A Dream For The Dead

A Dream For The Dead

Chapter 2

Bright Lights

“Malfoy!” The word hung on the air as though it was not sound but a solid. There was a distant ringing and he closed his eyes as he felt the waves of them. He took a deep breath and his hands released the handle of the broom. He soared through the air, holding on with his legs, pretending as though he was completely free. “Malfoy!”

Draco opened his eyes and his attention focused immediately on Wood, standing in the centre of the field. He seemed to be miles below Draco. He was so small, so insignificant from this height. Draco smiled to himself, imagining how easy it would be to crush someone that small.

He shook his head and dove, angled directly downward, Draco played a game of chicken with the earth. He sped so quickly towards a dirt bed that Wood cried out and stepped out of the way. Draco’s eyes were trained on one blade of grass –just one –as he raced downward.

He reached out and garnered a cry of shock from his team captain as he pulled up at the very last moment –or perhaps a half-second too late –and landed on his feet in front of Wood. He held out the one blade of grass to his captain. There was a ladybug crawling over it. It had not had the time to notice Draco coming to wards it, let alone fly away.

“Well that was fucking unnecessary,” Wood snapped at him, holding a hand to his chest. “I haven’t see a feint that dangerous since –”

“Potter,” Draco finished, rolling his eyes. There was an edge to the word. Wood smirked and punched him in the shoulder. Draco let the blade of grass flop in his palm and blew softly at it so that the ladybug would fly off. He watched it go and then dropped the grass.

“You needn’t be so touchy about it,” Wood explained. “You’re easily his equal. In fact, I’d wager on you now before him,” Wood grabbed him roughly and led him off the pitch. “Potter hasn’t been playing professionally, after all.”

“Right,” Draco shot scathingly. “Given your fondness for the prat, you’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for it.” He shrugged off Wood’s arm as they passed into the change rooms. He set his Firebolt down.

“Come on, Draco,” Wood sighed, sitting himself down on the bench behind the blonde. “Don’t be that way. You know you’re the best seeker the League has seen in years. Better even than Krum was at his height during the World Cup. You’ll make International, no question.”

Draco tugged off his team shirt and tossed it down into his bag. He paused, staring at himself in the full-length mirror in his locker. His fingers gently drifted over the web of scars on his chest before he dropped his arms with a sigh.

“You don’t know that,” he answered quietly. “McLaggen is heading the committee to choose players for England and he hates me.”

“McLaggen hates everyone,” Wood answered with a laugh. “Everyone who actually got chosen for a team, anyway. He pretends to sit big behind his desk and pick players for the World Cup but no one in the League takes him seriously. He’s a failed Quidditch player who resorted to administrative duties because no one else would have him. He wouldn’t know what good is if it hit him in the back of the head with a bludger. Which has happened.”

Draco kicked off his boots and turned to Wood. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the metal doors. His white blond hair fell over his eyes as he studied his captain.

“You stuck around to wait for me after practice just to stroke my ego?” Draco inquired, one eyebrow raised. Wood shifted.

“Well, no,” Wood responded. He ran his fingers through his brown hair and it stuck up in little spikes from sweat. “And yes.” Draco gave him an incredulous look. “You’ve been distant and distracted lately, Draco.” Wood only used his given name when they were talking personally. On the field it was only ever family names. “You’re quiet and…”

“Are you saying my performance at practice was lacking?” Draco interjected, a sharpness underlying his words. Wood shook his head and got to his feet.

“No, of course not,” he conceded. “You were on top of your game. As always.”

“Then what’s the problem?” the blonde asked before Wood could go on. He began to feel the floor slipping out from under him but ignored it. His eyes became intense as he stared at Wood, through Wood.

“I’m just…” Wood started, exasperated. He gave a dry laugh. “Merlin, I’m just worried about you, Draco.” He seemed to be wondering why to himself. Generally, anyone who did worry about Draco eventually started to ask themselves why. “I mean, you showed up half an hour late today, missed my talk and the warm-up routines. Then there’s the inexplicable fiasco with your broom and you hardly even reacted to it.” He grabbed Draco’s arm in what Draco assumed to be a gesture of compassion. “You can tell me if something’s going on, you know.”

Draco stood to his full height and stared directly into Wood’s eyes for a moment. He was fighting the urge to let his knees buckle. The whole world began to spin around Wood and he swallowed hard. Closing his eyes to ignore the movement, Draco tugged his arm from his Captain’s grasp and turned back to his locker.

“My son left for Hogwarts today,” he answered finally. He stared at the moving photo of Scorpius in his locker. The little blond boy smiled and laughed as he rode around on a child’s broomstick. A Bluebottle.

“Scorpius?” Wood asked, surprised. “He’s already eleven? Wow…” He walked a little further down and pulled his own shirt over his head. “You worried about him?”
Wood kicked off his boots and removed his uniform trousers before pulling out a towel. He always used the team showers but Draco couldn’t bring himself to do it. He had hated the notion of bathing in the grimy stadium. He had never enjoyed bathing at Hogwarts, either. Except in the Prefect’s bathroom.

“I’m his father,” Draco responded as though this was explanation enough. He pulled out his black robes from earlier. “Of course I am.”

“No need,” Wood told him with a smile. “Scorpius is just a chip off the old block. I’d say that with his sharp tongue and quick wit he’ll do no worse than you did.” Wood clapped him on the back as he passed him for the showers.

That’s what worries me…

“That all, Malfoy?” Wood called as he turned on the water. Draco dressed himself, wishing that Quidditch didn’t require so much effort. He hated being sweaty.

“Yeah, Oliver,” Draco lied, running a finger over the picture of his son before shutting the door. “That’s all.”

+++++
Slap. Harry was sick to death of paperwork. He had had quite enough of it to last him a lifetime. Two lifetimes. Perhaps even three. On his particularly boring days, such as today, he would find himself wondering if he had made a mistake by turning down the position of Head of Department. Then he looked at his stack of paperwork, shifted in his Ministry issued, “ergonomic” chair, and all doubts faded.

He wasn’t made for the job of administration. He wasn’t made to sit behind a large oak desk and sign his name on various reports. He hadn’t the mind for organization and unions and the minutiae of protocol.

Harry was made for action. He was made for the special task forces, the special operations. He was made for dueling and tracking down evil. He was not, by any means, designed for the mundane investigations that his job was providing him.

Sure, there were still murders. Sure, Dark Magic was still in use. But the levels and severity of the magic used rarely called for Auror intervention. The last worthwhile case Harry had taken on was the investigation of the murder of Dolores Umbridge. It had taken him a whole week to track down her murderer and, to be frank, Harry had a sneaking suspicion that Miles Bletchley had wanted to be found. He had never quite been the same after the war, though he had never been completely level before it either.

He was in permanent residence at St Mungo’s now. Considering his background and his crime, he was actually one of the better treated patients.

The point was that Harry was restless in his life. He had desperately wanted to believe, once, that he had enough action in his life, enough excitement to last him eternity. He believed he wanted a quiet and average life. He believed he deserved it, after everything was said and done. Still, he knew that he had only joined the Auror Corps right after the war in order to hunt down remaining Death Eaters. There was promise of continued action, continued thrill. There was promise of passion and danger. Things that Harry needed to thrive.

He had not expected paperwork.

If Harry was honest with himself, which he rarely was these days, he was miserable in his life. He regretted turning down other career options, other opportunities. He regretted so many things, now.

Harry pushed the thought from his mind and got to his feet. He needed to get out of the office. Seamus was already gone for the day. He had been called out to deal with a theft from Flourish and Blotts. Harry hadn’t quite heard the details but he didn’t quite care.

He went to the end of the hall and stopped in front of the door. He took a deep breath before knocking and walking right in. The man behind the desk looked up and smiled broadly at Harry. Harry stopped and placed his hands on his hips.

“Harry, my man,” he said cheerfully, placing his papers into a folder and giving Harry his undivided attention. He motioned to the chair in front of his desk. Harry took it. “What can I do for you?”

“I need a case, Boot,” Harry replied. There was no use beating around the bush. Harry ran his fingers distractedly through his hair and stared off at the wall. He was visibly restless. “I’m going out of my mind here.”

“Harry,” Boot leaned over his desk, looking sympathetic. He was a much better fit for Head of Department, Harry thought to himself. The desk suited him. “You know that I pass cases directly to you when I receive them.” Harry sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“I know, Terry,” he responded. He thrummed his fingers against the arm of the chair. “I just… I need something to distract myself. Anything, really. Ok? If you’ve got anything, let me know.”

“Alright, Harry,” Boot agreed, nodding his head. “I’ll find you something.”

“Thanks,” Harry told him, getting to his feet. He turned to the door.

“How’s Ginny?” Boot asked in passing. Harry stopped, staring hard at the door handle.

“She’s fine,” Harry responded shortly. “Why?”

“Oh, no reason.” Boot seemed merry. “I just met Michael for drinks the other night. Michael Corner, you remember.” Harry tensed. Yes, he did remember. “And we were talking about the good old days at Hogwarts and the DA, you know.” Boot reminisced and the smile was evident on his voice. “He asked me if I knew how Ginny was doing and I said I’d ask you.”

“Ah,” Harry grunted, reaching for the door handle. “I would’ve thought he could ask her himself.” He gripped the door to stop the dizzying feeling that overwhelmed him. Before Boot could answer, Harry pushed the door open. “I best be going. Let me know if you’ve got anything, yeah?”

Harry walked off down the hall without listening for a response. He was hot and his face was flushed. He took the lift to the Atrium and disapparated without waiting for Hermione, to say goodbye.

He appeared in the entrance of Grimmauld Place and removed his robes, in favour of denims and a light t-shirt. He padded around his living room and eventually dropped into the musty old couch. Harry was breathing heavily.

He leaned on his knees with his head in his hands and tugged at his hair. He was shaking and the world began to turn. He felt ill.

“I need to get a grip,” Harry murmured to himself. “I need to get a case. Or something. I need something to distract me…”

He looked up to the window opposite him. It threw four squares of light onto the couch but the room was steadily darkening. The bars of shadow fell on Harry’s face like a prison cell. The shadows shifted in his eyes.

“I need…”

+++++
You might think that darkness is a singular thing. You might think that in the depth of night, when the light of the moon is obscured by the Earth, there is nothing but the dark. You might think that shadows cannot fall where there is no light. You might think this, until you have seen the shadows and have had their hungry mouths on your face.


The truth is that the night is just as full of shadow as the daylight. They move in the darkness, unseen by most, and engulf the world. They eat hungrily at the solid world and soak into the weight of physical things. There are traces of these shadows left over in the morning. They hang on furniture and drip like ink in the early sun.

They shift and move, unnoticed, seeking out the starless eyes that know them.

Draco lay there in the darkness, watching the shadows move. His body was tense under the cotton linens of his bed. He stared directly at the ceiling, tracing an invisible ward with his eyes. He reassured himself it was there. Every night.

The new moon meant that the windows offered no sanctuary from the darkness. There was no light anywhere except for the tiny pinpricks in the sky. Stars that spelled out names and lives on the sky.

Draco’s hand was flat against his stomach. He felt his heartbeat in his abdomen and counted the thumps. He made himself aware of the blood moving through his body. It drove most people mad, but assuaged his own version of insanity.

Eventually, Draco could no longer stand it. He lifted himself out of bed as though he was mostly limp. His fingers trailed over his bedside table to smoothly snatch away a crystal tumbler as he walked out of the room with no light.

He wandered down the hall, his gauzy linen robe hanging open over his silk pajama trousers. His feet were bare and curled as he walked on the cold tiled floor. He held the tumbler in the tips of his fingers as he counted the shadows in his path.

Draco stepped into the study and placed the glass on the desk to pick up the bottle of Firewhiskey. The amber liquid filled the glass before his eyes and Draco was somewhat unaware of his own movements.

He sat down in a winged armchair and slumped back against the seat. He flicked his wand at the hearth and a lively fire burst into being though there was little welcome or warmth in it.

The flames danced before his eyes as he drank. The burning sensation helped assuage his fears and he relaxed into the tired tug of the alcohol across his neck.

Draco much preferred rooms where the shadows did not hide. He preferred to watch them dance in the voids of the flames. He enjoyed their movement.

The fire crackled and spat, a lick of flame dancing on the air before him before it disappeared. A moment’s panic took him before subsiding. He downed the drink and let the glass slip to the tips of his fingers once more as he leaned his arms over the sides of the chair.

“This is bollocks,” Draco murmured as he watched the fire. He saw himself on a broomstick, flying, fleeing in panic. He grimaced and the fire roared higher. He threw the glass into the flames and it shattered against the back of the hearth, spitting little shards of glass outward from the point of impact.

He turned his attention to the bookshelf in the corner. There was a heavy volume on the bookshelf that did not fit with the others. While all the books there were old and worn, this one brought new meaning to the terms. The spine was torn and crumbling, held together by nothing more than magic. The cover was so used that the title was no longer visible. There were gold flecks across the canvas bindings that suggested that there was once a title. The pages were thick with oils and reads, waving and crumpled in various locations. The ink was thick on the page and the typesetting dated from the early Middle Ages.

Draco summoned the book and examined it closely. Its weight was simultaneously comforting and unsettling in his grasp.

He examined the face closely, running his fingertips over it. If he focused hard enough he could see the web of magic holding the individual fragments in place.

He opened the book and flipped to a familiar passage. He had read this same passage innumerable times and had memorized the words there. Still, he couldn’t quite understand what it said. He knew that the answers to his troubles were encrypted therein but the book was unyielding. There was only one image that came to his mind when he read the excerpt and, no matter how hard he tried, that same image would remain immovable in his thoughts for a week.

The image was of a familiar face with a familiar glare and an all-too-sure determination. Draco would forever be haunted by that face, though there are others that should more rightly haunt him.

He banished the book back to its location on the shelf and stared into the flames again.

“Draco?” a voice called to him quietly. He heard light and floating footsteps approach him. “Draco, darling. Why are you up at this hour?”

Draco said nothing. He merely tilted his head to one side and continued to stare into the flames as though they returned his gaze. The footsteps moved closer and Draco did nothing as two thin arms wrapped themselves around his neck, pulling him into the back of the chair.

“Draco,” the voice purred. Draco knew who it was but couldn’t bear to think about it. His mind was far too preoccupied. “Come back to bed, love.” There was a faint and flowery scent travelling on the air as a curtain of blond hair fell to the side of his face. “Let me help you sleep.”

The hands slid up and down his chest. Fine hands with long nails.

Suddenly, when he again refused to respond, she moved around him. She knelt on the ground between his legs and placed herself directly in his line of sight, blocking the fire. She puckered her lips at him and lidded her eyes. She was in a better mood than earlier in the day.

Her hands were on his chest and moving steadily downward. Draco’s attention flickered away from the flames and his eyes fell on his wife’s shadowed face. She gave him what she clearly thought to be a seductive smirk and dragged her palms down, over his thighs and back up again. He swallowed.

“Let me be your sanctuary,” she hummed softly. Her hands lingered on his inner-thighs. “Let me be your relief.”

Draco looked into her eyes, searching. She looked up at him with hope. She trailed her fingers to his hips and steadily inward. He placed his hands on her wrists and pulled them away from him, getting to his feet and stepping around her.

He walked towards the door.

“Draco, please,” Aurora called. It was not begging, but rather exasperation. “Tell me what you need.”

Draco paused in the doorway and responded without looking back. His voice was huskier than usual, laden with thought and calling for sleep.

“I just need.”
-----

A/N: Thank you for the reviews. I'm working on this steadily. Again, I would just like to warn you that there will be suggestions and perhaps small portions of pairings other than Harry/Draco but, I promise that this is, in majority, Harry/Draco. They are my OTP. So yeah. Don't be alarmed by other people, please. I know I never write anyone else, so this is new for me too, lol.

As always, reviews are love and garner more writing/posting. :D