Lost

Disclaimer: J.K.R. owns HP universe; it didn't change during the time I took to write this.


[A/N: AND THE STORY STOPS HERE. You can assume that the dark-haired one is Harry and the bloody, naked guy is Draco; everyone loves a naked Draco. They shared a "beautiful Sunday afternoon" once, but that memory would be "lost", as it was also the fate of their love. You can imagine - remember how easily that feat came to us when we were younger - the reason and attach appropriate names to the other six characters; it matters not. Thanks for reading!]



















[A/N: Persistent little bugger, aren't ya?

"Don't be discouraged." Patience is a virtue, as it is a necessity when waiting in line for the toilet with a full bladder... and the story unfolds. Decided to let the words "Harry", "Potter" and "four-eye git" enter this game; it's a little early, but I should think everyone got it right on the last chappie... Here's a biscuit!]


Music listening: Boss's yapping. Makes for great inspiration. Try it.


Lost by black fungi
Part 02: Open Wound


He was not happy. No, he was not "not happy"; he was fucking furious, and he wanted everyone to know it, and everybody did. With a quick swipe across the table, his many precious bottled potions fell crashing onto the floor. It was reckless and certainly out of character - he was not disposed to random acts of stupidity - but he felt better.


"Really! Was it necessary?" his woman chided him, as she hobbled to the closet for a pail and a trusty mop. Nothing can be done to save the spilled potions but to clean it the muggle way; the odd combination of potions was at best unusable; worst, hazardous; an introduction to magic by cleaning it with a spell would make it only more volatile.


He grunted in response, looked at the mess, and let out a long-suffering sigh. This was a subject that he did not care to get into an argument and perhaps he should just let it be, but the years of pureblood indoctrination dictated his thoughts and actions; he didn't want her bothering with tasks better left to someone more capable... and more deserved; his *heavily pregnant* woman *did not deserve* to be treated like a common house elf.


A blabbering male elf in rags appeared at his call, and it took the elf only seconds, during the minutes she was gone, to set things aright. When she returned only to find the floor pristine clean, she scowled at him, effectively telling him what she thought of his abuse of elves.


He cocked an eyebrow and with a wave of a finger, put the items back into the closet; did she think he was going to act any different on this?


No, she huffed, resigned that this could be the one habit she could not break out of her very stubborn husband and it would be pointless to press her reason. Furthermore, she saw this was hardly the appropriate time to get into the usual S.P.E.W contention when there were other worries more important to be addressed: Draco; his misguided perception of love - her husband called it "suicidal tendencies brought by the constant stupidity inflicted upon Draco, courtesy of one manipulative brat from the Weasel Clan" - and how badly it had affected this man whom she had sworn her heart and soul...


She walked to him, wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, and kissed his back. She felt him tensed upon contact before relaxing into her embrace.


It comforted him, as it always did, and it had to be enough. He had a loving wife who loved him for all his flaws and whom he dearly loved in return, and yes, there was a child - their first miracle together - on the way. He thought he was selfish to ask for more after all the good fortunes Fate had dealt him, and he was ashamed that he didn't care.


"I know you worry about him," she began carefully, breaking the silence. "And that you love him very much -"


"- Love, please. Not now. I -," he choked.


"- But it's not your fault, darling," she continued and pressed her lips onto his back again when she felt the first shivers. "I. Know. You. If you could have done anything to stop it - anything at all - I know you would have done it, but you couldn't. No one could -"


"- No, don't - " He didn't want to hear anymore. A clever woman, his wife was, but she couldn't be more wrong now. He could have done something. He had many opportunities to mend the bridges with Draco, but he could not bear to see the loathing in his eyes - the same eyes that had once looked upon him with respect, adoration and unconditional love. So he let him go, never intruding in his life again, and wished him peace. But he wished now that he had the courage then to face his fears and shame, and that he had taken the trouble to ask after him... Three were hurt because of him; One, lost forever. He almost staggered at the last thought and could only imagine the pain of Draco's loss.


He wished he had not known this regret.


"- have known about this. He kept it well from all of us, and it wasn't his fault either. There was no one to blame. Honey, listen to me, please," she pleaded again, concerned now that the slight shivers had turned to full tremors, and held him tighter. She would not let this misplaced guilt take her love and ate at him - not after the last time. "You don't have to feel guilty. I -"


"Enough!" he spat. "I don't need you telling me what I'm feeling or should be feeling right now!"


There was a hitch of breath; the comfortable warmth that had enveloped him fell away, and the dreaded coldness seeped in. He hated the familiarity of its presence, and he hated himself for being a right bastard. His mouth opened to speak, but a critical voice interrupted his attempt at apology: "Yes, you don't need manners either."


Heads turned towards the doorway, and he groaned when he learned the identity of their rude busybody of a guest. Oh, the day just kept on getting better!


His wife, however, squealed in delight, and she ran, as fast as her burden could allow her, to his side and grabbed him into a tight hug. "Oh, Harry! I haven't seen you for a while! Where have you been?"


"Well, hello! I miss you too," Harry chirped cheerfully, laughing as he extracted himself from her chokehold strangling. It felt good to be back. He lifted her chin to look searchingly into her face - her eyes were suspiciously bright, and she was worrying her lower lip - and the set of his mouth went serious: "Now, tell me, love. Do I need to spell any bits off your husband?"


That earned him another bone-crushing hug; his fond playfulness lifted her spirits and they shared a laugh between silly, old friends. But there was nothing playful in those green eyes or his demeanor towards the older man in the room. Harry did not trust him. Period. He had not trust him when he was revealed as a spy for the Order; he had not trust him to keep Draco from harm's way; and he most certainly did not trust him with her. His tolerance and grudging acceptance of his miserable existence in this part of his life could only go so far; he was no Hufflepuff.


Merlin helped him if he should hear him mistreating this woman.


He cast an angry glare at him across the room only to find that the cursed person's attention was directed to something else; no, he was looking at *someone* else behind him. Harry smirked.


"Harry, is that..." She drew a gasp when she realized their neglected visitor.


He was naked still and completely at ease with his state of undressed, though now he was clean. What a helpful scourgify spell won't do, Harry wryly thought. He had tried to pull his own robes over him, but this odd "nudist" had complained rather loudly that the cheap, scratchy garment had chaffed his delicate skin. He didn't doubt whose influence it was that colored those words, and rather than risk his agitation, he had them apparated there as they were.


"You could have at least cover him up, Harry. Look at him; he's cold and shivering!" she tsked in disapproval and accio'ed a thick afghan from their bedchamber onto the naked figure. As expected, he shrugged the offensive material off him and proceeded to tell them in the most pompous manner that if they must bother him on his nudity, then clothe him in silk. Harry smiled sheepishly when she tsked again and dutifully did as he asked; he really thought the ponce was happy prancing around in the buff - how was he to know he had grown a fondness for silk? There was a time when a ratty Weasley jumper was worth all the silk in the world, but perhaps that was just the early sign of madness talking.


She steered them to a sofa, fussed over them as she was wont to do and only remembered she conveniently had a person called "husband" when she wanted to be served tea. Surely, they must be hungry, she said excitedly, and it wouldn't do to the family name to send them away without a bite!


Her husband, however, rejoined with a cold, hollow voice: "You brought him here."


He had stayed rooted on the spot where she left him whilst greeting their visitors. "You brought him here," he repeated dumbly, expressing his plain disbelief in that statement. The four-eye git dared to bring *him* here into his home! And they wanted bloody tea!


Potter smirked again and said, "That is obvious", which earned him a playful smack on the head.


"Naked."


The smirk grew wider and unkind. "You did also notice that that unfortunate incident has been easily remedied."


"Must you torment my husband?" she scolded Potter, berating his childishness, and was already moving to her husband's side. The poor dear was paling terribly, his thin lips are pulled tight and his eyes started to squint - a telltale sign of one of his many raging headaches being born. "His nerves are bruised enough as it is."


"Your husband's nerves are perfectly fine, woman," he mumbled, gritting his teeth when she patted his arm tenderly; he still owed his love an apology for his abruptness earlier; he also wanted her near.


Harry laughed and his charge was tetchily grumbling about their cackling cacophony. "Oh, but he is so easy; don't you agree, love?"


"Harry!" she cried again and tried to put in as much indignation as she could muster for Harry's baiting her husband when all she wanted to do was join in the laughter. "There, there, honey," she cooed, exchanging condescending looks of pity with Harry and a saucy wink.


He did not notice their secret looks. Harry thought he wasn't noticing much right about now either; he wore a dazed look, blotting all expression. "You found him," he only said.


Eyes rolled heavenwards. Trust his damnable pride not to ask the very question that actually mattered, Harry snorted, but the good old Gryffindor decided not to be difficult: "He's being treated, I should think, right now at St. Mungo's."


"Yes, yes, that's good," he replied absently, willing the dull throbbing at his right temple to go away so he could better focus. A warm hand found his and squeezed, jarring him from darker thoughts, and a tender smile warmly welcomed him back; his headache was forgotten. He smiled a soft smile before turning wearily to address Potter again. "Keep him away. I trust not myself."


"Yeah, if I were you -" Harry started to say in pure cheek but was met with wrong end of a wand stick.


"*If* you were me, *child*, I would encourage you not to finish that thought." He glowered at him, communicating all his pent up anger at the one boy - no, *man* - who should have saved them but didn't. Savior of the Wizarding World, indeed! "Then again, try me."


"No." Harry Potter sneered, whipping his own wand, and for a second, his own anger mastered him. He got to his feet and stood taller. "You. Try. Me."


Stare matched for stare; neither side was likely to back down until another wand was pointed - to Harry's chest.


"Harry, back off." Her eyes flashed him a gentle but firm warning. Not tearing him from her sight or putting her wand away, she reached for her love and gently turned him in her arms. The anger fled and his wand fell from his hand, forgotten on the floor. He felt light-headed and despondent, submitting almost blindly into her comforting embrace, hiding his face away from Potter and was seemingly to visibly deflate.


Harry lowered his wand, confused and a little regretful. He had not expected him to break so soon; their banters would have last a good hour or two before they do irreparable damage to all the expensive China in the drawing room, and even then he had only expected the old familiar fury.


He looked to his friend, silently asking her what he should do, but she only shook her head. "Look, I'm -"


"I don't care, Potter," an answering growl was heard but it was muffled by his wife's ratty Weasley jumper. There was a catch in his breath, a start of a keening wail. "Do whatever it takes, Potter. I want him back. I want my son back."


Disturbed by the burst of raw emotion so rarely displayed by the proud Slytherin and knowing his audience was not appreciated, the young man muttered a hasty apology and a promise to do all that he can before disapparating from the room with his charge.


He did not want to see him cry.


TBC?

Dec 05 2005

[A/N: Still not beta-ed. Monday meeting was a bore; it always is; Boss thought I was taking notes; I can read and type with very small fonts. Go me.]