Word Count: 2, 187
Draco found that, if he tried hard enough, he could visualize the beginning of the Earth's existence.
In his mind's eye he could see the trees, budding up to form the leafy green foliage that covered him as he sat underneath the willow by the lake. He could see the sun, bursting into its full clarity, shining down on the dull and still slothful creatures on Earth, blinking lazily as they examined their new selves, newly there.
Draco could imagine the beginning of wizard-kind; the first person who touched a finger to a violet plant, perhaps, and turned it a light shade of magenta. Magic was raw, back then, and uncontrollable. He wondered if that would have made a difference in the death tolls.
Some days, the Slytherin would speculate on the odd things. Where did the star-obsessed centaurs come from, for example? Were they always there? He believed that they began from the stars, falling down to the Earth in hitting it with such force that their bright yellow coats instantly became the dulled brown of the surface, and that their deep harbored resentment for humans was simply because they knew what it was like to be free; why associate with those still chained? Draco thought maybe, when the centaurs craned their necks up to the sky and looked down looking dazed, they were talking to the stars.
Draco could remember, quite clearly, the day his rivaling with Harry Potter began. The foregone and rejected offer of friendship, still leaving him humiliated to this day. He could remember the beginning of that friendship with Weasley, or Granger, and he could remember the beginning of the school year, which had started out with him in high spirits but by the time Harry Sodding Potter had finally gotten to the sorcerer's stone, Draco knew he was doomed.
The blonde remembered the beginning of his father's frequent lectures, always starting the same way.
"I can't believe this, Draco."
What was there not to believe? What was so impossible? Harry Potter did everything better, higher, faster and more unbelievably than he did. There was nothing to think about. Draco would always be second choice. The only thing he could hold over Potter's head were his looks, and Draco actually worked for that. Potter didn't, and he was a close second.
Draco could remember the beginning of his own friendships. The time Blaise Zabini had approached him, sneering lightly and looking barely afraid, as he had requested to sit next to Draco. Draco had complied.
When Pansy Parkinson took an uncanny liking to him, telling him she was going to make sure he loved her someday, he had thought it was the beginning of a miserable hate-ship. It turned out differently, however, when the "fact" that she loved him with an undying passion became a long running inside joke between the three.
Draco liked to think about the beginning of their adventures, beginning shortly after second year, when in the light of the Chamber of Secrets, they had been restless. They had wandered the hallways, removing things and placing them where they didn't belong, hexing first-years; minor things. He remembered when he had accidentally dropped a bottle of Spelled Glue all over Marcus Flint's chair, and then thoughtfully dropped pink glitter into the mixture as well. That was the beginning of a sad bullying.
He knew exactly when Dumbledore had started jokingly referring to them as the Silver Trio, a play off of the Gryffindor Golden Trio. The name had stuck, amongst the staff, and by sixth year, it had spread to the houses as well.
Draco could remember the beginning of his rocky friendship with Harry Sodding Potter—whose middle name turned out to be James, not Sodding as he had thought after all, or even woefully wondered, The Boy Who Lived or just Lucky Bastard.
They had been unceremoniously dumped into doing a long-term project for Defense Against the Dark Arts, and whilst Harry had merely looked shocked, Draco had made sure to say it all in words. This had resulted in double detentions; two for each, although all Harry did was nod dumbly and say 'yeah' every few moments.
"You're an idiot," Draco had muttered bitterly.
"Yeah, but I still wasn't the one who got us here," Harry retorted, smacking Draco lightly on the shoulder with the wet rag he was using to swab the desks. "So that means I am the better one. Hah."
Draco had pushed him into a cauldron and laughed when he got stuck.
Draco remembered the beginning of their closer friendship, the day he'd found Harry sitting inside of the library, writing something on a piece of parchment instead of doing his work.
"Scribbling love notes to Granger, Potter?"
"No. Writing letters, too late."
Draco peered at the top of the parchment just before Harry finished rolling it up, and caught the words 'Dear Sirius' heading it. He wondered if this was the same Sirius Black who had been convicted of killing Harry's own parents and if the Gryffindor was writing a scathing letter to the recently deceased man, but the next day he wandered into the library again just in time to find Harry finishing the letter with a tear-blotted 'Love, Harry'.
Maybe they were having a clandestine, scandalous affair.
Draco seriously doubted it.
But when he'd approached Harry about it nearly a week later, on the anniversary of the convict's death, he'd had to hold the Gryffindor when Harry broke down, sobbing out a story so magnificently depressing that Draco's handkerchief soon became a token of their mingled tears.
He remembered the beginning of that horrid day, which had started out with a pink-tinged sunrise, brilliant against the sky. He was sitting in the still dark Great Hall already, daydreaming a little too much about what Harry would think when he had his Christmas present. Draco shook himself and went back to his Charms essay, willing himself to concentrate long enough to finish it.
He never did.
The doors to the Great Hall had been promptly incinerated, admitting the many Death Eaters Draco suspected were not, in fact, here to enroll. Struggling to stand up and with a very visible, nasty head wound was one enraged Harry Potter, wearing an over-sized pair of sweatpants and a rather embarrassing maroon sweater with an 'H' emblazoned upon it. Draco quirked an eyebrow at the odd assemblage, before discreetly taking his wand from his pocket and performing a mild freezing and containment spell. Harry blinked in wary surprise; the spell had left him untouched.
"Malfoy," he said, a slight grin on his features. "Have you finally crossed over to the light side?"
Draco sneered. "As if, Potter. There is no Light side."
"But there's a Dark one?"
"But of course. It's the one thing I have that you don't, Potter."
Harry had looked strangely forlorn. "That's what you think."
Before Draco could question him, the spell wore off. Harry took a moment to dispatch most of the crowd cleanly before Draco regained his senses, Stunning and Stupefying and occasionally (until Harry intervened angrily) casting Tarantellegra or a Bat-Bogey hex.
"Do you take anything seriously?" he had been asked later, almost hours later, when the novelty of it all had worn off and he was sitting with his legs tucked under him as he sat in the Headmaster's office. McGonagall was looking at him prudishly, and he swallowed an inane laugh.
"But of course, not. The world is not serious, and so I am not."
He thought it rather rude to be handing out a detention to the Boy Who Saved The Boy Who Lived's Life. He decided to bring it up the next time he sneaked into a meeting between the professors.
Draco remembered the beginning of his downward spiral, shortly after that. The botched attempt to kidnap Harry Potter as he stumbled out of bed caused all the wards to go up, but a month later, around dusk, he and Harry and Granger and the two Weasleys left were outside, by the lake. Draco could sense Professor Sprout's anxious eye on them from the Greenhouses; there was always someone watching them. Always. Unfortunately, a Herbology teacher cannot do much for one once she has been knocked unconscious.
Draco stared into the beady eyes of Vincent Crabbe, mouth twisted in a dark scowl as Goyle bound Granger and the Weasleys to a tree.
"You're scum," he spat, as Crabbe carefully prodded his throat. Harry had raised his hands in submission, and was now holding onto the proffered hand of Goyle, although not without much loathing.
"So're you," Crabbe had replied, and then said the Portkey's activation words. The familiar tugging on his navel, the unbelievable feeling of exhaustion he got as he stumbled into the dungeon cell, and the feeling of remorse and guilt as he watched Harry slump to the ground next to him were all fresh in his mind.
Draco remembered the beginning of his torture. They never touched Harry, choosing instead to hurt him where he could feel it. Harry could withstand pain. Draco could as well. But Harry would break much more easily if he had to watch, and Draco considered this more brutal than actually touching Harry himself.
He remembered the beginning of the pain, burning so clearly into his skin, his screams as he lay in that puddle of dirty water, tasting metallic, and his widened eyes as he realized it was his blood he was lying in, not water. He remembered how Harry's sobs always began, low at first and indistinguishable from his hoarse questions, but then they escalated as he clutched Draco to him like a broken dummy, promising things he could never give.
Draco remembered the beginning of his downfall. His mental walls crumbled first, so that he couldn't even speak well enough to assure Harry they would get out of this. He remembered how he had flung himself in front of the guard's fast descending boot, his last willing action, before it hit Harry.
"Don't defend me," he whispered, twisting up as his stomach convulsed. There was something in his mouth. He pretended it was a potion, not blood, and that he was not supposed to swallow. "You'll only get hurt."
Harry never said anything back.
He could remember the beginning of the defeat of the Dark Lord as well. Hearing the battle cries grow nearer, crying out in agony now as his skin touched air because his sessions were longer, crueler.
"This isn't right," Harry said, channeling as much magic as he could muster from his weakened state into Draco's body. "You have to get better, please."
"Who'll miss me, Potter? I'll just have saved you, again."
"I will. I'll miss you."
Draco pretended not to hear.
Whenever Draco slept, he saw his musings take form. The centaurs falling from the sky, the beginning of the world, of wizard kind, and the first diluted blood that somehow became the first Muggle. He saw the beginning of his life, of his lessons, his schooldays, his friendships, his heartache, and his growing respect and love.
"We're going to live through this," he heard a faint voice say.
Draco rolled over, cringing immediately as he did so, but it saved him from answering. Harry didn't press the matter, only wrapped his arms around Draco's waist, using his body heat to keep Draco's warm, never mind that he wasn't shivering from the cold.
Draco remembered the beginning of the end, watching both slip through the Dark Lord's fingers like sand; the beginning of his reign, the end of problems. He heard the final trumpet call, saw a weakened Voldemort flee into their cell, screaming obscenities as he saw his castle's walls crumble. Something cold and wet fell on Draco's nose; it was snowing.
He tried to call out Harry's name, and to his astonishment, found he was alone. Even Voldemort was gone. Draco wondered for the briefest second if he had been abandoned, but when he tried to sit up in his panic, his stomach lurched and he fell back just as quickly. As he rapidly lost consciousness, he remembered looking directly into worried green eyes, vapid with attention.
"It's over, it's over," a voice was chanting.
Draco closed his eyes, mouth forming the words he wanted so desperately to hear himself say. "I know."
The beginning of his closest relationship was at that moment, although he didn't know it. He didn't realize it until, nearly a year later, on New Year's Eve, when he was sitting inside of 12 Grimmauld Place, eyes closed as his breath was snatched away by a doe-eyed Gryffindor.
"This is—," Harry began, but Draco stood and stopped him, taking the other's rougher hands in his own. "It's done, ended," Harry tried again, but the blonde shook his head, as the room erupted into cheers.
"This, Harry," he said quietly, "This is only a beginning."
Harry looked at him, head cocked to one side, before smiling. "You've been thinking about this for a long time, haven't you?"
"Too long," Draco agreed.
I am fidgeting nervously at this moment, just in case you can't tell. I know, I know...I've said no new stories, but this is different. More like drabbles, for the FanFic100 community on LiveJournal, and although I haven't registered officially with them, I still thought this would be cool. Living Beautifully will be updated very soon and finished, as will Overshadowing Padders and Objective. I swear it on my auntie's grave, although she is not dead yet.
There will be 100 total drabbles, all of a minimum 100 word count. All must be centered around a certain pairing, but others can be in the background. Also, there are word prompts that the fic must be centered about as well. That's about it, so...enjoy!