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Springfall
Author of 10 Stories |
The Way It Grows
Springfall
((A/N: Not much to say about this bit. It is almost entirely about Draco, as I know you guys love, and it is almost all in his/Harry's POV. And the angst is here in abundance, but you all love that too. As do I >-B Hope you enjoy! The title and the song for this one, I suppose we will say, is 'Learn to be Lonely', sung by Minnie Driver off the new Phantom of the Opera soundtrack. I recommend the movie- it's no Broadway, but it's very, very good. :)))
Learn to be Lonely
He was angry. Draco sat as far away from them as he could, his face darker than the sky above. It was still raining, but he didn't care anymore. He didn't care, he told himself over and over; but the name Harry made him realize it was a lie. He did care. If he didn't, Granger and Weasley wouldn't bother him so. He turned his eyes up to the sky, and he sighed. Typical, he leaves the hut to get away from them and they choose the one place to go, the same goddamn spot of beach he sought sanctuary from.
It was beautiful, if nothing else. He had always stopped and noticed how it was- he didn't know why. But the rain was gray and the sky was almost violet; the lightning was bright and blinding and a neon sort of lavender. The sea was angry, angry and raging and loud and completely helpless to do anything about it. Draco sympathized. He felt trapped, trapped- he felt empty.
He hadn't always felt like this, had he? He strained to think as far back as he could. His father- well, his father had never really loved him, always thought him scrawny and small and querulous, too squeamish for the life Lucius planned for his son to have. His mother was kind and cold and distracted and distant- she must have known what it would be like, marrying Lucius Malfoy, but sometimes Draco wondered. He saw her writing letters, sometimes, and she would never say to whom. His father had no idea, he knew that much, and a bored, frustrated prepubescent Draco used to write stories in his journal about Narcissa, beautiful and sad, trapped in a high tower by a handsome and stern man she did not love. Those letters- they were to a love who was seeking her from far away; across a thousand worlds. Draco could never finish the story; he never had a name for the man in the letters. An older Draco scoffed at the old stories; how could his mother ever do that? She wouldn't; it was simply not a possibility. He was ashamed to admit he had ever thought of his mother as a person. And so, he had never asked her, even once he was old enough to understand what his mother wanted in those letters. He never did find out what the man's name was- if it even was a man. He supposed he never would, now.
Even in his family, around aunts and cousins and parents and servants, he had been by himself, separate. He looked back to earth and saw Weasley sigh. How wonderful would it be, to be like that? With so many people close to you, to love you and scold you and teach you how to be? Draco had never been punished in all his life. Nor had he ever been encouraged. The most he had ever gotten from his father was a stiff nod, from his mother a sweet and fleeting smile. Narcissa's embraces were always absent, her face vague, eyes far away. It was if his mother wished herself somewhere else- and had her mind there anyway. It was just her body that was stuck, tied down with a severe husband and a disappointing son. Weasley- he must be grounded half a dozen times a summer, and he must have ten times as many family squabbles and dinners. Some part of Draco so deep and so obscure ached so hard for that it made his chest hurt and his sinuses. He had never felt comforted or cared for, although he must have been- as well as he could be, he must have been held.
Draco thought the rain had grown warm, before a lump in his throat told him he was crying. He was ashamed, then, and he stood up quickly and silently. But he heard his name across the blowing wind and rain, and against his better thoughts, he crept towards the two where they sat on a damp, rotting driftwood log, wet shorts clinging to his thighs, chafing his delicate skin. He made no sound, simply crouched low behind a palm tree not fifty feet from them, listening hard over the rain and the sound of his sniffing. They were talking loudly, but he supposed that wasn't so strange- the ocean was raging, and after all- they thought they were alone. They might as well be, Draco thought with another unconscious sneer and a hiccup.
They were talking about Harry. Of course they would be, Draco thought in contempt, vacuous little clinging followers. No insult would ever be great enough, and in his own heart he thought 'Mudblood' and he felt better, if only a small bit.
He watched the pair of them, so oblivious to anything else. He watched as Ron leaned his rusty head against Hermione's shoulder. "I think we've lost him, Hermione," he said glumly, brushing her curls off his cheek. She sighed, her knees bent and hugged against her chest.
"I'm afraid too, Ron," she chose her words carefully. "But- have you seen him look at Draco?" Draco leaned forwards, against his own will.
"Since when is he Draco?" Hermione turned her head, and Ron shut up. "I- I meant, I haven't noticed."
"That's your problem. Harry lights up. He lights up, Ron. Don't you want him to feel that way? Are you really so jealous and possessive that you can't be happy for him?"
Yes, Draco thought with loathing to them both.
"Yes," Ron sighed, admitting defeat. "I just- he's ours, you know how I feel, don't you? You know how I feel."
"I know." Ron slung his arm around her shoulders, and pulled her tightly against him, resting his cheek on hers. "It hurts me too, you know. You can't admit that it hurts, but I know you feel that way." They both lifted eyes to the violet lightning striking the ocean, the waves wild. Draco followed their gaze. "It's beautiful here, though, isn't it?"
"Yeah."
Draco withdrew a little back into the woods, watching this exchange without interest. Nothing they could say or do, he decided, would be worth watching. He was just about to leave when he heard familiar footsteps over the mix of sand and dead forest floor debris, and he drew back deeper for cover, moving closer on the side to the two, unwillingly- but more unwilling to be caught.
They were quiet for a while, Ron absentmindedly stroking her wet back, Hermione's breathing evening after a while, though her heart still raced. They sat the same when Harry finally found them, drenched to the bone, and wiping soaked hair back from his forehead, bare feet sandy. He debated calling out for them, but his voice did not work. Instead he settled down on the other side of Hermione, and when he held his arms out, Hermione and Ron both moved into them. Hermione, cramped between them, her arms jacked uncomfortably, one around Ron and the other snaked around Harry's back, did not see Harry touch Ron's cheek, and Ron drop his eyes. She did not hear what Harry said, only felt the rumbling in his chest as he spoke. The rain was too loud, her heart was too fast.
Draco heard, his heart stuttering still, as though his whole life had been leading up to this one moment. He heard, and he wished he hadn't- but he wished that about a lot of things. He stayed where he was, and he heard the whole exchange, and he felt sick at them- but sicker at himself.
"I'm sorry, Ron," Harry managed, and it felt to Draco like the first thing that Harry had said all day. Ron shrugged slightly, Harry's palm burning his cheek.
"Yeah," Ron replied finally, after avoiding Harry's expectant gaze for a moment. "I am, too." He reached across Hermione's bent head and kissed Harry very softly on the mouth, and Harry did not push him away, resting his forehead against Ron's, closing his eyes. Hermione's small hand against his back anchored him, and he grabbed them both, hard, squeezing, ignoring a whimper of discomfort from the girl. Ron's forehead and Harry's were flush, and the kiss lingered. "I'm sorry, too."
Draco stood and turned away then, hand leaning on the palm tree for support, watching the three more than the storm with colors he'd never seen in the sky before. He would have never thought he'd see the day he was more interested in Weasley than he was in the world around him. "Fuck," he whispered, and dropped himself to the ground again, wishing he could join the little huddle on the rocks; knowing that he never could, he raised his hands to his face, fighting against tears that came again anyway.
But it's not so surprising, he thought bitterly. All his life, he had never been in a tight knit circle; he had friends, he had enemies, he had cronies. He did not have this strange love that the three of them shared. He had never felt so alone before, he did not think. But he managed to struggle clumsily to his feet.
"Why does it matter?" he knew no one would hear him if he spoke out loud. He needed to say it- he needed to hear it. From someone. And if no one would say it to him, well. He would say it himself.
"I don't need anyone. I can be lonely. I can be happy, all by myself. I don't need Harry Potter or his little friends- I don't need my mother or my father. I don't need to count on anyone, and I don't need anyone to count on me. I'm the one I'm stuck with for life. Everyone else, they come and go, like storms. As long as I'm alright with myself- I'm alright all over, then, aren't I?"
He lingered by the tree, his gray eyes wistful and hard. "I don't need you, Harry Potter. I've always gotten my joy from what I can count on. You, you're so good- you're in Heaven with your role in your little trio and your importance and your eyes and your scar. Well, Harry Potter, don't bother coming down- I've made friends with the silence I'm used to. I was empty before, and I'm empty now. I was born empty- I was born to be lonely. And you know what, Harry?" He knew it was not Harry he really spoke to. "I don't mind so much. "I've always known that I'm on my own. I always have been. I won't change that for you- not to be hurt again. I never knew that there was someone who would care for me- and there isn't. Not someone like that for me. It's not safe, and I'm better off with just my own heart than hurt and used and battered by someone else's."
At that moment, while Draco stood talking to no one, his eyes glazed over, his tears gone, Harry raised his head and looked behind him. When he thought back to it, he did not know why he decided to look when he did- but Harry, he could never explain half the things he did. He saw Draco, standing at the crest of the beach. He looked wild, wild and beautiful and sad- the same way Draco thought of his mother, the same way Buckbeak had looked to Harry, the same way Harry had felt when he laid eyes on Sirius. Harry felt the urge to drop everything he touched and go to him, crush Draco against him, hold him until there was nothing left.
"I don't need you, Harry Potter," Draco said, and his eyes focused. He laughed- harsh and short, but honest. He stood and he laughed, and for the first time he did not feel like crying. And he saw Harry, and his laugh faded, but the smile lingered on his face. He would be alright. Draco would be happy, Harry or no.
Draco was not quite convinced, but he trudged back up to the orchard, his wet back to the three of them and to Harry's anxious face. Suddenly, standing there with his hair plastered in front of his eyes, he wasn't afraid of the dark anymore.
"I reckon I just had to get used to it," he said aloud, and his voice was about the same sound to his heart as the ocean. And he laughed again.
"I have to go." It was final and rushed and he turned abruptly from them and struggled through the thick, heavy sand, thinking furiously. Ron and Hermione watched him go until they could no longer see him, and then Ron turned away and covered his face.
"I told you," he said finally, rocking subconsciously, Hermione's hand on his knee. "I told you we've lost him. That fucking- that fucking Malfoy took him away from us."
Hermione gently squeezed Ron's leg, and a voice welled up in her, against her will. The truth was not what would make Ron feel better- it wouldn't make her feel any better, either, but it was Ron that concerned her. It wasn't to say- but the truth had a strange way of ripping itself free, and Hermione was the one who ended up folding. She always had. It was who she was- she couldn't let things be unsaid. It was too hard, she was too tired, too tired. She struggled and she failed, and knowing and hating what she was about to say, she blurted out:
"Maybe he was never ours to keep."
