Title: Curious
Author: Cinnamon ()
Furniture: vanity
Rating: PG
Summary: Harry returns to Hogwarts roughly five years after the fact.
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.
All your HP are belong to JKR.
Notes: Only my second slash ever--don't be too harsh. I tried.
It is late summer. It is also foggy--which, Harry supposes, isn't so odd for northern Scotland. The mist hangs low over the aging cobblestone streets, pierced randomly by thin sunlight.
Harry lives in southern Hogsmeade now. He doesn't know why. He thought he'd want to get away from the memories, but once he did, he was always cold, almost an empty sort of feeling. He's never ventured north before today.
The village has grown, mostly away from the crumbling old ruin looming in the north, although there are more shops than there once were. When Harry reaches the old post office, he finds a pile of scorched debris.
Across the road, Honeydukes still stands, although Harry has to rub hard on the window with his sleeve to see inside; the Three Broomsticks is deserted, its windows broken and the door swinging slowly on rusting hinges; the Shrieking Shack has been burned to the ground.
He opens the gate with little effort, if rather noisily. Ahead of him, the lake is still and gray.
He is less than ten meters from the school when he hears a frustrated cry from the tower. He steps slowly backwards, trying to discern its origin, and nearly gets hit by a falling vanity table.
"Shit!" he mutters, all but running to the shelter of the entrance. He hears a few more crashes behind him and decides not to wait any longer. Death by vanity is a rather lackluster end.
The double doors slam rather loudly. Harry lets out another 'shit!' There is someone lurking about with a penchant for throwing furniture. It's probably not a good idea to let them know he's here. He tiptoes up the stairs to the south corridor, although stealth is most likely useless at this point.
Several doors are ajar. The first room is filled with armchairs, looking rather used. The next holds various floor lamps. Harry continues from door to door, noting that the crashing noises are getting louder.
The seventh door opens to reveal tiny tables filling the room, placed nearly edge-to-edge-- vanity tables, Harry realizes. There is no room to stand--on the floor, anyway. Harry looks around and notes a slim blond figure in black work robes grimly throwing the tables nearest him out the window.
Curious, he clambers onto the closest one and scoots over to him. He feels utterly ridiculous. The boy looks over his shoulder at him, and his lip curls disdainfully.
Harry recognizes that look--it's Malfoy. Draco Malfoy, the rich, proud, utter prat, is in the south corridor of his old, crumbling school, wearing old school robes, throwing furniture out the window.
Harry decides to ignore the bizarreness of his situation.
"I always knew Voldemort was a nutjob," he says, conversationally.
Malfoy lowers the table he's holding, slowly, as though Harry were an animal and sudden movements might frighten him. He takes a seat on the edge and asks, rather abruptly, "What are you doing here?"
Harry points outside. "Someone threw furniture at me. I was curious."
Malfoy rolls his eyes. "No, you idiot, what are you doing here? As in this area?" He gestures vaguely to the window. Harry shrugs. He considers nostalgia personal information, and he's not about to confide in Malfoy.
Malfoy is quick; of course he picks up on Harry's distress. His eyes glitter briefly as he leans close. "Missing Hogwarts?" he says, and his tone is almost kind.
This bothers Harry, for reasons unknown to him, and so he ignores Malfoy, looking away. "Shut up." Malfoy is silent. Normally Harry wouldn't object, but, well, this is Malfoy.
His eyes narrow. He turns around, muttering, "You'd better not be doing anything, you bastard--only to find Malfoy's eyes much closer than they had been just a moment before. He draws in a shaky breath, eyes darting reflexively to his pale thin lips.
Malfoy takes this as an invitation, and Harry finds himself frozen in place, teetering precariously on the edge of a vanity table. He stares fixedly over Malfoy's shoulder, determined not to notice Malfoy's tongue sweeping over his mouth. The fog is nearly gone; pale streams of late afternoon sunlight are pouring through the window.
Malfoy pulls away, blinking once, slowly. "I miss it, too."