Title: Sweet Heart
Author: Wild Anjali
Rating: PG
Artwork: Picture by Shizuka
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Note: Phrases in italics are quotes from Quidditch Through The Ages.
Harry is tired, and Draco is leaving. He sits high on a branch of the oak tree, deep in the Forbidden Forest where the love struck girls can't find him, and Draco is leaving. There is a book in his hands, a book his eyes do not see, and it is a brand-new copy that glows in the morning sun, and Draco is leaving. It is Valentine's Day, and Draco is leaving. Leaving him.
It was only yesterday that he had been wrapped in Draco's arms, right here at the base of this tree. They had been nestled in the grassy hollow between the roots, Harry's head tucked under Draco's chin and their limbs entangled. He'd slid his lips up and down Draco's collarbone in time to the muffled heart that murmured against his ear, marveling at the salty taste of skin and flesh and Draco. He'd spoke, words that flowed idly from his mouth and dripped drop by drop to his lover, who caught every single translucent teary bead.
No spell yet devised enables wizards to fly unaided in human form.
He spoke nonsensically of the illusion of love, of the pink detestable butterfly that set alight in the hearts of innocent Hufflepuffs, of their stalking of him every dreaded Valentine's. This year it was a Saturday, tomorrow, and they would come for him and drape streamers in his hair and glow with schoolgirl beams and try to kiss him. And it always, always frightened him. There was a goodness there he was uncomfortable with, a sticky goodness that he knew he did not belong among, and so it was that he dove into the embrace of a boy whose loving was dark and possessive and held him closer than he'd ever been held before.
"The Muggles have these sweet hearts," he had said idly, eyes on the warm shadows the sun cast through the enclosing foliage above. "They have words, little meaningless words. I had one, once, a piece Dudley had dropped. The sweetness was overpowering, and burned at my throat." Draco's fingers ran through his unruly hair, massaging his aching head. His hair really did need cutting, but if meant Draco could run his hands through it, he didn't care. "It said, 'LUV ME.' And I didn't know what to do." He had sighed, and wished inwardly for a piece of this antagonistic sweet. He could do it now, he thought. There was Draco, always.
"The girls will stalk me, like always. But now you'll be there, right?" Draco studied him closely, silvery eyes flickering over his scar and eyes and hands and scar again. Then he leaned over and pressed his lips to his forehead, to that jagged mark that defined his destiny, and whispered, "No."
Levitation is commonplace, but our ancestors were not content with hovering five feet from the ground.
Harry knew. Harry knew then with the absolute certainty that he knew that Voldemort would one day appear and he would die to defeat him. He knew with a blinding ache behind his jade eyes that Draco was leaving. They had mentioned it before, that moment when Draco would be called home to be given his own jagged mark, albeit on a pale wrist rather than a tan forehead. But always they vied away from the topic before confronting it full on. And now Harry knew that Draco was leaving, that he would be on the first train the next morning, that his destination would be the destiny promised since birth. Harry knew this, and had accepted it. To change this destiny would be to change Draco, and it would kill him. His Draco was Draco Malfoy and no other, and he had accepted and cherished both his love and his hate.
"I love you, Draco." Draco stood, pulling Harry to his feet. The sun was setting, and it was time to get back to the school.
"I know. But it doesn't matter, does it?" This matter-of-fact statement would have hurt anyone else, but it was Harry who heard it and Harry who saw the pain in his eyes and Harry who loved him. And it was Harry who knew it was true.
"I wish you could say it to me, though," he said wistfully.
"So do I." Regret tinged his voice, and neither spoke again.
They wanted more.
Now Harry is tired, and Draco is leaving. High on the oak tree branch, he is weary of the pursuing girls with their lilies and narcissi that make him choke with denied need. His back is braced against the trunk and his eyes do not see the book in his hand. An updated copy of Quidditch Through the Ages, a gift Draco had received from his parents just last Christmas. He'd given it to Harry the day before, and his rational voice still echoed in Harry's ears: "I'll have no need of it now."
Then there is one word that pierces his selfish sorrow, a word that resonates from the base of the tree where a certain person calls to him. "Harry." Draco looks up at him, Draco beckons at him, yet he cannot move. He cannot do anything at all but fill his sight and heart with the one person who completes the gaping hole inside him. Once he sees Draco's neat traveling clothes, he turns his eyes back to the page before him, letters dancing and mocking him. He cannot afford to hope, for the agony of being shot down would tear him apart.
Draco examines Harry, high up on the branch. He thinks that Harry couldn't have climbed up there by himself, and Draco's suspicion is proven right when he finds the Firebolt lying on the ground. There is too much, or perhaps nothing, to say, so he asks a question instead. "How are you going to get down?"
Harry's voice is so rough and cracking that only Draco would recognize his words as, "I'm not coming down." Draco looks down at the withered leaves beneath his feet.
"The train is delayed." He expects no answer, and is surprised when he receives a vehement one.
"It's always delays with us, isn't it?" Spiteful though it is, Harry says it heavily, a voice that weighs down and makes one feel as if the ground is unsteady between one's feet and the earth itself is mocking and jeering.
Oh the thrill of the chase as I soar through the air
A moment later, Harry turns his head slightly, and is not surprised to find Draco eye level with him. He hovers gracefully on Harry's broom before climbing onto the branch, squatting with perfect balance next to the bespectacled boy opposite him. One hand clenches the broom with a white-knuckled fist while the other reaches out to cup Harry's cheek. Harry says two words, and the tremors in his throat seem to travel through Draco's hand and arm and hit him hard inside. "Or endings."
"I wish I could say it, Harry. There's no one else I'd say it to."
"It doesn't matter. I'm sorry enough for the both of us." Draco smiles wryly, inwardly cursing a childhood that has twisted him beyond a declaration of affection or even a simple apology.
"There's that also, but I was referring to this." He drops the hand from Harry's face, gestures with it elaborately and then closes it into a fist. Opening it over the book, a conjured object falls from his hand to rest in the crease between the open pages. Draco does not meet his eyes, whispering hoarsely, "It's all I can do."
Harry slowly reaches out and picks up the small pink item, barely the size of the nail of his smallest finger, that leaves a faint trail of sparkly dust. It is a sweet heart, inscribed with the eloquent phrase of, "LUV U." It is so horribly expressed, so culturally pathetic, and yet he knows it is Draco's own ironic way of telling him what he so needs to hear. Mind incapable of processing thought, he instinctively brings it to his mouth.
With the Snitch up ahead and wind in my hair
The tangy taste explodes on his tongue, green eyes widening and tongue curling around the sweet. It is a provocative too-sweet flavor, but one with an underlying bitterness that stings and makes him want more. He embraces that sour acidity the way one pushes at a loose tooth, time condensing to only the sharp joyful pain. Next thing Harry knows, his arm is tight around Draco's neck, nails digging in painfully as he proceeds to devour him. Teeth clicking together and tongues clashing, Draco's hands bite into Harry's waist and Harry welcomes the harsh throbbing of being held too tight, of never letting go. All Harry knows is that he wants that bitterness, needs that bitterness in his life like nothing else he'd needed, or thought he'd needed before. And he finds it in a lick of the trail of blood dripping from Draco's swollen, bitten lips.
Draco is reluctant to stop, and he whines softly when Harry breaks from his mouth and sucks softly at his neck. But he buries his face in Harry's hair, both entwined so tightly as to have difficulty breathing; at least, more than they have already. He inhales Harry's sweaty Quidditch scent, memorizing it and wishing with all the heart he didn't know he had that this didn't have to happen. And then accepts it.
They strapped on their cauldrons, stood poised to fly,
"You don't need to hear it if you taste it," he mouths in Harry's rough hair, and Harry hears this. Tastes this.
He pulls away slowly, and Harry lets him go, arms falling limp. He is guiltily pleased by Draco's unkempt hair and crushed clothing. Draco caresses his cheek for a single moment, and Harry leans in and steals a small chaste kiss that tastes to Draco of rain and apologies. Harry tastes an overwhelming sweetness, reminiscent of what everyone else offered him, but hiding a bitterness that he knows no one else could, or would, ever give.
Then their lips are torn apart as Draco leaps from the tree, taking the broomstick only because he knows Harry would drop it down anyway. He is away into the dark forest quickly, with only a head of blonde hair betraying him for a moment, before he is melts into a realm of shadow.
At the sound of the horn they were swiftly airborne
Harry is frozen on the branch, barely breathing. He remains there for what feels like ages, until the train's whistle blows and he feels the ground rumble with the sound of depart. And then he curls up in the bend of the protective tree, eyes too hot to fall closed and arms wrapped around the forgotten Quidditch Through The Ages. It is no longer morning, but noon, and then in minutes it is nightfall and morning never seems to come again.
But ten of their number were fated to die.
Draco is leaving, and now he is left. There is little remaining but tarnished memories, a sweet heart's little words, bitterness gained and lost and mourned, a green book dripping with tears. There is a boy who will not come down and a boy who looks through a train window and sees only darkness, and a pair of lovers who will never meet again.