Warning(s): Second person, present tense.
Disclaimer: JKR owns. I only play. You do not sue.
Length: 1300 words
Summary: Your name is Draco Malfoy and you're running for your life.
Note: Written for tarie's Video Drabble challenge. I got WHAM - Wake Me Up (Before You Go Go) and I have no bloody clue how it turned into this.
Concrit: Always welcome and appreciated.
There is a certain comfort in darkness when it falls -- a false sense of security, a calm, dry feeling even if the rain lashes against the windows and turns the streetlamps into hazy blobs that give neither light nor warmth. In the dark, everything has a grey cast to it, but there are no doubts lurking in this strange twilight reality unless you are a child. In the dark, whispered words take on a significance impossible during the daytime and every time he touches you, it's a new secret you can carry in your heart.
There was a time, long ago, when daylight brought sunshine, drenching the world in colour, depth, definition. There was a time when you could see -- the golden glinting of the Snitch next to a freshly painted goalpost, the endlessly blue expanse of sky, a pair of green eyes with your reflection in them. It was not this grey, staring haze that eats away at the outlines of every building, tree and bench. Not the pale, glimmering light that keeps slipping away just out of reach when you try to keep your eyes open for more than a few seconds. You blink. It's gone.
The Dementors have covered everything in mist; it clings wetly to every surface, as though trying to swallow the world and send it wherever creatures of the shadow dwell. The Muggle in the talking box yaps excitedly about something called barometric pressure and points at a cloud-covered map labelled with bright red and blue arrows. You don't understand a word he says, but in a way that's a comfort. If you could take everything you've ever known and lock it far away, you know you would be happy. Ignorance is bliss.
You look at each other across the small table and wait for the darkness to fall. When it does, the things you do aren't so perverse really. There are no barriers but for those silent sentries that will forever remind you that you do not belong together. Sirius Black. Albus Dumbledore. Severus Snape. Lucius Malfoy. Their imaginary ghosts flit about your heads every day, but darkness seems to chase them into whatever afterworld exists. Maybe the misty, gloomy world you see during the day is the real afterlife, but you don't think about that when he holds you down, when his teeth graze your collarbone, when you gasp against his heated skin.
Tomorrow, you will leave this behind. He said it would be for the best. He said he had lost too much too soon. He said he didn't want to lose you, too. He said he said he fucking said. You keep your silence even though that tiny part of you that's always been brave wants to make you say no.
"Wake me up before you go," he says. ("I want to say goodbye," he doesn't say.)
You leave at dawn, or whatever passes for dawn these days -- he's still asleep and you don't wake him, because you will not say goodbye. At Gringotts, a sour-faced goblin hands you a strange bendy card and tells you to just ignore the monthly statements, that it's hooked up to the Muggle banking networks, whatever those are, and that you'll be drawing straight from your family vault. He shows you how to use the card, makes you write down some sort of "pin" code, though you see no pins anywhere on the machine that swallows the card during the demonstration.
Your name is Draco Malfoy and you're running for your life.
That's all you know, really, in this strange digital world with its flashing neon signs, raucous music that shrieks from every direction, where machines control every aspect of life, but the people are too blind to see it. The Muggles give you strange looks as you dodge through traffic on a busy street in Berlin. You wonder what they would say if you simply Apparated across the street, but the Statute of Secrecy is an international agreement and it would be the height of stupidity to be caught before you've even begun to run.
In Budapest, you stare at your hotel room's ceiling, listen to the incomprehensible adverts in between the equally incomprehensible Brazilian soaps, and wonder what Bamboocha is supposed to be, and whether it's any good with toast. You laugh yourself to sleep, but you dream of callused fingers sliding down your back and chapped lips pressing to the side of your neck.
In Bern, the Gringotts goblins assure you that your account is still in good standing. You can do this, really. You can manage this Muggle stuff, even if you feel so alone that you've started talking to your own shadow.
In Italy, you stand at one of many endless piers in a city whose name you've forgotten already, and think about your mother, buried in the centre of her magnolia orchard, back home. She always said Italy was the centre of the world, because all roads led to Rome. You go to Rome and don't find it all that impressive. Of course, visitors to Rome are expected to see the Sistine Chapel and all those other historical sites. Instead, you find a rent boy with messy black hair and piercing green eyes, but his hands feel wrong, and he tastes different. You pay him anyway and watch him hurry down the winding road, away from you.
In Moscow, you walk across Red Square and try to count the interlocking stones beneath your feet. You're terrified, because the profusion of colours around you and the strange, rough language ringing in your ears make you feel new to this world again. In every stone, there is a gash shaped like a lightning bolt, and you want to crouch down and touch each one, just to remember what it feels like.
Your name is Draco Malfoy and it's been three years since you've left him to fight his war. You know he won. You don't know why you didn't go back right then. The headline looms in front of your eyes as though it hasn't been six months since you saw it -- ENGLAND: LAST DEATH EATER BEHIND BARS. There's no danger anymore, yet you keep running.
In Dubai, the sun makes your skin comes off in ragged sheets, and the one beneath it is no darker than the old one. You run your fingers over where your heart is and wince, because you still think about his touches even though you can't really remember what they feel like anymore. You remember the grey mists that chased you away from home and you realise that you can't deny it any longer.
Your name is Draco Malfoy and you're hopelessly in love with Harry Potter.
In Cambridge, you stand and stare at a narrow street filled with cars. Their horns are blaring and people are shouting, "Italy! Italy!" from the windows. You see a tall bloke emerge from a pub and wave at a friend.
"Got to get home to my wife," he calls, grinning. "She'll be laughing at me. Bloody Zidane."
The words mean nothing to you but behind them hides something so quiet and peaceful, something you've longed for without realising it. Then you see Harry in the doorway of the pub and your vision blurs for a moment. You rub at your wet cheeks and tell yourself it's just the exhaust fumes.
Your eyes meet his across the river of painted steel and plastic between the two of you, but it's no obstacle, is it, you're wizards, aren't you, and fuck the Statute of Secrecy. The Muggles are so caught up in their celebrating, they don't notice a thing -- and then he kisses you right in that doorway, and you wonder why you ever left at all.