ms_semicolon (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} ms_semicolon) wrote,@ 2007-07-27 00:14:00 |
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Ten Years Gone, 4/? - H/D rated R, AU
STORY NOTES AND WARNINGS: This is a lightly-R rated story of H/D, which I started writing back in 2005. May contain background SB/RL, R/Hr, Led Zeppelin references, and I reserve the right to use the Dreaded Nickname "Remy". Having been originally conceived after book four, this universe disregards books five and six utterly. Any similarities are either (to me) logical or purely coincidental. Unedited, un-beta'd, and quite possibly unfit for human consumption. Read at your own risk; all feedback welcome.
Past chapters of this story can be found here:
http://archive.skyehawke.com/story.p
Ten Years Gone
by ms_semicolon
On the wings of maybe, downing birds of prey...
Flying again. Flying. He hadn't been since that last abortive Quidditch game, and at first echoes of it rose in his brain - broomstick bristles burning in mid-flight, and the screams - then the feel of the air rushing past him and the ground falling away beneath him took hold, and Harry forgot about the war and simply flew.
He sensed rather than saw Draco beside him, matching him turn for turn, twist for twist, as they flew lazy laps around the perimeter of the field, dodging and weaving around the handful of others sharing the space. Up, down, roll, arcing parabola around the end of the field and back... He could have made it a contest between himself and Draco, but there was something comforting about simply enjoying flying together, without turning it into a contest of skill.
At least, until a shout reached Harry's ears from the ground, and he looked down to see that the field had cleared, all the other flyers having formed a cluster on the ground, and that they were waving and beckoning him and Draco to join them. He glanced at Draco, who nodded, and together they dove and landed to meet the group.
"Hey," said a boy perhaps a year or two older than Harry, who he couldn't remember ever having seen at Hogwarts, "we're putting together a game of Quidditch, if you'd care to join us. What d'you play?"
"Seeker," said Harry and Draco in unison; their eyes met, and something like a challenge passed between them.
There weren't enough of them for two full teams, so Mitchell, the boy who'd summoned them - leader by virtue of the fact that he'd brought the Quidditch balls - left the Bludgers in their case; and they counted off into two teams, each with two Chasers, a Keeper and a Seeker. "Red and blue teams, I think," said Mitchell, and promptly charmed their shirts to match, so that the teams might tell each other apart. "Losers buy winners a round when we're done. All right - everyone ready? Let's go!"
It wasn't at all like playing Quidditch for Gryffindor, Harry discovered at once. For one thing, there was a lot less urgency and a great deal more laughter, each team cheering the other's goals companionably. He wished he could share that easygoing attitude - but Draco was circling the pitch with him, and the competition between them was as fierce as it had always been, as if catching the Snitch and the subsequent victory was the only thing in the world that mattered. For the first time, it made him feel wistful - they'd been getting on so well, he and Draco, and now it was as if they were back at school again, nothing changed, none of it having ever happened...
A whoosh of air past his ear, as Draco zipped past him; and Harry's reverie shattered as he spotted Draco's target, zipping along the far end of the field.
He increased his speed, knowing that his broom was better than Draco's, that he was better than Draco, that he could make up the difference - and did; neck-in-neck, they careened past two of the Chasers, arms outstretched, and Harry's fingers closed...
...around empty air, as Draco let out a little involuntary shriek of triumph.
In another moment, both teams were on the ground, circled around Draco, all of them cheering his triumph, and Draco stood in their midst, staring at the wings beating against his hand in what seemed like disbelief. He glanced up as Harry approached, and at the sight of the wide-eyed wonder on his face, Harry found himself forgiving Draco for having won. "Nice one," he said, and in a burst of sportsmanship, extended his hand to the other Seeker.
Draco took it, shook it. "Thanks," he said, with a shy little smile.
"Well, that was quick!" said Susan, a tall brown-haired girl who Harry didn't recognize from Hogwarts either. "Let's have another go, shall we?"
The next match, Harry caught the Snitch, and the time after that - over the course of the afternoon, it averaged out to Harry winning maybe two-thirds of the time, with Draco holding his own quite respectably. It was obvious that the Snitch wasn't quite as swift or nimble as the professional-quality sort Hogwarts used, having a dodgy wing and a tendency to wobble, which made it easier to spot and catch. But it was fun to play again, and became more fun as it slowly filtered into both his and Draco's heads that this wasn't the old House rivalry, they weren't playing for the Quidditch Cup. As the day wore on, it began to feel more and more like they were playing on the same side, sharing a common goal instead of being at odds with each other, so that the fun was all that mattered.
By the time the flyers decided to call it a day, Harry was sweaty and saddlesore and thoroughly exhilarated. "So, who won?" inquired Ethel - but there had been so many rounds that no one quite remembered; so they all trouped off together through the park, laughing and carrying their brooms, heading off to the pub together.
The Rose and Dragon was low-ceilinged, wood-paneled, walls hung with old street signs and Quidditch pennants and an assortment of memorabilia both wizarding and Muggle. Dartboards hung on one wall, near the restrooms; a Muggle air-hockey table sat nearby. There was a low stage in one corner, cramped into a corner. A woman was perched on a high stool behind the bar, strumming an instrument Harry later learned was a mandolin; she wore a lace-up corset over a medieval blouse, curly hair spilling over her shoulders, and would've looked quite at home in olden times except perhaps for the wash of neon light from the signs behind the bar highlighting her face. "'Allo, Roxy!" Mitchell called out, as the others echoed the greeting, and she smiled and rose to serve them.
Butterbeers all 'round, except for Mitchell, who opted for a pint of lager, and Aiden, who chose a Coke; they jammed into a corner booth and a couple of chairs brought up to the table-side, sipped at their drinks and talked. "You two must be from Hogwarts, the way you play," observed Tina, the Keeper from Harry's team.
"Yeah," Harry said. "Don't you go, then?" He'd imagined that all wizarding youth went to Hogwarts, had never heard of any exceptions to that rule.
"Nah," said Ethel dismissively, "we go to Rowan's Hill Comprehensive. Not quite as fancy as ol' Hogwarts, I reckon, but not all of us care to be away from home all year long."
"Or can afford it," Owen said quietly, kicking at the table leg.
Harry was quiet. He'd never thought about Hogwarts tuition - had always assumed it was free for all. Had his parents left a fund to pay his way? Had he been some sort of charity student? So many new questions...
"We play Quidditch, of course, but y'know, they always say Hogwarts is the best," Susan said, "the next best thing to professional play. Why else d'you reckon the pro teams are so keen to scout Hogwarts players?" She looked directly at Harry. "Think you'll go pro, if you can?"
"I hadn't thought about it," Harry answered, only half-truthfully. He'd thought about it, of course - but eons ago, before the War.
"Well, you should, 'cause from the looks of it they'll be after you soon enough." She scrutinized Harry, and he fought the sudden urge to smooth his fringe down over his scar. So far, none of their new acquaintances had stared at his forehead or made any comments - and he didn't want them to start: he was enjoying being anonymous, simply another teenager among friends. "You're going into... sixth year, yeah?"
"Yeah." Across the table, he saw Draco's face twitch at the mention of the upcoming school year; Harry wondered what it meant.
"So they'll start in on you by the end of the year, most likely." Susan spoke with assurance, answering his unspoken question with, "Got an uncle who scouts for Puddlemere United, and that's when they start looking at people, just as soon as they're turning seventeen."
"Average pro Quidditch player's career is over by the time they're thirty," Mitchell said sagely, "earlier for Beaters. And that's assuming they don't get sidelined earlier by injuries."
"Nice job while it lasts, though," Susan said wistfully, and Harry got the idea that the brown-haired girl nursed Quidditch ambitions of her own.
The barmaid, Roxy Rose, came to their table to collect empties and take orders for another round. Harry noticed that beneath the lacy feminine blouse and push-up corset bodice, she wore a pair of worn and heavily-patched jeans with knee-high laced-up brown suede boots. "Not for me, thanks, I've got to get home for dinner," demurred Owen; and with a glance at the clock over the bar, Harry realized that he was due home as well.
It seemed to be a common sentiment, and the little group broke up outside the pub. "See you again, yeah?" and Harry agreed that yeah, they probably would, before he and Draco set off toward their own corner of the neighborhood.
Draco was quiet, had been quiet in the pub, and Harry found himself concerned about what was going on behind that silence. "So..." he prodded, as they walked - too saddle-sore to ride - down the street together.
For a moment, it seemed as if Draco wouldn't answer; then, kicking idly at a loose bit of sidewalk, he murmured so that Harry had to strain to hear, "I'm not going back to Hogwarts."
"You're not?" Harry was startled. How could Draco not return? "Why not?"
Draco glanced scornfully at him, as though he was very dim indeed. "I betrayed the Dark Lord," he stated. "What d'you imagine the other Slytherins will have to say about that?"
"But... they aren't all Death Eater sympathizers, are they?" Harry ventured.
"Doesn't matter. Crabbe and Goyle and Zabini and Nott are, and that's enough to ensure I don't have a peaceful moment."
Thinking about it, Harry could see his point. "Snape must've been furious when you told him."
"Snape doesn't know yet," answered Draco. "We haven't discussed it." His lips twisted into something less than a smile. "I don't imagine he'll be pleased, though."
"Yeah." They continued on in silence. "It won't be the same without you," Harry said finally, realizing it was true. He'd become used to their rivalry, counted on it; and if they were forming something different now, something more companionable and less hostile, it didn't change the fact that he was simply used to having Draco around.
"Of course it won't," Draco said, with a trace of the old arrogance, and Harry punched him lightly in the shoulder.
Finally they were back at Harry's house - he almost didn't recognize it, having only seen the facade in daylight, never in the deepening twilight. "Where do you... I mean, do you have much farther to go?" Harry asked Draco.
The other boy flicked a thumb down the street. "Remember how I said that our houses are just the same, only reversed? I live just around the corner," Draco told him. He stretched briefly and mounted his broom, wincing slightly. "Damn it, I'm out of shape. I used to be able to fly all day long and still be up for more."
"Yeah. Well..." Harry found, suddenly, that he didn't want to say goodbye - that his unexpectedly enjoyable day with Malfoy had left him wanting more of the same. "Suppose you might come 'round tomorrow, if you want," he mumbled, looking down at his shoes.
"Yeah." Draco scratched the side of his nose with elaborate unconcern. "Suppose I might, if I've nothing else to do."
It was a noncommittal answer, yet it heartened him. "Well, then," Harry said. "Um... goodnight, then."
Draco simply nodded. "Night," he tossed over his shoulder, as an afterthought, as he set off down the street.
Harry watched him grow, not knowing quite why, before climbing the steps past Remus's little herb garden and into the house.
The air was redolent with the thick, rich smell of something tasty cooking, and the well-lit rooms seemed to speak eloquently of comfort and safety. Harry blinked, suddenly appreciating just how good it was to have a home of his very own. "Is that our Harry?" Sirius called, coming in from the kitchen. "Just in time." He reached out as Harry turned back from putting his broom away, ruffled his hair affectionately. "Had a good day at the park?"
"Yeah," Harry said, and felt himself grinning, because it was true. "I met a bunch of kids from the neighborhood, we played Quidditch - and I'm starving!" as his stomach rumbled loudly in response to the savory smells.
Sirius laughed. "Well, wash up then, dinner's almost ready. Remy's made soup from last night's leftovers, and there's fresh bread, and a casserole, and truffles for dessert."
It all sounded wonderful, and Harry said so; then hurried upstairs to wash up as he'd been bidden.
He caught sight of himself in the mirror as he dried his hands and face, and was surprised - he looked so different. Alive, almost. As if the events of the day had brought him back to life, from whatever limbo he'd been existing in. It felt good.
And then he went back downstairs, eager for dinner, and to tell his de facto parents about his day.
STORY NOTES AND WARNINGS: This is a lightly-R rated story of H/D, which I started writing back in 2005. May contain background SB/RL, R/Hr, Led Zeppelin references, and I reserve the right to use the Dreaded Nickname "Remy". Having been originally conceived after book four, this universe disregards books five and six utterly. Any similarities are either (to me) logical or purely coincidental. Unedited, un-beta'd, and quite possibly unfit for human consumption. Read at your own risk; all feedback welcome.
Past chapters of this story can be found here:
http://archive.skyehawke.com/story.p
Ten Years Gone
by ms_semicolon
On the wings of maybe, downing birds of prey...
Flying again. Flying. He hadn't been since that last abortive Quidditch game, and at first echoes of it rose in his brain - broomstick bristles burning in mid-flight, and the screams - then the feel of the air rushing past him and the ground falling away beneath him took hold, and Harry forgot about the war and simply flew.
He sensed rather than saw Draco beside him, matching him turn for turn, twist for twist, as they flew lazy laps around the perimeter of the field, dodging and weaving around the handful of others sharing the space. Up, down, roll, arcing parabola around the end of the field and back... He could have made it a contest between himself and Draco, but there was something comforting about simply enjoying flying together, without turning it into a contest of skill.
At least, until a shout reached Harry's ears from the ground, and he looked down to see that the field had cleared, all the other flyers having formed a cluster on the ground, and that they were waving and beckoning him and Draco to join them. He glanced at Draco, who nodded, and together they dove and landed to meet the group.
"Hey," said a boy perhaps a year or two older than Harry, who he couldn't remember ever having seen at Hogwarts, "we're putting together a game of Quidditch, if you'd care to join us. What d'you play?"
"Seeker," said Harry and Draco in unison; their eyes met, and something like a challenge passed between them.
There weren't enough of them for two full teams, so Mitchell, the boy who'd summoned them - leader by virtue of the fact that he'd brought the Quidditch balls - left the Bludgers in their case; and they counted off into two teams, each with two Chasers, a Keeper and a Seeker. "Red and blue teams, I think," said Mitchell, and promptly charmed their shirts to match, so that the teams might tell each other apart. "Losers buy winners a round when we're done. All right - everyone ready? Let's go!"
It wasn't at all like playing Quidditch for Gryffindor, Harry discovered at once. For one thing, there was a lot less urgency and a great deal more laughter, each team cheering the other's goals companionably. He wished he could share that easygoing attitude - but Draco was circling the pitch with him, and the competition between them was as fierce as it had always been, as if catching the Snitch and the subsequent victory was the only thing in the world that mattered. For the first time, it made him feel wistful - they'd been getting on so well, he and Draco, and now it was as if they were back at school again, nothing changed, none of it having ever happened...
A whoosh of air past his ear, as Draco zipped past him; and Harry's reverie shattered as he spotted Draco's target, zipping along the far end of the field.
He increased his speed, knowing that his broom was better than Draco's, that he was better than Draco, that he could make up the difference - and did; neck-in-neck, they careened past two of the Chasers, arms outstretched, and Harry's fingers closed...
...around empty air, as Draco let out a little involuntary shriek of triumph.
In another moment, both teams were on the ground, circled around Draco, all of them cheering his triumph, and Draco stood in their midst, staring at the wings beating against his hand in what seemed like disbelief. He glanced up as Harry approached, and at the sight of the wide-eyed wonder on his face, Harry found himself forgiving Draco for having won. "Nice one," he said, and in a burst of sportsmanship, extended his hand to the other Seeker.
Draco took it, shook it. "Thanks," he said, with a shy little smile.
"Well, that was quick!" said Susan, a tall brown-haired girl who Harry didn't recognize from Hogwarts either. "Let's have another go, shall we?"
The next match, Harry caught the Snitch, and the time after that - over the course of the afternoon, it averaged out to Harry winning maybe two-thirds of the time, with Draco holding his own quite respectably. It was obvious that the Snitch wasn't quite as swift or nimble as the professional-quality sort Hogwarts used, having a dodgy wing and a tendency to wobble, which made it easier to spot and catch. But it was fun to play again, and became more fun as it slowly filtered into both his and Draco's heads that this wasn't the old House rivalry, they weren't playing for the Quidditch Cup. As the day wore on, it began to feel more and more like they were playing on the same side, sharing a common goal instead of being at odds with each other, so that the fun was all that mattered.
By the time the flyers decided to call it a day, Harry was sweaty and saddlesore and thoroughly exhilarated. "So, who won?" inquired Ethel - but there had been so many rounds that no one quite remembered; so they all trouped off together through the park, laughing and carrying their brooms, heading off to the pub together.
The Rose and Dragon was low-ceilinged, wood-paneled, walls hung with old street signs and Quidditch pennants and an assortment of memorabilia both wizarding and Muggle. Dartboards hung on one wall, near the restrooms; a Muggle air-hockey table sat nearby. There was a low stage in one corner, cramped into a corner. A woman was perched on a high stool behind the bar, strumming an instrument Harry later learned was a mandolin; she wore a lace-up corset over a medieval blouse, curly hair spilling over her shoulders, and would've looked quite at home in olden times except perhaps for the wash of neon light from the signs behind the bar highlighting her face. "'Allo, Roxy!" Mitchell called out, as the others echoed the greeting, and she smiled and rose to serve them.
Butterbeers all 'round, except for Mitchell, who opted for a pint of lager, and Aiden, who chose a Coke; they jammed into a corner booth and a couple of chairs brought up to the table-side, sipped at their drinks and talked. "You two must be from Hogwarts, the way you play," observed Tina, the Keeper from Harry's team.
"Yeah," Harry said. "Don't you go, then?" He'd imagined that all wizarding youth went to Hogwarts, had never heard of any exceptions to that rule.
"Nah," said Ethel dismissively, "we go to Rowan's Hill Comprehensive. Not quite as fancy as ol' Hogwarts, I reckon, but not all of us care to be away from home all year long."
"Or can afford it," Owen said quietly, kicking at the table leg.
Harry was quiet. He'd never thought about Hogwarts tuition - had always assumed it was free for all. Had his parents left a fund to pay his way? Had he been some sort of charity student? So many new questions...
"We play Quidditch, of course, but y'know, they always say Hogwarts is the best," Susan said, "the next best thing to professional play. Why else d'you reckon the pro teams are so keen to scout Hogwarts players?" She looked directly at Harry. "Think you'll go pro, if you can?"
"I hadn't thought about it," Harry answered, only half-truthfully. He'd thought about it, of course - but eons ago, before the War.
"Well, you should, 'cause from the looks of it they'll be after you soon enough." She scrutinized Harry, and he fought the sudden urge to smooth his fringe down over his scar. So far, none of their new acquaintances had stared at his forehead or made any comments - and he didn't want them to start: he was enjoying being anonymous, simply another teenager among friends. "You're going into... sixth year, yeah?"
"Yeah." Across the table, he saw Draco's face twitch at the mention of the upcoming school year; Harry wondered what it meant.
"So they'll start in on you by the end of the year, most likely." Susan spoke with assurance, answering his unspoken question with, "Got an uncle who scouts for Puddlemere United, and that's when they start looking at people, just as soon as they're turning seventeen."
"Average pro Quidditch player's career is over by the time they're thirty," Mitchell said sagely, "earlier for Beaters. And that's assuming they don't get sidelined earlier by injuries."
"Nice job while it lasts, though," Susan said wistfully, and Harry got the idea that the brown-haired girl nursed Quidditch ambitions of her own.
The barmaid, Roxy Rose, came to their table to collect empties and take orders for another round. Harry noticed that beneath the lacy feminine blouse and push-up corset bodice, she wore a pair of worn and heavily-patched jeans with knee-high laced-up brown suede boots. "Not for me, thanks, I've got to get home for dinner," demurred Owen; and with a glance at the clock over the bar, Harry realized that he was due home as well.
It seemed to be a common sentiment, and the little group broke up outside the pub. "See you again, yeah?" and Harry agreed that yeah, they probably would, before he and Draco set off toward their own corner of the neighborhood.
Draco was quiet, had been quiet in the pub, and Harry found himself concerned about what was going on behind that silence. "So..." he prodded, as they walked - too saddle-sore to ride - down the street together.
For a moment, it seemed as if Draco wouldn't answer; then, kicking idly at a loose bit of sidewalk, he murmured so that Harry had to strain to hear, "I'm not going back to Hogwarts."
"You're not?" Harry was startled. How could Draco not return? "Why not?"
Draco glanced scornfully at him, as though he was very dim indeed. "I betrayed the Dark Lord," he stated. "What d'you imagine the other Slytherins will have to say about that?"
"But... they aren't all Death Eater sympathizers, are they?" Harry ventured.
"Doesn't matter. Crabbe and Goyle and Zabini and Nott are, and that's enough to ensure I don't have a peaceful moment."
Thinking about it, Harry could see his point. "Snape must've been furious when you told him."
"Snape doesn't know yet," answered Draco. "We haven't discussed it." His lips twisted into something less than a smile. "I don't imagine he'll be pleased, though."
"Yeah." They continued on in silence. "It won't be the same without you," Harry said finally, realizing it was true. He'd become used to their rivalry, counted on it; and if they were forming something different now, something more companionable and less hostile, it didn't change the fact that he was simply used to having Draco around.
"Of course it won't," Draco said, with a trace of the old arrogance, and Harry punched him lightly in the shoulder.
Finally they were back at Harry's house - he almost didn't recognize it, having only seen the facade in daylight, never in the deepening twilight. "Where do you... I mean, do you have much farther to go?" Harry asked Draco.
The other boy flicked a thumb down the street. "Remember how I said that our houses are just the same, only reversed? I live just around the corner," Draco told him. He stretched briefly and mounted his broom, wincing slightly. "Damn it, I'm out of shape. I used to be able to fly all day long and still be up for more."
"Yeah. Well..." Harry found, suddenly, that he didn't want to say goodbye - that his unexpectedly enjoyable day with Malfoy had left him wanting more of the same. "Suppose you might come 'round tomorrow, if you want," he mumbled, looking down at his shoes.
"Yeah." Draco scratched the side of his nose with elaborate unconcern. "Suppose I might, if I've nothing else to do."
It was a noncommittal answer, yet it heartened him. "Well, then," Harry said. "Um... goodnight, then."
Draco simply nodded. "Night," he tossed over his shoulder, as an afterthought, as he set off down the street.
Harry watched him grow, not knowing quite why, before climbing the steps past Remus's little herb garden and into the house.
The air was redolent with the thick, rich smell of something tasty cooking, and the well-lit rooms seemed to speak eloquently of comfort and safety. Harry blinked, suddenly appreciating just how good it was to have a home of his very own. "Is that our Harry?" Sirius called, coming in from the kitchen. "Just in time." He reached out as Harry turned back from putting his broom away, ruffled his hair affectionately. "Had a good day at the park?"
"Yeah," Harry said, and felt himself grinning, because it was true. "I met a bunch of kids from the neighborhood, we played Quidditch - and I'm starving!" as his stomach rumbled loudly in response to the savory smells.
Sirius laughed. "Well, wash up then, dinner's almost ready. Remy's made soup from last night's leftovers, and there's fresh bread, and a casserole, and truffles for dessert."
It all sounded wonderful, and Harry said so; then hurried upstairs to wash up as he'd been bidden.
He caught sight of himself in the mirror as he dried his hands and face, and was surprised - he looked so different. Alive, almost. As if the events of the day had brought him back to life, from whatever limbo he'd been existing in. It felt good.
And then he went back downstairs, eager for dinner, and to tell his de facto parents about his day.
