Smell of Insanity
folder
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Draco
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,298
Reviews:
4
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Draco
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,298
Reviews:
4
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Smell of Insanity
Author: pir8fancier
Title: Smell of Insanity
Pairings: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Disclaimer: No money is being made from this endeavor.
Author's NotesThis was written for a hp_quince weekly challenge where there is a word or picture, and you have only fifteen minutes to write your piece. No changes can be made other than egregious spelling errors, etc. The theme this time was "roses." Please read this with a grain of salt. There are things I'd like to change but it is what it is. This is a wonderful exercise for writers like myself who are often too verbose. It forces you to really think about what you want to say.
********************
The anniversary of his mother's death was on a Thursday this year, which irritated Draco no end. Thursday was such a mundane day, it's only claim to fame being that it was the precursor to Friday. Her anniversary should always be on a Sunday. Draco would have honored her on a Sunday every year if it hadn't struck him as being slightly mad. A state that he was trying to avoid at all costs. Which was proving a little more difficult than he anticipated.
The post-war years had not been kind. Putting it mildly. Having been brought up with the tom-toms of tradition, history, his place in this history beating in his ears on a constant basis, the disintegration, no, the silencing of those tom-toms left an unbearable void that he was hopeless to fill. The Manor destroyed in the war. His friends killed. His parents dead. There was really nothing left.
He hadn't realized it while it was happening, but his virtual incarceration at Spinner's End during the entire war was when the tom-toms fell silent. Not that he knew anything, he who had once been under the delusion that he was in the know; his world disintegrated quite nicely and completely without him. Every fallen friend, every scarred and splintered inch of Malfoy Manor destroyed without his knowledge.
What a mind fuck. That your entire world was being obliterated and you didn't have a clue. You sat there and drank your weak tea accompanied by stale scones, and your mother was being killed by Voldemort. And you didn't know.
His trial was mercifully short. Pointing a wand at someone and wishing they were dead was, thankfully, not really a crime. There were people who were desperate to pin Dumbledore's death on him, but with Potter's testimony, what could they do?
They contented themselves with sequestering his entire inheritance. They couldn't touch the money in France, so Draco wasn't impoverished, god, how that struck in the craw of some people, but what did it matter? People were idiots. Didn't they realize the money was pointless? He had nothing left.
While waiting to go mad, because Draco had a sneaking suspicion it was really not that far off, he'd rented a small flat in Diagon Alley. No point in buying anything if you were going to go off the deep end. He gone into Malfoy Manor in the dead of night and had stolen, he'd been reduced to stealing what was actually his, what the Ministry hadn't destroyed in their zeal to capture his father.
He ignored the small knock on the door. He'd often heard knocking and decided it was the first sign of his madness.
Then the knock shouted. "Malfoy, open up."
Hmmm, the knock hadn't started talking until recently.
"Fucking open this door."
Draco always ignored it when the knock started talking.
Then the door opened.
If Draco hadn't been entirely terrified, he might have given a fleeting nod to how ingenious his craziness was becoming, because there stood Potter with a bunch of white long-stemmed roses in his hand. Potter was usually the voice behind the knock. That's how Draco knew he was going mad.
"Sorry. It's today, isn't it?"
Draco nodded. He found that it paid to be nice to these hallucinations.
"When we stormed the Manor, I remembered the garden and all those beautiful white roses in the garden black from soot."
Draco nodded again. Not that he'd seen it, but he'd seen the strangled remnants of what had been the rose garden. His mother's rose garden.
The hallucination made it's way over to the couch where he was sitting. He placed the flowers down on a chair. Draco could smell the heavy, almost overpowering scent of the roses. He inhaled deeply and fought down a childhood memory of his mother standing over a vase, arranging roses. The hallucination sat down next to Draco and put his arms around him.
Draco liked this part best. It didn't happen often, and only happened with the Potter hallucination. Draco always marveled at how precise insanity was, because he could feel the slight frame of the man holding him. The pressure of a sigh against his ear.
"Don't give up, Malfoy."
Title: Smell of Insanity
Pairings: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Disclaimer: No money is being made from this endeavor.
Author's NotesThis was written for a hp_quince weekly challenge where there is a word or picture, and you have only fifteen minutes to write your piece. No changes can be made other than egregious spelling errors, etc. The theme this time was "roses." Please read this with a grain of salt. There are things I'd like to change but it is what it is. This is a wonderful exercise for writers like myself who are often too verbose. It forces you to really think about what you want to say.
********************
The anniversary of his mother's death was on a Thursday this year, which irritated Draco no end. Thursday was such a mundane day, it's only claim to fame being that it was the precursor to Friday. Her anniversary should always be on a Sunday. Draco would have honored her on a Sunday every year if it hadn't struck him as being slightly mad. A state that he was trying to avoid at all costs. Which was proving a little more difficult than he anticipated.
The post-war years had not been kind. Putting it mildly. Having been brought up with the tom-toms of tradition, history, his place in this history beating in his ears on a constant basis, the disintegration, no, the silencing of those tom-toms left an unbearable void that he was hopeless to fill. The Manor destroyed in the war. His friends killed. His parents dead. There was really nothing left.
He hadn't realized it while it was happening, but his virtual incarceration at Spinner's End during the entire war was when the tom-toms fell silent. Not that he knew anything, he who had once been under the delusion that he was in the know; his world disintegrated quite nicely and completely without him. Every fallen friend, every scarred and splintered inch of Malfoy Manor destroyed without his knowledge.
What a mind fuck. That your entire world was being obliterated and you didn't have a clue. You sat there and drank your weak tea accompanied by stale scones, and your mother was being killed by Voldemort. And you didn't know.
His trial was mercifully short. Pointing a wand at someone and wishing they were dead was, thankfully, not really a crime. There were people who were desperate to pin Dumbledore's death on him, but with Potter's testimony, what could they do?
They contented themselves with sequestering his entire inheritance. They couldn't touch the money in France, so Draco wasn't impoverished, god, how that struck in the craw of some people, but what did it matter? People were idiots. Didn't they realize the money was pointless? He had nothing left.
While waiting to go mad, because Draco had a sneaking suspicion it was really not that far off, he'd rented a small flat in Diagon Alley. No point in buying anything if you were going to go off the deep end. He gone into Malfoy Manor in the dead of night and had stolen, he'd been reduced to stealing what was actually his, what the Ministry hadn't destroyed in their zeal to capture his father.
He ignored the small knock on the door. He'd often heard knocking and decided it was the first sign of his madness.
Then the knock shouted. "Malfoy, open up."
Hmmm, the knock hadn't started talking until recently.
"Fucking open this door."
Draco always ignored it when the knock started talking.
Then the door opened.
If Draco hadn't been entirely terrified, he might have given a fleeting nod to how ingenious his craziness was becoming, because there stood Potter with a bunch of white long-stemmed roses in his hand. Potter was usually the voice behind the knock. That's how Draco knew he was going mad.
"Sorry. It's today, isn't it?"
Draco nodded. He found that it paid to be nice to these hallucinations.
"When we stormed the Manor, I remembered the garden and all those beautiful white roses in the garden black from soot."
Draco nodded again. Not that he'd seen it, but he'd seen the strangled remnants of what had been the rose garden. His mother's rose garden.
The hallucination made it's way over to the couch where he was sitting. He placed the flowers down on a chair. Draco could smell the heavy, almost overpowering scent of the roses. He inhaled deeply and fought down a childhood memory of his mother standing over a vase, arranging roses. The hallucination sat down next to Draco and put his arms around him.
Draco liked this part best. It didn't happen often, and only happened with the Potter hallucination. Draco always marveled at how precise insanity was, because he could feel the slight frame of the man holding him. The pressure of a sigh against his ear.
"Don't give up, Malfoy."