Author: machi-pan PM
On a wooden, forgotten throne, Malfoy orders the servants to weave him a crimson-royal curtain. That was before the curtain was drawn, and before one leg of the throne failed to withstand the in between good and evil. Set directly after the war.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Hurt/Comfort/Romance - Draco M. & Harry P. - Words: 1,097 - Reviews: 1 - Favs: 2 - Published: 12-02-12 - Status: Complete - id: 8757577
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: This was sitting in notes on my phone for quite some time. It just sounded extremely cute at that time in my head, so I tried typing it down, haha. Enjoy!
Draco hated wars. Everyone remembered them, always. Every survivor, that is. And every coward who ran away...
They remembered the heroes and the villains but none in between. Unable to protest when the war came, he clutched onto his Mother's feminine and Father's callused hands and fled to France. Nobody remembered him. Sneered often at his name, but not in the war. They seemed to forget he ran to the light in the last minute. Not that it mattered.
The next year at Hogwarts, he had attended in order for his parents to sort out everything. He felt as if a curtain surrounded him from other students. As if outside was sunshine or darkness and inside was a little too warm for another human to cope.
The slytherin held open the curtain when no one was looking. And shut it firmly when he was surrounded. Like a coward. Like the coward he was. The vast expanse of the ground didn't affect his feet. The background chatter didn't affect his ears.
Even when he concentrated, his feet didn't walk straight. Even when he told himself to, his neck craned downwards and his gaze was always low. On the ground, inside the curtain so he couldn't hear and see the snickers or the giggles or the sneers. His posture resembled nothing of the Malfoy's.
The slytherin wearily dragged his heavy feet across the floor. A hex shook him to his knees and reflexes kicked in, supporting his position. Open laughs aimed directly at him sounded, even through the curtain and Draco winced.
The Malfoy pride: where was it? It used to be a little excitable jolt that tingled straight from the roots of his bones to his head, gaining up the energy and releasing into his sneers and words. Now what Draco only felt was pain. He only felt a sharp jolt when his knees hit the ground.
Malfoy grimaced when he felt tiny showers of spit hit him. Malfoy's didn't get spat on. But now he wasn't a Malfoy. Malfoy's maintained everything to perfection. Draco's hair was dirty. Up to his chin. Like another form of curtain itself.
Malfoy's always knew what they were feeling. Draco can only handle a limit of emotions. Anger at his audience. Pity for himself.
Malfoy got up slowly, smoothing down the creases of his robes as if he were still a Malfoy. Malfoy's were happy and proud.
He didn't even grunt out in shock as he got shoved violently into another room. A hand clamped over his wrist, startlingly and he saw a flash of green when darkness lulled over. Harry Potter had tried to save him. So he tried to be a Malfoy; they didn't need saving.
"Bloody hell," Potter cursed and Draco heard a shuffle in front of him. The space was alarmingly tiny and he was pressed quite disturbingly into Potter's body.
"Malfoy, I think we're in one of Filches' janitor closets," Harry said through deep breaths. When silence ruled over and Malfoy refused to reply, Harry sharpened and inhaled loudly. "Malfoy? You've not passed out on me, have you?" The Golden boy asked frantically. He attempted to pull out of his wand but again lost it in the blackness. The clunk it made was barely satisfying.
"Malfoy's don't need saving." He said in a breathlessly small voice. The blonde heard Harry freeze for a moment before blindly reaching out for him.
The golden boy's knuckle barely grazed his soft cheek and that was all Malfoy needed; he leapt up and gripped the strong arm, clutching it for dear life.
Draco's small body rocked with shameful sobs as he rubbed his tender cheek against the fore arm of Harry Potter.
The position was awkward and Harry wasn't saying anything: he silently stood still, letting his arm be embraced by Draco.
"Too much...let...let me out..." Draco begged. He reached out for more of Harry, desperate for the touch of something real, of something human. Of someone who was there for him. And Harry stood silently the whole time. At some point, his glasses were knocked away.
Draco murmured incoherent and frantic babble and Harry felt his iron grip tightening with each word.
Draco tossed violently, on and on again and again, turning his head side to side as if the darkness would hurt him. The blackness of it all was the most threatening. Like it was yet another curtain. A deadly one that promised to strangle Draco whenever within.
And the tiny runt walls were murderous, destined to kill them both, by compressing them into one another, squeezing the soul out until their bones crunch and their skulls fail to shape.
Draco felt this feeling. In the dungeons when he got chained up for hours in punishment for playing in Father's office. He fell down and scraped his knee on the harsh flooring. But what mattered was the paper work he managed to disappear.
The feeling was like waking up from a nightmare only to find out something scarier than the latter. Like the pepper up potion only one thousand times as worse. His eyes were open but he saw as much as when his eyes were closed.
And he was falling. Then another hand latched onto his shoulder and the darkness nearly crept away. Malfoy's didn't need saving. The patch of skin decided to warm up wherever he was holding. He felt safe but not safe. Like a blood flavored lollipop.
He sunk down to the earth and pulled Harry down with him, in a tight embrace that seemed more like a life-support operation.
"You're not, claustrophobic are you?" Harry's breath trickled along the tips of Draco's hair as he said it in a sigh.
Malfoy pressed his lips and nose to the junction or space in between Potter's jaw curve and neck and shut his eyes. The scent chased away his fears. And the dark. He was safe. The frozen tears cracked.
Harry rubbed his back soothingly, caressing every now and then as he sobbed freely, tears dribbling down to his chin and split into a dozen as it melted on Harry's shirt covered shoulder.
Harry Potter wasn't a golden boy.
Draco felt safe. Happy. His hair was pushed back. The curtain was too. His gaze covered though blinded into Harry's scent. He looked straight ahead.
Harry Potter was what made him a Malfoy.