Lost And Found. A Story.

He held her hand tightly, enjoying the way her smooth, soft fingers felt laced through his own calloused hands. Her fingers were tiny, her hands small in his own, the skin milky against his golden tan.



Life on the margins,

Little looks we have to steal.



She smiled up at him, her teeth weren't perfect but they were close to it; her smile was perfect. They way her earthen eyes lit up, like he'd caught every star and placed them inside.



Draco hadn't felt a peace like this in his life. Not ever.



I want to run like vagrants hand in hand across this field.



They were sitting by a small, rippling stream outside of the city of Munster, the picnic basket that his Mother had helped him pack settled neatly in the soft, spring grass.



She began speaking in angelic tones he hadn't thought existed in the german tongue. He didn't pay as much attention to the words, but rather the way she said them as she ran her fingers across his short crop of blonde hair.



But I know the way you are,

As I could fall into the star.



Her name was Ginevra. She was like shade on a hot summer day, she cooled and calmed his fiery energy.



They had met - after passing so often on the cobbled streets of Munster - one afternoon when she dropped her scarf; in his haste to retrieve it, Draco had lost several packages he'd been carrying. She laughed and blushed at his fervor, and asked him to walk her home.



She kept dropping he shawl as she passed him, and he kept walking her home. The day her father spoke to him, he realized how much more this meant.



But it's not easy for everybody to fall in love.



He'd begun to court her. She was beautiful. He would inherit the pharmacy from his own Father, and Ginny's dowry was more than enough to begin a family with. And she was beautiful.



She giggled at the dazed expression on his face, and he realized he'd drifted into another daydream. She often laughed at his faraway expressions, saying he looked whimsical.



"What fantastical things are you thinking, dear Draco?" her voice was smooth and soothing.



She often wondered what he thought, and he realized all of his past that he couldn't tell her. In all his time in this city, the only person who knew his whole past was his Mother, whom he had cried to and clung to when he couldn't stand the summers. His Father had often warned him to say he was an orphaned nephew from nearby Alsace, the folk of Munster wouldn't understand the implications of his background.



The city walls are reigning perilous and tall,

Over dark chilling streets;

No, it's not weakness when you fall.



When she asked, he told her. He told her tales of gypsies and lost children in make-up and fur and thieves in the night and wolves under moonlight. He told her. And she laughed at the absurdity. She thought they were imaginary stories, things he'd make up while away in his mind, and when he once tried to tell her it was truth, she was unable to comprehend it. So he lied. He told her, yes, they were all stories. So she would laugh again and ask him to tell another.



Sometimes he wished he could tell her, but he agreed with his Father that it was easier this way. People couldn't understand.



Oh it's just too much too fast,

Crash that column into the wall.



He folded his hands over hers and told her another story.



"Do you remember the account of the small savage boy with feathers for hair?" he asked her, her eyes widening in recognition. The stream they sat beside was so peaceful, it babbled a constantly content liquid music.



"Yes. The little boy who faced the wolf!" She smiled up at him.



Don't let them tell you that there's a right way to fall in love.



Draco smiled back and continued tenuously, "One day he found himself at the edge of the world, with the band of gypsies at his side. They would dance and drink and be merry." He paused, seeing if she was interested.



She nodded for him to continue. The sky was growing darker. They would have to head back soon.



"Well, he stayed late by the old gypsy woman's side, and she taught him her magic. He learned how to look into glass balls, how to rearrange the constellations, and how to read cards." Ginny's eyes grew cloudy at the mention of magic. The people of the germanic city were very superstitious. The tales of gypsies always frightened her the most. "And one night, by the heat of the bonfire, the old woman died."



And at this, Ginny pulled her hand back from his.



And she says...



"No more, Draco. Please. No more stories today." Her eyes were full of fear as she stood and smoothed the lace edges of her pastel gown.



His heart fell. They walked to her home in silence, and she left him at the door.



He didn't understand. He often felt like he never would.



"I want to live my life,

Don't want to waste my time,

I want a man who makes me feel like a woman."



There were days when Ginny would smile at him so carefully that it seemed she was afraid of her own happiness. Her parents told her everything to do, had sent her to the local convent to be taught the ways of the Christian God that many in Munster believed in. When their eldest daughter Jasmina died of pneumonia, they summoned her back and gave her the dowry Jasmina had been saddled with in hopes of marrying her into a nice family within the city - they were well-to-do, they had farmlands, they had no sons.



I used to be your biggest fan,

I used to be your biggest fan,

Now I find that you are slipping in my estimation.



But Ginny never let herself give in to the ideas Draco constantly held in his mind. Taking her to the stream that day had been the most adventurous event marking their courtship, and he doubted he could get her to trust him enough to go so far again.



He had been content in her smile, in the gaze of her eyes, and that would be all he needed. But how he fought for those few things...



I used to be your biggest fan,

I used to be your biggest fan,

And now I know that you could never love someone like me.



He walked the cobbled and winding streets, pulling at the cuffs of his coat. His seventeenth spring was pulling itself across the land, the bricked buildings of the town heating in the easy day's sun and cooling quickly when the sun sank low.



He passed a lively pub and hear the sounds of tankards clanking against the stone bar top. A squat form of a man shuffled past the swinging door and he paused in the low light, glancing back at the young man.



I used to run with my whiskers to the sun,

I used to shed my weakness like a bullet sheds a gun.



"Draco! That you, boy?" the gruff voice of Rufus Wagner called to him through the night.



He was supposed to be home now, but his feet were too heavy to head in that direction.



"Aye, herr Wagner. It is I." His voice was weak and warbled, reminding him of his weaknesses.



But I say, Close in on me, my foundations came undone.

I said, why oh why is there so much hate in this world?



"Come now, young lad, have a beer with us! You are the age of a man now, yes?" He grabbed Draco's arm and tugged him into the pub, the dingy lights casting friendly shadows on everyone's faces; men played cards and drank loudly, women wore dresses far too low cut for the light of day.



Belt out a song, some vicious call-to-arms gone wrong.

But we've tended now, we're going fifty thousand strong.

This one's a dream, so shut your mouth and sing along.



"Ach, what a pretty boy!" A slender man waltzed to the front of the bar, he could have been no more than twenty summers in age, a silver tray in hand full of tankards filled to their brim. His build was lithe, the curve of his hips shown by the tight waistcoat he sported, his hair a mess of raven tresses. His eyes were vivid emeralds, his voice was deep and sultry. "Why haven't I seen this lad around?"



"This young man is quite a hard worker! He works with Gaufried, his father, at the Pharmacy!" Wagner seemed to have already stared drinking. His large nose was red from the effort to speak.



Oh the science of music is all stupid and cruel.



Draco sat on a stool at the bar and a tankard was passed his way, but he didn't touch it. Who knew what his Mother was thinking right now?



And I know I want to live my life,

Don't want to waste my time

Trying to strike the right lyrical density.



The emerald-eyed man sauntered to sit by his side, crossing his legs and showing a flash of gold, a pocket watch hanging from his vest.



"Why so quiet, stranger?" His lips pulled into an easy smile, his teeth straight and white as Draco's. He was... beautiful.



Draco sat in silence and stared at the bar top. The men around him grew rowdy, singing raucously as the night grew long. The viridescent man at his side left more than once, always returning to ask him to speak with him.



I used to be your biggest fan,

I used to be your biggest fan,

Now I find that you are slipping in my estimation.



The man slid a hand onto Draco's hip, and the blond turned to him dazedly. What was this game? He wasn't interested.



He lifted the brunette's hand and moved away from the bar at last, stepping into the cool spring air. There was a scent of citrus in the air.



Walking into an alley, he made his way back home. He couldn't even recall what hour it was.



I used to be your biggest fan,

I used to be your biggest fan,

And now I know that you could never love someone like me.



A push was all it took, and he was pressed to the brick wall behind him, green eyes smiling before him.



"Wha - What are you doing?" He grasped the man's shoulders and stilled his movements.



The man frowned, confused, whispering softly, "I thought this would ease your troubles."



Draco pulled himself from his grasp.



"I don't know what will ease my troubles." He hated the way his voice wavered, more somber than he'd known it to be.



And I know I want to live my life,

Don't want to waste my time.

I want to be the toast of the shanty-town.



The man smiled sadly at him and touched a delicate hand to his shoulder. "Would you care to walk with me, then? We can just talk. I hate to see you frown so."



He nodded mutely as the brunette took his arm and guided him through the dark streets.



"My name is Harry, you know. But you can call me what you like." He still spoke in whispers, almost reverently, and Draco smiled, thinking of bonfires and sacred words.



"Harry is nice enough. My name is Draco."



And they talked of many inconsequential things, whispering in the dark; Harry told him anecdotes of funny drunk men and Draco told him the names and tales of each of the constellations. They sat on a bridge over flowing spring waters, talking as the sun began its ascent.



"What are you still doing here, Draco?" Harry touched his short, gold hair with long, trailing fingers.



The blond glanced at him sideways, keeping track of the way the stars faded into the sky, "What do you mean? Do you want me to leave you here?"



You stick around a while,

And you cut your teeth.

You can't go home.



Harry laughed silently, "No, not at all. I mean, what ever are you doing still here? In this city? Your mind is too big for all of this, Draco. Don't tell me you've been drawn into their silly society, to marry some girl and live on a farm in this city forever. Is that what you want?"



I used to be your biggest fan,

And then I saw you in the doorway.



He tensed at the serious tones, thinking, breathing heavily.



"I... I don't know what I want." He had loved everything about his stay. He had gained a loving Mother, a caring Father. For two years he had been sheltered in their home, dining at their table and working by their sides. What did he want to happen next? To marry some girl and live on a farm?



He thought of Ginny. She hadn't occurred to him until that moment. Her dark strawberry hair, and the way it reflected the rays of daylight... But what was there? A pretty face. She feared him, his stories of gypsies and magic, she rarely accepted his offered hands or attempted kisses. She was a dowry, a pretty gift for some young citizen of Munster to appreciate, to beget children and keep them on a farm in this city forever.



He shuddered.



Harry's laughter sounded light and full, "Dear Draco," the man stood and brushed himself of dirt, "In one year's time, I will take my place at the Salon de la Mer Royale, in Paris, France." Harry's gaze reached into him, and Draco stood as though compelled, "Will you meet me in one year's time, in Paris?"



For a moment you looked tender and I knew.



He smiled at the request. "I will see where my path goes. I may see you in a year, but you know I can't promise you that."



That I could never ever ever ever ever ever touch you.



Harry smiled brightly, "At least I know you won't be here, Draco."



Because you might touch back.



And with that, he winked an impish emerald eye and took his leave, boots clicking on the cobblestones as the skies grew to a cottony blue.



Oh yes, you might, oh you might touch back.



Draco reached his home and bypassed the front door, walking around the cottage and taking an axe from the shed.



The lime tree had grown in the two years' time, its blossoms heavy and ready to bloom. They shook with each hit of the axe to its base, the noise echoing across the yard as the tree cracked and fell, the scent of citrus hanging heavy in the air. He swapped the axe for that dull shovel he'd use so long ago and began to undo his craftwork, tilling the dirt and heaving it away. He slowed as the roots of the trunk eased, scrambling to his knees to tear the dirt with his hands.



His face was red from effort. Sweat drenched his dirtied clothes. Tears tracked his cheeks.



And his hands hit something hard and hollow. He brushed the dirt, crying out as he saw the gleam of opal and gold. He pressed his hands to the small chest, surprised and having anticipated the moment it sprung, whole and undamaged, from the damp earth. He held it to his heart, barely breathing.



He stepped to the cottage he'd called his home for the past two years. But was it really his home? He wasn't sure.



As he walked through the door and quietly stepped to his room, his eyes fell on Petrissa, laying across his bed, sobbing.



Well I made a mistake, well maybe two.



She glanced up at him with red eyes, swollen from crying. Her breath caught; he'd ripped away the heavy coat as he was hacking the lime tree, and stood before her in muddied breeches and waistcoat.



"You really are going, aren't you?" She had a tone of resignation, he flinched at the sound obscuring her pleasant voice.



"I am. I... I have to." He couldn't form more words. They caught in his throat and weighed him down. Could he really leave?



One for me and one for you.



She nodded. Striding across the room, she pulled him towards her in a fierce hug, the gypsy box held between them.



"I knew you would have to eventually," she whispered into his hair, "You can't cage a bird forever."



And then I knew...



She made him pack a small case of clothes and food, pressing a sheathed dagger in the pocket of his breeches. Gaufried had left for work early that morning and he was glad; he didn't know if he could leave both of them at the same time. Petrissa walked with him in silence to the roads.



He faced west, towards Munster and towards Paris. Would his feet really take him to Paris?



He looked back at her, her face resembling a sunset; beautiful, crumbling. Her flung his arms around her one last time, holding her up as she sobbed into his shoulder.



"No matter what," he told her firmly, tears etching down his cheeks, "You are my Mother."



That I would measure everybody against you.



And with their final parting, he set off.



He walked the familiar streets of the city for a final time, wondering what Petrissa would do, and how Gaufried would react to discover his son was no longer home. His mind wandered to Harry, where he was now, and if he would be where he had promised to be in a year's time.



Yes I would measure everybody against you.



"Draco!" an angry voice called behind him. He turned slowly, careful of the gazes of the few passersby.



Ginny glared at him, her round cheeks pinched pink.



Well I used to be,

I used to be...



"Mattio said you were in the pub last night. That you left with someone." Her voice trembled, yet she was furious for all the wrong reasons.



"That someone followed me. What does it matter, Ginevra? I'm leaving." He turned back to the west end of the road.



"Draco! You will not turn away from me!" She rushed forward to grab his shoulder but he turned roughly back, sensing her motion.



I used to be,

I used to be...



"Ginny, do you love me?" His voice was strong and clear, commanding an answer from her.



She seemed stunned, lips parted in shock. Slowly she closed her mouth and spoke in a small voice, "I.. Love? That is such a broad term..." Her eyes had drifted to her feet, busily twisting a place in her skirt.



He knew then. He knew that she had never even thought to love him. She may not have wanted to. She was meant to be a convent girl, and in so many ways she was still in the convent of her own mind. She would someday marry a man of her father's choosing, and she would live in the city until she died.



His eyes softened and he nodded, "I am leaving, Ginny. I don't know if I'll return. I wish you and your family the best."



I used to be

Your biggest fan.



He walked to the edge of the pine grove just outside the city, and began humming the tune of a song Matilde used to sing, still hugging her box close to his heart.



He felt free. Where his steps would lead, he knew not.



But he was no longer a caged bird.