and they gave him joy and a sense of rightness and life that he often found himself lacking at other times of the year.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t happy; he was. But he never seemed to be as happy as anybody else around him, never to connect as deeply with his neighbors, coworkers, or the customers he interacted with in the little trinket shop where he worked. Harry sometimes wondered if they were just on different wavelengths, somehow, having had disparate experiences that made it so something was just… unable to click.    

Nevertheless, he loved the Christmas season as much as the next bloke. And this year was no different- or hadn’t been, anyway, until a week or so before the big day itself arrived. He’d gotten up one morning and just had the strangest sense of emptiness, was the only way to describe it. This overwhelming feeling that something was missing, something vitally important and infinitely precious. It was the queerest thing, and for the life of him Harry couldn’t figure out what had caused it.

He endeavored to put it out of his mind as he went about his routine: make a spot of breakfast, watch some telly as he ate, and then walk the few blocks to work in time for his shift. Harry just couldn’t shake the feeling, though. Almost as odd was the fact that his gaze was drawn to the admittedly ostentatious candle his boss had sat in the shop window.

The candle’s flame wavered slightly each time a customer walked in, the gust of air accompanying them threatening to douse it. Harry was so busy with orders that it wasn’t until the middle of his shift that he noticed the scent wafting from it- cinnamon. It was horribly artificial, true, but nonetheless he could tell that it was cinnamon. All of a sudden something flashed in front of his eyes: a small smile, so very tentative, revealing pearly teeth. It was over as quickly as it came, but Harry could still see that smile in his mind’s eye- a fragile, beautiful thing, like a snowflake. 

He was still in a bit of a daze a few hours later, mulling over this strange occurrence as he trudged up the stairs to the fourth floor and his flat, key still in his pocket. As he stopped to rummage for it, he noticed Tim, his neighbor across the hall, standing on a chair to hang mistletoe atop his door.

“Hey, Harry,” said Tim. “You’ve not decorated yet, I see.”

“Oh… no, just haven’t had the time, I suppose,” he replied, not wanting to get into a long conversation about his vague sense of not-rightness with Tim.

“I hear that. Weeks just keep getting busier and busier,” Tim said. He smiled and hopped off his chair. “There now, what do you think? Shelly’s bound to notice, right?”

“Definitely,” Harry responded. “Especially with the hall light hitting it the… way… it…” The light did indeed hit the sprig, making its colors bolder than ever: emerald green, deep red, warm brown, snowy white, and a ribbon to adorn it in a handsome shade of sapphire blue. Harry got the strangest image of a jumper in that precise shade. 

“Harry?” Tim asked, concerned.

"Huh? Yeah, looks good,” he mumbled dazedly. “See you.”

That night, Harry dreamed of that same smile from earlier. But the scene was expanded this time; a small apartment with cream walls that looked rather dingy, and sparse decorations. The thing that attracted his attention was the small blue fir tree in the corner, decorated with a silver garland and bright blue lights that glowed only dimly. It should have been depressing, but the tree had a quiet dignity to it, accepting its status, not putting on airs or striving for grandeur.

The person seated to Harry’s left on the small sofa was wearing that blue sweater in the exact same shade as the ribbon around the mistletoe Tim had been hanging. Harry was staring intently at the box on the man’s lap, though, which was being unwrapped as Harry rambled. 

“I wasn’t entirely sure what to get… like, what’s appropriate for our first Christmas, I mean… er… so, I remember you telling me you missed fine coffee, and I saw that and-” Harry stopped mid-phrase. The man had opened the gift and was staring at the gourmet coffee grounds- four packages of them- all with cinnamon flavoring added. Said packages were scented like cinnamon, too, and the scent enveloped them both, creating a greater sense of intimacy. Harry slowly raised his eyes towards the man’s face, and at last there was that beatific smile that had lived in Harry’s mind’s eye for the entire day.

But he woke up before he could see any more of the man’s face, and Harry noticed that he’d been crying in his sleep, without having the slightest idea why. The frost on the window of the little cafe in which Harry sat for lunch the next day was somehow entrancing, the way the colors danced as the light hit it at different angles. One such angle sent a beam straight to Harry’s eyes, and as he vision was clearing he saw, instead of the expected scene, for a split second, the outline of a head with the palest blond hair imaginable, snowflakes sticking in it in an endearing way. This man in the vision almost had a halo, and his voice was heavenly too: Harry? Are you alright?

Harry started, drawing odd looks from those around him in the cafe he could now fully see. He didn’t care, though; that vision felt like a dream, perhaps, that he had forgotten… He dwelled on it, staring at the patterns made by the melting frost, long after the businessmen went back to their Daily Mails. That empty feeling had intensified now, almost like an ache.

That night as well, Harry’s dream expanded upon his flash of… whatever that was. 

He opened his eyes to see that blond hair covered in snowflakes, refracting light like a halo. “Harry, are you alright?”

“Yeah…” he mumbled, willing his eyes to adjust to the too-bright lights. “Yeah, I’m okay. Why’re-”

“Lie still,” the voice fretted, placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder to stop him turning over to face him. “You’ve been hurt pretty badly.”

“What? I feel- owww!” He winced as the pain now hit him, throbbing in his head and neck. 

“Should I call someone? Do you need-”

“No,” Harry insisted, closing his eyes again. It helped him stay focused on that angelic voice, which soothed him. “I thought you were visiting your parents tonight.”

“I was, but I felt it was more important to be here,” he said, sounding oddly sheepish.

“You didn’t have to do change your plans,” Harry responded softly. “I would’ve been fine.”

“But I wouldn’t have been,” the man admitted, now brushing the hair back from Harry’s head. “And don’t lie- I can tell you’re glad of my company too.”

Harry winced. “Yes, definitely.”

The man was now softly tracing some shape on Harry’s forehead, at the spot where he sometimes imagined he saw a scar of some sort if he looked at it in the mirror from the right angle. “I think I realize why you hate this bloody thing so much now,” he said conversationally. “If it keeps causing things like this to happen I might have to join you.”

“Er…” Harry winced as a sharp stab of pain went through his neck and shoulder area. It seemed to be moving downward, whatever it was; hopefully it would eventually move completely out of his system. “I don’t think it was- hiss- necessarily the scar…”

“What do you mean?” he said tenderly, still stroking Harry’s hair.

“They didn’t know it was me at all, at first; I- promise you won’t be angry,” Harry pleaded, gritting his teeth against the pain that was now at his lungs.

“Angry? Harry, what hap-”

“Mr Potter?” a different voice said, and the angelic one stopped at once. Harry felt him turn, even if he couldn’t see it.

“Yes? What’s going on?”

“As you were told, Mr. Potter has been hit… very dangerous; luckily his… no lasting…” Whatever it was that the other man- a doctor, probably, to judge by his tone- had been about to say was drown out as Harry slowly awoke from his dream, frowning.

“Angel talk again,” he muttered before rolling over and going back to sleep. He woke up again several hours later, but unhappily, because he had not returned to that dream. Harry’s manager had outdone herself today; she’d invited some lady to come and do demonstrations on making gingerbread houses. For the entire duration of his shift. She never varied her talk, either, so by the third hour Harry could recite the speech along with her. Instead he watched her hands as she connected the gingerbread walls with white icing, puffy like snow, staring as the house slowly rose from the flat planes. But now he saw another house, a real one, squeezing in between two other ones, gleaming golden door knocker surrounded by a jolly wreath, and a few bells on the door that jingled ever so slightly as the full front facade appeared. The door opened and that voice spoke again, that man with the blond angelic hair, “Welcome home.” 

“Hello?!” someone snapped, and Harry forced himself out of his mind to see a line of customers in front of his register.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said to woman in the front, and proceeded to ring up her order.

Harry went to bed early that night, eager to see what his dreams would be like. He appeared in front of the street which looked like any ordinary London street until that house slid into existence. But he wasn’t startled by it; on the contrary, he was expecting it to do so.

He wasn’t expecting the wreath or the bells, however, or to be greeted at the door by that man, face partly shrouded by a shadow from the setting sun.

“Welcome home!” he cried, today in a green button-up and khaki colored pants.

“Hi,” Harry greeted, and dashed up the steps to hug him. “I thought you had work.”

“Got off early,” the man replied with a grin. Harry didn’t get a clear view of his face before he turned and walked down the hallway. Harry shucked off his cloak and followed. The man’s hair looked so very soft. “Wanted to surprise you with the decorations, but you’re early too.”

“Yeah, finished my case notes in record time. But, hey,” Harry added quickly, because his companion had started to frown slightly. “It’s the thought that counts, right? And I think it’s more fun to decorate together.”

“Really?” the man said, feigned skepticism making his mouth twitch upward in an endearing smile.

“Absolutely.” Harry himself grinned. “I especially think we should do it by hand.”

“Especially isn’t really a word,” the other pointed out teasingly.

Harry stuck his tongue out and in one motion whipped his hand into a box of decorative bows and flung one at him.

Soon they were working together side by side, putting up all manner of decorations: baubles in the shape of elf heads, garlands in silver and gold, ribbon in green and red, and Harry’s friend (or probably more than that, the way Harry felt about him) did something to make fake snow actually look like it was falling from the ceiling… almost like magic…

The scene cut to one where Harry was standing in the center of a beautifully-furnished room, stained wood walls lit by the glow of a fire and the light of the tree standing majestically in the corner. They were through decorating the house, now, and admiring their work. The golden lights twinkled like fairies- Harry could’ve sworn they were fairies, actually- and the silver tinsel shone. More ornaments in red, gold, silver and green hung from the branches, creating a beautiful vision of Christmas cheer. 

Suddenly Harry felt a breath against his ear and hands wrap around his waist from behind. “It’s perfect,” the man breathed.

“Yes,” Harry agreed, leaning back into the touch. “You know why I love Christmas?”

“This is going to be something ridiculously sentimental, isn’t it?”

Harry playfully elbowed the man, even though he could hear the smile in his voice. “Look at the colors. Green and silver, and red and gold. Working so well together, perfectly in-synch, more beautiful than either color scheme alone. And, I like to think it kind of represents us.”

“See? I was right. So sweet it might rot my teeth.” Again, Harry sensed the smile a second before he saw it as the man swung him around. “But I agree,” he whispered, and then brought his lips down to meet Harry’s. It was the perfect kiss, slow and sensual, and the other man’s mouth tasted vaguely of peppermint. 

Suddenly Harry awoke, heart hammering. It had been a dream, but certainly felt like something more- a memory. But it wasn’t; it couldn’t be… Harry had never been kissed, certainly not like that. He’d never met anyone he particularly wanted to kiss, as a matter of fact… still, whenever he turned around that day he could hear the echo of a joyful laugh and feel the ghostly sensation of a remembered hand in his, resting as naturally as if it had been made to fit there.

The park was deserted, and why wouldn’t it be? It was Christmas Eve, and everyone was with their loved ones, except Harry, who had no one to go back to. He looked up at the stars, and as his eyes passed over the northern corner of the sky something pulled at his heart, some strange force so powerful it nearly left him breathless.

A Christmas tree stood in the park, too, a huge majestic one with branches stretching outward and upward. The scent of pine filled Harry’s nose as the wind blew in his face. He pulled his scarf higher around his neck- this red and gold scarf, the Christmas scarf he’d had for as long as he could remember.

Which, now that he was thinking about it, wasn’t very long at all. Nothing of his childhood, his school days, friends or family- nothing at all, except the faint echoes he’d been experiencing lately. He had never dwelt on it before, but he really could not remember anything at all outside the last three years. It was almost as if someone had erased those memories…

The emptiness he’d felt, now properly called loneliness and desperation, had built to a peak, urged on by the flashes of dream or memory or perhaps just very powerful wishing. Harry had never felt melancholy, never felt like he was missing something being single, but he certainly did now. But it was more than that; he felt deep down that someone else was missing him, hurting due to his absence, and he cared about that person’s pain more than his own, even though he didn’t know who it could be.

Harry looked up at the tree, whose lights were shining brightly in the cold, still air heavy with snow. He expected the flakes to start falling any minute now. Harry’s eyes travelled upward, to the very top of the tree and the star that shone there. He blinked, and suddenly he was in that warm room again, with the Christmas tree in the corner, but the lights were all dimmed.

He was staring at another bright silver star- no, not a star, but a pulsing shape about that size, and growing. It slowly took form until at last it landed with light hooves, making no noise on the ground: a silvery impala, sleek and elegant. Its horns looked different, though, almost like a stag’s antlers rather than the usual straight spiraling ones.

Harry felt such overwhelming joy fill his heart at that sight that he couldn’t help tearing up. This was by far the best Christmas gift he’d ever received, because of what it meant. Harry looked up, behind the glowing impala to the hawthorne wand that had conjured it and then back still to its owner with the pale blond hair shining silver in the light of the Patronus and such a tender look in his eyes that it took Harry’s breath away.

He felt weak in the knees, and a sudden gust of wind told him that this was true in reality as well as in that memory- for he was certain that was what it had been. A memory of someone he’d forgotten… Even though he had no idea what a ‘Patronus’ was, or why the impala was so special, or where to find out, Harry knew with more certainty than he’d ever known anything that it was all real.

He was crying again, but made no effort to stop himself. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to be in that cozy living room with the tree and the fire and the light and him, the angel-voiced man with the beautiful smile and peppermint kisses and gorgeous silver eyes dancing with lovelight. He saw the scene clearly in his mind, down to the tiniest detail, and thought of how he’d give anything to get there, if only he knew how.

Harry couldn’t stand it anymore; he pivoted sharply on one foot and suddenly felt as if he was being squeezed through a very thin tube, he couldn’t breathe or see or hear until- pop! He found himself in that very room he’d envisioned.

But it was different; there was dust everywhere, no lamps were lit, and the furniture was covered by white draping. Harry stared around in wonder- how had he arrived here? It had to be magic, he thought- a Christmas miracle. But if it as a miracle, why did things look so different than what he remembered?

A tiny light flared suddenly, and Harry whirled- the tree! The Christmas tree was still standing in the corner, very much neglected and almost entirely undecorated. One thing remained; an ornament of two angels, one with black hair and one with blond, grasping hands. Where they touched a small bead sat, and it was currently glowing, spiraling tendrils of light in gold, red, blue, and orange spinning within and getting brighter by the second. Harry was entranced; slowly he walked towards it, hand outstretched.

Just as he was about to touch it another pop sounded. “STOP! What in-” The man cut himself off abruptly as Harry turned to face him. It was undeniably the same man from his dreams, but he looked years older- hair not quite as lustrous, robes slightly baggy and rumpled, frown lines around his mouth, and his eyes- they looked like pools of sadness rather than fountains of joy.

“H-harry?” he breathed, almost not daring to believe his own eyes.

“Draco,” Harry said simply. The name had just risen to his lips, and instantly he knew it was the right one, knew he had found what he’d been missing. 

They moved together, instantaneously, both flying into the other’s arms and devouring the other’s mouth, kisses filled with such joy and wonder and longing that both men were breathless before they pulled away, panting, resting their foreheads against each other, tears of joy streaming down both their faces.

There would be time later for questions and answers- the raid gone wrong and the resulting hasty decision made by an incompetent superior, which led to the firing of said superior, the unexpected power of the Keep Safe Keepsake Draco had finally brought himself to hang on the tree, the powerful magic of numbers- their seventh Christmas and Harry’s third after being Obliviated- but for now, as the clock struck twelve and Christmas was truly upon them, Harry felt that he could never want anything more than what he held in his arms.

[thehdproject]

Lights Out

Rating: K+ Disclaimer: Not mine, it all belongs to Mrs. Rowling, all that. Warnings: None. Notes: This was written spur of the moment on the last day and doesn’t even really sound but Drarry but ah well, that’s life.

...

The lights went out about mid-morning on a Wednesday.

It was funny, because Harry had always thought that the lights were run with magic, not electricity, so how could they go out?  He’d never put much thought into it, however, and was shocked when, in the middle of writing a report, his office went pitch black.  He sighed; this is what he got for choosing an office in the middle of the floor.

“Harry?” Ron called, knocking on the door.  “Are you alright?  The power’s gone off.”

“Yes Ron, I can see that,” Harry answered with a sigh, rubbing hands over his tired eyes.  God, this day, already bad, was about to get worse.

“What should we do?”  Ron called, and Harry wondered why he didn’t just open the door.

He shrugged, though it was a useless gesture.  Ron couldn’t see him and the lights were out besides.  “How the hell should I know?”

“Well you are Head Auror,” his best mate pointed out obviously. 

“Yes, Harry muttered to himself.  “I am.”

He tried to light his wand, only to find that his Lumos wasn’t working.  “The devil?” He said, shaking his wand like an idiot and attempting again, with the same results.  He tried another spell and another and another.  None worked. 

Carefully he stood, one hand on his desk to guide him, and went to the door.  He stumbled over his waste basket and cursed when it fell, scattering who knows what everywhere.  Toe smarting, he finally made it to the door and opened it, peering into the surprised eyes of his Deputy Head.  It was slightly brighter in the hall due to windows, and Harry squinted as his eyes adjusted. 

“Damn it’s dark in there,” Ron remarked, poking his head into Harry’s office.

“Yes, I know,” Harry said curtly.  “Have you tried to cast a spell yet?  They’re not working.” 

Ron frowned.  “No, I haven’t.  Hold on…” He pulled out his wand and attempted much the same spells Harry himself had tried, with just as much luck.  “Weird,” he muttered, furrowing his brow and looking at his wand with a quizzical look.  “What do you think happened mate?”

“Don’t know,” Harry shrugged.  “Where are the others?” 

“Half our number are out on missions,” he answered.  “I hope their alright, if their wands have stopped working like ours have.  I told the other half to stay at their desks.”

“Good.  The last thing we need are panicking Aurors,” Harry muttered the last part to himself.  “What do you think we should do?”

Ron shrugged unhelpfully.  “I don’t know; you’re the boss.”

“So I am.  Alright everyone!” He called loudly, and heard a bunch of chairs squeak as people moved to look in his direction- or well, general direction.  “We’re headed down to the lobby!  Everyone stick close together and keep quiet please.”

Dutifully they all followed Harry and Ron as they made their way to the elevators, which weren’t working.  Harry groaned in frustration and they all took the stairs, marching down a bit like an invading army.  Or a mama duck and her ducklings.  Harry wasn’t sure which.

Apparently the other departments had had similar ideas, for it seemed the whole ministry was clustered into the lobby, at least, from what Harry could see.  They looked like a pack of scared children huddled together in the almost pitch-black room.  From what he could tell, the fountain wasn’t working either.  This was just getting stranger and stranger, and Harry could feel panic rising in him.  With a firm hand, he stomped it down; there was no time for that now.

Leaving Ron and his Aurors with the Department of Magical Games and Sports, Harry went off in search of Kingsley, the Minister of Magic.  It was slow going; people were crowded together in a large mass and evidently couldn’t see him, even when he was inches away.  He pushed his way through, not caring who got in his way, until finally he saw the Minister surrounded by the other departmental heads, looking haggard and just as confused as everyone else.

“I don’t know what happened,” Kingsley muttered helplessly, spreading his hands.  “I’m sorry I can’t help.”

Harry couldn’t help but do a quick head count, making sure all the heads were there.  And indeed, there was one missing- Malfoy, Head of the Department of Mysteries.  The instincts he’d cultivated in sixth year went on high alert, and he scanned the hall as best he could, searching for that silvery blond hair.  Nada.

“Where’s Malfoy?” he asked Kingsley after the other heads and wandered away, grumbling amongst themselves. 

“I don’t know Harry,” the Minister answered, looking weary.  “Maybe he got delayed?”

“Who, me?” said a voice from behind them, and the two looked to see the very blond standing there, a Cheshire grin on his face.  “Didn’t know you cared Potter.”

“I don’t,” he protested, but even to his own ears it sounded weak.

“Mm,” Malfoy agreed, eyes dancing though his mouth held that signature smirk.  He turned to Kingsley and spoke with an air of respect and seriousness.  “The power will be back in just a second Minister,” he said, sounding formal. 

“Did the Department of Mysteries have something to do with this?” The Minister asked, looking curiously. 

Malfoy hesitated a moment before replying carefully, obviously choosing his words with the greatest care.  “I am not at liberty to say at the moment sir.”

Harry rolled his eyes, certain that that answer would never be acceptable.  Nothing was kept from the Minister.  To his shock, Kingsley just nodded.  “And our magic?” he asked.

“Should be returned at the same ti-“ Malfoy started to say, only to be interrupted.

Suddenly there was a flicker, then a small spark, and then a whoosh.  That was all the warning they got before the lights turned back on.  The fountain started once more with a gurgle and a burst of water.  Harry could hear the elevators working elsewhere in the building.  He blinked and looked around in surprise.  Catching his eye, Harry gave a start when Malfoy winked at him. 

“There you go Minister,” he said smoothly.  “All back to normal.  Everyone can carry on.” 

Kingsley nodded.  “Good, thank you Malfoy.”

Everyone else began to file back to their departments, moving in a swarm not unlike that at the end of the day.  Malfoy too turned away as Kingsley left, but Harry stopped him with a word.  The other man turned back and raised one eyebrow at him, a talent Harry had both hated and coveted. 

“Yes?”

“What did you guys do down there?” he demanded.  “What kind of things are you experimenting with that it took away all our magic?”

Malfoy grinned and it would have been pleasant if not for the rather sharp face pat that went along with it.  “Don’t worry your little head about it Potter; that’s my job.”

With another wink, Malfoy turned around and sauntered back to an elevator, all with Harry’s confused and questioning gaze boring into his back.  Harry shook his head.  Some things were better left a mystery.

[thehdproject]

Title: Time and Again Rating: G Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine, alas.

... Harry thumbed the photograph absently, stroking out the creases of the fresh polaroid Hermione’d given them earlier that evening. The darkness of the house was balmy and familiar, engulfing him whole. His fiddling with the photograph was a silent question, and an answering warmth covered his hands as Draco slid a hot palm over his fingers. “Penny for your thoughts?” Draco asked mildly, breath coming in comforting puffs against Harry’s cheek. Shaking his head, Harry leaned back against Draco’s chest, tilting to take in the cologne and gray cotton’s scent both. “We’ve come a long way, Slytherine mine. That’s all.” Draco said nothing, but the silence, too, was balmy and familiar. His long fingers stroked Harry’s calloused, slightly stubby ones; a contrast of grace and power.  “They were once so very against us dating,” Harry continued, heedless, and Draco nodded against his hair. He felt rather than saw the smirk that curled on Draco’s face. “And yet we had a decent Christmas dinner, no one blew anything but the roast turkey up - George really needs to  find a better time to test his new products - you didn’t sulk, Ron didn’t threaten to hex you like he did last year.” “Ha,” Draco snorted softly. “Well, it was just this Christmas! I’ll get my own back next time.” A chuckle echoed dimly, and Harry smiled. “You say that now, but you really are a pretty good chap deep down, aren’t you? You sap.” “Shut it, you Gryffindor. I haven’t lost my touch, I’ll have you know.” Pressing a kiss against Harry’s forehead, Draco walked around the sofa and deposited himself unceremoniously on Harry’s lap with a  devious grin on his face. Laughing, Harry yanked Draco closer, and linked his fingers with the other man’s. An affectionate gesture, so commonplace to them now. “So insistent. One would think you’re in denial.” “Maybe,” Draco stretched back, and hooked an arm around Harry’s shoulders, tucking his chin into the crook of Harry’s neck. “Who would’ve imagined it happening, you and I?” Harry shrugged, closing his eyes. “Yeah, and…” He wasn’t one for articulate and lengthy confessions, but the emotion welling up in him was overwhelming. “I really can’t imagine my days without you, Malfoy. I probably haven’t, for some time.” Somewhat true, given sixth year. Draco smiles, a twitch that Harry registers on his neck. “Potter, you rotter. You’re pants with words, aren’t you?” His voice shifts deeper dark, low and serious. “If it’s any consolation, I must admit I do rather feel the same way.” They’re quiet, the unlikely couple. Harry squeezes Draco’s hand, and Draco’s lips part, his blond hair falling into his gray eyes. He pulls at Harry’s hand in return, and speaks. “I was once too proud to admit it, but you were my redemption. Not because you saved me from the screaming fire, the madman who once terrorized us, or even from Azkaban. You breathed a different kind of life into me, passion - I still loathed you so much after school—” “Gee, thanks,” Harry remarked dryly. “You suck, Harry. Well, you kept me going. With all our banter, our bickering, our hexing one another continuously after that in the workplace, with our insults, and eventually…” Harry waited for Draco to catch his breath. Draco bent his legs over Harry’s knees, cloth rustling as he did. “You gave me light, Harry. You are my bloody light. All of you. And that — that’s more precious a gift, a salvation to me than anything in the world.” The tiny blinking flames around their Christmas tree flicker to life, to blackness, and back to life again. Music rang in from the falling night outside, as carols filled the air. Their conversation lulls as they sank into their contentment, each other’s heat and arms, the opulence of the late evening.  Harry eventually brushed a thumb across Draco’s cheek, and leaned in, lips grazing the Slytherin’s. They both closed their eyes reverently, lost in the moment. “Merry Christmas, Draco.” “And to you, my one and only Gryffindor.”

[thehdproject]

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.

[thehdproject]

Silent Sincerity

Rating: PG13 Warnings: A tiny bit of blood, brief (non-explicit) sex scene Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer. Characters in this story do not belong to me and I am not profiting financially from this writing. No copyright infringement intended. Notes: EWE. Not much dialogue, even though I adore Harry/Draco banter. A slightly experimental and poetic piece. Enjoy. ^_^

...

“Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts.”

Even years later, Harry will be able remember the torchlight flickering on that smug little face. He will remember the yellows and oranges being drawn out of that normally white-blond hair comically slicked back to reveal a forehead with just a hint of a gleam.

Draco will remember it, too. How those green eyes were already enigmatic as the flickering light flashed across them. How their relationship from there on was heatedly passionate, flamboyant, fully capable of burning the incautious, but equally capable of providing the warmth of life, just like the fire crackling quietly in the brackets on the walls.

“You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.”

He wonders later if their fingers would have been singed.

***

Harry’s palms are sweaty and his face is creased. Except it’s not really his face, nor his hands. His eyes are too small and beady, his hairline too close to his brow; his hands hang awkwardly low on arms set on wide shoulders.

He wonders for a moment if Draco knows, but the spoiled brat is far too self-absorbed for that. The green light suffusing the room gives his pale skin a deathlike pallor, but he talks animatedly about the news in the Daily Prophet. Still, it’s a cold kind of animation, one not of passion but assurance, not of desire but satisfaction. Maybe the Lake has chilled his heart.

Draco almost notices, almost catches on. But it’s too easy to believe that Crabbe and Goyle have overeaten when they stumble from the dungeons, complaining of stomachache.

Harry doesn’t really take a deep breath until that gangrene glimmer is truly gone from his skin—his own skin. Even the bluish light of the second floor bathroom is better than the green.

The blue light, effusing from everywhere but the dark corners, it seemed, invades Harry’s nightmares in time. It bleaches the color and leeches the life from Draco’s face as he lies on the flooded floor—or is that the blood blossoming from the gashes crossing his chest? It is muddled in Harry’s dream-fevered mind.

He has never seemed more ephemeral than in that moment. His translucently light skin, his stillness in the pooled water—he can’t be a ghost. Ghosts don’t bleed. He can’t be a ghost. 

But the struggling, sluggish pulse in his throat, the shallow expansion of his chest—what could be more ephemeral than these? Ghosts do not fade, as a failing heartbeat; specters do not threaten to become still as a bated breath.

And Harry realizes it was the fleeting life in Draco, not the looming death, that makes him transient. To be a ghost is to be permanent: to be alive is to be ephemeral.

***

Shadows across a distorted face, eyes glittering under swollen lids, two circles of glass set in bent wire frames and a flat, candlelight glare—still, Draco knows. He doesn’t need the candle his mother offers him, nor the encouragement from his aunt. He knows.

Let the darkness hold his secret a while longer yet.

***

Fire, then. Red, soot, ash, and heat. Choking, blinding, searing. Fire.

Draco worries his voice will be lost in the roar of the flames, snatched out of the air by a fleeting, fiery phoenix. Goyle is heavy in his arms. That distant figure, though, glances, turns, accelerates. The flames illuminate his face, set in a rictus of concentration.

Their fingers slip against each other the first time. (Draco can’t tell if it was the Fiendfyre that singed his.) The flames reach and snap and coil closer. But Harry comes back. He comes back and Draco is wrapped against him so firmly he may never come loose.

And Harry’s face is red, radiating heat into the cool, dim corridor. Draco is supposed to be the one with perfect vision, but he has trouble focusing on Harry in the wake of the blinding fire. Harry has always been difficult to pin down.

***

Then Harry goes and gets himself pinned, anyway, against a tree one summer day while walking through the periphery of the Forbidden Forest. In the distance, the restoration of Hogwarts is bustling like a beehive in swarm, but his attention is directed entirely to the foreground. Pinned, yes, but in control: Harry’s the one making demands.

Draco is torn, his arm against Harry’s chest uncertain. The cool sunlight, darting in through the verdure of the canopy, dapples his face and casts it into dramatic relief. His cheeks are too hollow, but his eyes are full of the fire of the sun.

“Why should I?” he asks.

“Because the Wizarding world is going in a new direction. Because you don’t want to become your father. Because the Ministry listens to me.”

Harry makes his demand again. “Let the past be past. Trust me.”

Draco wants to. Those eyes, cast in the same vibrant tones as the forest around them, shaded by those messy, disobedient bangs, implore him more than words ever could. He wants to.

***

The first time had been an accident.

Harry had no idea Draco wasn’t living in Malfoy Manor anymore; he couldn’t have overheard Zabini saying his Diagon Alley address one day in the lift down through the Ministry.

Draco, for his part, had been far too low in Voldemort’s ranks to have been privy to the information of Harry’s London hideout during the War. He had been utterly oblivious to it, in fact.

An accident. A coincidence.

Yet here they are again. This time they can’t pretend, but they find they don’t need to. Sitting on a frost-covered bench in the middle of a moonlit park, silent sincerity is enough.

Draco’s stormy grey eyes reflect the clear, star-filled skies above. And when they part, Harry allows himself one little pretense.

Draco trusts him and takes it up, too.

***

Another meeting. Deliberate—the way Harry’s tongue flicks over his lips, Draco’s lush and soft, denying the winter that has already slipped into spring. The street lamps are dark—a blackout? neither of them cares—and the skies overcast.

Not sitting, this time, but standing. Moving closer. Eyes gleaming in the night.

“Harry…”

“Yes?”

“Never mind.”

Harry ducks his head and his blush is lost to the darkness. But Draco feels it under his fingertips. He doesn’t need light to see the pretense slipping away.

“Harry.”

He’s looking up and their lips are pressing together and the vastness of the night can’t compare to how close they are. How close they stay.

Draco wants to know if their kisses taste the same in the light.

***

The fifth of June: Draco’s birthday. A private celebration at 12 Grimmauld Place. The evening has fallen to dusk, but anticipation has only risen. Fingers twisted together, they walk together to the dark bedroom.

Hands fumble and breath sits hot and heavy on bare skin; clothes lie discarded haphazardly. Where gazes go, tongues and lips and fingertips follow. Bodies are rough and smooth, firm and pliant, begging for touch.

They are pressed together and Harry whispers two words and Draco wants nothing but to comply. He can feel Harry under him, inviting, begging. He wants nothing else.

“Wait.”

A hush, a pause. Their desires aching, colliding, demanding.

“I want to see you.”

Harry’s fingers on his hip are an acquiescence; Draco scrambles in his clothes for his wand, lights the sconces on the walls with a flick of the wrist.

Harry’s eyes meet his. His skin is cast in warm tones from the maroon sheets and the light, his bitten lip calls for Draco’s attention, and a deliberately placed hand makes his need clear.

When, finally, they move in tandem, their gaze is like a red-hot shower of sparks, setting their passions aflame.

***

Laugher smooths the wrinkles of unease. Laughter had been a rare commodity during the War, but its abundance after only made it more precious. Laughter heals and the rift between the Golden Trio and Draco is drawn shut.

The bright sunlight glowing on the verdant grass beneath their picnic blanket puts them all at ease. In the height of summer, the landscape has only grown greener. Above them, the tree providing them with cool, scattered shade shifts in the breeze.

Harry takes a steadying breath: he wants to speak. Draco’s fingers twined with his support him. Hermione sees, understands. Ron is only a second behind. Hermione beams and he gives Harry a crushing hug, pauses, does the same to Draco.

“We’re just happy that you’re happy.”

***

Winter again. The predawn light filters into the bathroom where Harry stands. He’d light a sconce, but he wants to preserve the darkness in the bedroom where Draco lies asleep; he’d shut the door to block the light but for the terribly squeaky hinge. He makes a mental note to find a lubrication spell for hinges; all his others he learnt from Draco.

The ambient light from the midnight blue sky suffuses the while tile. The porcelain of the sink gleams dully and in one corner sits a cup with two toothbrushes. Harry had started using Draco’s toothpaste when he’d brought it over—Draco said Harry’s was too “plebeian” for him to use. But the shower holds two sets of soap and shampoo. Even the laundry hamper has clothes belonging to each of them. Harry smiles.

Draco pads into the bathroom and, rubbing his eyes, runs straight into Harry’s side. But he wraps his arms around Harry’s shoulders and buries his face in the crook of his neck and Harry knows it was intentional.

“What’re you smiling at? It’s too early.”

“When did you move in?”

“Mm. A while back. Didn’t you notice?”

He hadn’t. He smiles again.

***

The room is too big. No, not too big—too empty. Too flat and dull. The curtains block the light and lay a backdrop for the sound of steady breathing. The air itself is blank, scrubbed clean.

Harry’s eyelids are like sandpaper, or sandbags. His hands are tangled in fistfuls of hair, equally to keep him awake and to support his head. The chair is uncomfortable, but he likes that—all the harder to fall asleep in. In the corner of his mind, a rational voice tells the rest of him that sleep would be better. He’ll know when he’s needed awake.

A soft voice. “Harry?”

“Hermione?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. At least let me conjure a couch for you. You aren’t doing any good staying up all night.”

He stares at the floor. She crosses the dark room from the doorway and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“He’ll be okay. I couldn’t be on his surgery team, but I’ve triple-checked every diagnostic. He’ll be okay.”

“How could anyone do this to him? How can they think they’re any better than the Death Eaters they say they hate?”

Hermione conjures a second chair, sits beside Harry, and threads her fingers into his. For a minute there is only Draco’s breathing. Harry lets his tears eke out. Maybe they will wash away the sand.

“Shall I stay with you for a while?”

“Yes.”

She sighs and squeezes his hand.

“He’ll be okay.”

***

Someday, Harry will come down the stairs and sit down for a cup of coffee. It will be in the same mug he’s been using for years, poured from the same carafe full of the same brew Draco blends himself. He’ll note the way the morning sun angles into the room, how the dust motes float through the golden light before it hits that head of dazzling, blond hair.

He’ll pick up the paper and notice nothing special, but he’ll read the articles anyway—he doesn’t need to be at work for a while, yet. He’ll set his hand down, but Draco’s will already be there waiting, and they’ll stay like that just because.

Draco will sip his coffee—black, one sugar, as always—and slowly the sparkle will return to his eyes. He’ll wake up a little more and admire the way the sunlight slants into Harry’s eyes and gives them a definite depth he thought he imagined before.

Harry will turn to the announcements page. An idea will pop into his head and, with typical Gryffindor spontaneity, he’ll voice it. He’ll watch out of the corner of his eye for Draco’s reaction.

Draco will picture far too much white satin and gaudy jewelry and voice a concern. But he’s just going through the motions—they both know.

Harry will assure him there will be no need for any brides to be involved. Draco will smile.

“I’d like that.”

And someday, he will.

[thehdproject]

What’s Left When Stars Burn Out

Rating: PG Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns them, not me. Warnings: None.

...

Click. On. Click. Off. Click. On. Click. Off. Click. On.  Click. Off. Had you been here, you would’ve told me off for playing with the lights again. A nervous habit I developed over the years. Click. On. I wonder when exactly did your feelings start to flare up, turn into a star on its desperate death throes, growing bigger, consuming more. Dying. Hey, Harry, did you know that stars actually increase in size when they’re about to die?

Click. Off. You always seem a bit distant, detached. I’ve never been concerned about it, I thought that it was just who you are, and it is, but I didn’t—I’ve never deemed it as something that I should try to get around, try to get behind the thin mask that you never really discard. Maybe in its panic, it’s trying to somehow prolong its life, but they ended up dying sooner. Click. On. It started with something small, your eyes lost that tiny little warmth that always creep up on them when you smile. Then your smile gradually turned polite, more reserved, less revealing. That’s a bit sad, isn’t it, how they could’ve burned longer if they didn’t lose their mind because they’re dying. Click. Off. You were still there, with me, at least physically. I can’t say the same about your mind. Did you know that when your interest is piqued, your brows always furrow a little? You’ve never been able to hide that. The tiny little furrows decreased in number, until one day, they stopped appearing completely. No matter what I try to talk about, I couldn’t seem to get your attention. Where were you? I mean, it’s not as if they can avoid their death. Either way, they would have died anyway. Click. On. It wasn’t like you stopped paying attention to me. It’s more like, you suddenly started to pay more attention. More tiny kisses. More soft, lingering touches. It wasn’t uncommon for you to suddenly jump me, but the touches, the kisses; they were emptier, almost mechanical. It was like you were desperately trying to find that spark, or maybe you were trying to convince yourself that you still want me; physically, if not emotionally. Compared to humans, they’ve a pretty long lifespan, don’t you think? Click. Off. The attention did wane, though. You probably were sick of trying to convince yourself that you were still in love with me, that you still desired me. I wasn’t enough, in the end, no matter how much you tried. Suppose that they actually have a mind of their own, would most of them act the same way? Click. On. It wasn’t long before you stopped looking at me completely. You never were good at keeping eye contact, at least with me, but it was worse. During the last few days I don’t think I’ve ever looked at you in the eye. Maybe you were afraid, afraid that I’d find out the truth if I see your eyes, the lack of affection there, the warmth. I probably wouldn’t have. But then again, it’s quite hard to fight the urge to just survive. It’s our most basic, primal instinct. Click. Off. I was too oblivious, I didn’t notice that anything was amiss, only when I looked back did I notice the signs. I’ve always been oblivious, but I didn’t know that it’s—I should’ve been more attentive. I wonder why we all fight so hard just to live longer. Click. On. Not that it would’ve made a difference anyway. We’ll all die, in the end. The switch clicked and the light went off, leaving me alone in the darkness.

[thehdproject]

December’s theme is LIGHT.

The prompts are:

Frost

Gingerbread

Star

[art by rooster-blue]

We hope December festivities will give you awesome ideas, and remember, partaking in this month means that you have a chance to win a specially commissioned art, so please submit!

[ishipharrydraco-blog]

Deadline is today! If you’re planning on submitting something but haven’t yet; today is the last day!!