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The Image of You	By : Andreas Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 1606 -:- Recommendations : 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.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
WARNING: CONTAINS HBP SPOILERS!

The Image of You
Chapter 1: Godric's Hollow Revisited
'What the hell are you doing?' growled the older man, his filthy hand still on the knob of the open door.
'Ehm,' stuttered the youth, still frozen from the shock of being so suddenly interrupted. 'Painting. Obviously,' he added, attempting a haughty drawl, waving his brush about.
'Why?' asked the other, still in that rough growl, his feral eyes narrowing.
'Precious little else to do. Watching your nails - claws grow just doesn't hold the same allure it did the first three seconds.' The quiver in the young man's voice clashed with his mocking words.
The older man barked out hoarse laughter. 'You fear me, young Malfoy. Still worried uncle Fenrir will recruit you?'
'You wouldn't dare,' said Draco, his defiant drawl as botched as his haughty one.
'Oh, I wouldn't?' Fenrir's eyes glinted. His mouth twisted into a smile that showed far too many pointed teeth.
'You're as much his servant as I am.'
'I think not, young Malfoy. I have joined forces with your Lord because it serves my cause, whereas you are chained to him through your human weakness, the love you feel for your dear mother.'
There was a long silence. Even Draco's brush remained frozen in mid air as he stared at the leering werewolf. 'Do you want something?'
Fenrir raised a bushy eyebrow. 'What are you painting?'
'A thing of great beauty,' said Draco, sticking his nose up as best he could while wishing to expose as little neck as possible.
'And what, pray tell, would that be? I'm most curious.'
Draco blinked nervously, swallowed, and unfroze to indicate the large mirror standing a few feet in front of his canvas, at an eighty degree angle to the panoramic windows behind him. Ominous specks of red paint attached themselves to the glass. 'Me. I'm - I'm making a self-portrait.'
Fenrir gave Draco a long, sweeping stare, then let out a stuttering growl. 'I always knew you were a narcissistic little sod, just like your dearly departed father.'
'My father isn't dead.' It was meant as a statement of fact, but Draco's once again frozen body betrayed an underlying doubt. Despite the brilliant early-morning sunlight reflecting off the lake outside, a chill seeped into the expansive studio.
'If he hasn't managed it yet, he'd better depart before the Dark Lord gets to him.' Fenrir grinned. 'You see, young Malfoy, I've been promised a bite, or two. The ones I'm, in return, not awarding you and your darling mother. Still, if he departs before then, I'll have bites to spare, and your usefulness won't last forever.' He bowed, swaggeringly. 'So make sure you capture all your human weakness in that portrait. It'll be a most amusing memento once you've joined the Cause.' And with that, he slunk out of the room, the door locking behind him.
Draco staggered backwards into a rickety chair, dropped his brush onto the wooden floor and drew deep, shaking breaths. The sun danced across his quivering hair and shoulders, his face in deep shadow save for a sliver of jaw and the sparkling tear trickling down it.
=
The wedding itself had been just as wonderful as Harry had imagined it. The whole Weasley clan had been there, except Percy, which Harry thought just as well; Molly would probably have been even more troubled by his cold presence than the lame excuse he had provided for his absence.
Fleur Delacour's family could only be described as flamboyantly French, and partially very veela, causing seemingly endless testosterone-fuelled commotion. It proved the perfect distraction, like a live performance of a silly romantic comedy, complete with pratfalls and ridiculous posing. Even Hermione was nothing but amused by Ron's idiotic strutting and lovelorn looks.
Harry, however, remained calm, never even approaching the glittering barrier that had been set up to separate veelas and wizards. This seemed to amuse Ginny, the girl friend who was no longer his girlfriend. Gazing with interest at the veelas, she'd asked him if he didn't feel their pull, if he wasn't bewitched by their dance.
'They're very pretty to look at,' Harry had replied, feeling more bemused than bewitched, 'but I'm just a bit distracted, I suppose.'
'For a moment, I thought you'd say you only have eyes for me,' Ginny said, raising her eyebrows at him. When he tried to stutter some incoherent reply, she smirked and said, 'Relax, Harry. I'm just joking. I know you've a lot on your mind. I just hoped they could help distract you - in a nice way.'
Harry pointed to the alternately fighting and posturing young men beside the barrier. 'They're distracting me, in a nice way.'
Ginny raised her eyebrows again, but said nothing. Sometimes, Harry just didn't get girls, at all.
The ceremony had passed without a hitch, because no one paid any heed to either cat-calls or the occasional scuffle and chair-throwing near the vela section. Fleur had looked radiant and Bill had shone beside her. The old Egyptian mage's chant had filled the air, inspiring an odd sensation of flying through the world, not the air, without a broom.
The young couple had made their vows and proceeded to outdance everyone during the boisterous celebrations held in a large field that had, for one night only, been convinced it was an open-air ballroom.
Yes, it had been that last golden day of peace Harry had wished for.
The following night had been another matter entirely.
=
Bill and Fleur had flown off to a secluded bower woven by bowtruckles and lit by a hundred voyeuristic fairies. With its imported bed, wine, and butterbeer, it had seemed the perfect sanctuary, detached from the world, in which to spend their short honeymoon.
That is, until Bill transformed.
=
Fleur took care to touch Bill's skin as much as possible even while ripping off his shirt and trousers, making the most of her veela charms as she let her long blond hair flow over his exposed nipples, pinning his arms to the plush bed. Bill moaned, locking his hairy, strong legs around her smooth but equally strong ones. Fleur purred and wriggled out of his grasp, reintroducing his face to two bouncy friends of hers. Bill's happy moan turned into a strangled growl.
His quick nibble came as a complete but not unpleasant surprise. Usually, that was more her style. She slithered down and caught his lips in a long kiss, strengthening her hold on his squirming, bucking body.
With a growl verging on a roar, Bill rolled Fleur over and took charge in a most uncharacteristic way. Fleur squealed in shocked delight.
That delight vanished as, a while later, Bill sniggered and dug his nails into Fleur's arms as he kept them pinned to the disheveled bed. On all four, straddling her, panting, he rasped, 'Veela - delicious mates. Delicious.' His eyes glinted yellow. Fleur gasped. 'And Fenrir is a masterful mate. Don't you agree, little veela?'
'How?' breathed Fleur, staring in horror at features both familiar and foreign.
'What your people would call contamination, girl. A curious side-effect of being bitten by a werewolf in,' he sneered, 'human form. Mind contamination, a connection if you wish. And,' he leaned forward to lick her cheek, 'made so much easier during mating, my dear.'
Fleur, resigned and no longer squirming, glared at him. 'What do you want? You - you beast! To get inside my 'ead too?'
'Your empty head wouldn't further my cause,' leered Fenrir. 'And inside you, I have been. No, what I want is your child, a veela hybrid ready to be recruited.'
'Never!' Fleur bared her teeth and snarled.
'Spirit, how lovely. But, my little veela, you cannot escape me; I am forever in your husband. No charm can conceal the scent of his contaminated mind. And I am already in you too. Though not in your head.' He rubbed Bill's crotch against hers. 'The seed will but grow.' His evil grin twisted Bill's face into a thing of horror. 'And it. Is. Mine!'
=
With no memory of what had happened, Bill returned to the bower and his body to find Fleur sobbing beneath him. Not even breakfast at the Burrow with half the Order promising her protection could lessen her fear nor stem her tears.
The Fidelius Charm was suggested, but Fleur felt certain not even that would help; she believed there was no escape possible for her or the baby she carried. Though she would later gain hope and faith in her friends, the feeling that Bill and Fleur were turning into a new James and Lily Potter was one that Harry carried with him that whole day as he, accompanied by Ron and Hermione, finally returned to Godric's Hollow.
And you needn't be Sybill Trelawney to interpret that as an ominous sign.
=
Ireland, the green island. In Harry's case, also the island of green, cursed death. Though he took some comfort in the fact that part of that death had been Lord Voldemort's. Now it was only up to Harry to make it as permanent as that of his ill-fated parents. He would cut down every last one of the crutches Tom Riddle had used to construct his idea of immortality. He would extinguish Riddle's dark soul, piece by piece. Then, maybe, finally, he would find some semblance of peace.
'Is still don't understand why they had to move all the way out here,' shouted Hermione, her arms wound tight around Harry's torso and her hair billowing in the strong wind. After the shock of Fleur's breakfast revelation, she hadn't been at all keen on riding across the open sea on the back of Witherwings, the hippogriff formerly known as Buckbeak.
'Maybe we'll find out,' Harry replied, sounding much more optimistic than he felt.
Ron remained silent. Though he'd been the one to insist on flying instead of Apparating, the news that his brother had been possessed by a werewolf madman had hit him hard.
Not even the shifting landscape following their entry into Irish airspace inspired further conversation. The subject of the previous night's disaster had been thoroughly worn out at sea, and no one felt like appreciating the scenery. Not even Kilkea Castle drew more than an absent gaze from Hermione as it appeared in the distance.
As they landed on the Slithering Slopes and trekked across the fens to reach Godric's Hollow, they touched again on the subject of werewolf possession, but got no further than before. Stepping out from a patch of aggressive shrubbery onto the main street of the village, they were once more silent, save for some spirited swearing and mutterings of 'honestly'.
=
The lightly forested, amphitheatrical slopes framing the Hollow formed an irregular arch of greyish green separating the rain-glittering village and the grey-blue, almost purple sky. Harry, Hermione, and Ron drew startled looks only from a few stray cats and a small group of wannabe stray children. At eight in the evening, the streets were deserted and the storm was coming. The wind had ceased to blow and birds whispered in the bushes as Harry led the way up a steep, narrow lane, consulting the wrinkly old map in his hands.
'Are you sure you're reading that right?' asked Hermione, stepping up beside Harry and glancing at the map.
'There's not much to read. We're not in London,' muttered Harry, getting more on edge with every step taking him closer to the cottage where his parents had been murdered.
'But there's nothing up here,' said Hermione as they turned a high hedge corner and Harry came face to front with his past. Beyond what had once been a small hedge and narrow patch of lawn stood a two-storey stone cottage, overgrown with lichen and ivy. Or rather, a one-and-a-half-storey cottage, as a great deal of the upper floor had been turned into a singularly unappealing balcony - the site of the hideous crime. Harry shuddered.
'What are you looking at?' asked Ron, frowning at Harry's shaken look.
'It's,' Harry began, but saw Hermione's eyes flit oddly as they passed over the cottage. 'Can't you see it?'
'See what?'
'The cottage!'
'What co�' said Ron, but the unhelpful exchange bafflement was brought to a stop by Hermione.
'It must be protected by a Fidelius Charm too,' she said. 'The cottage, I mean.'
Ron's frown didn't ease up. 'But I thought it was just his parents who were protected.'
'Yes,' said Hermione, pursing both lips and brow, 'I thought so too. But they clearly had double protection.'
'Maybe the Fidelius Charm on the cottage was added - afterwards,' said Harry, 'to keep Muggles away - and wizards.'
'No,' said Hermione, shaking her head. 'You can see it, so that means it must have been in place when you were here, or have you been let in on the secret later?'
'Not that I know,' said Harry, shrugging.
'But why double charms?' asked Ron, glaring in the general undirection of the cottage. 'Seems like overkill to me.'
'Well,' said Hermione, gazing wistfully at the same lack of direction, 'it would take care of the problem of an empty house.'
'But Lupin said the Death Eaters could look in the cottage window and still not see - my parents.'
'I suspect he was making a point. But Death Eaters aren't stupid, you know. Well, not all of them, surely. And a house that's always empty would be suspicious, especially if they'd already narrowed their search down to the Hollow. It's a sensible precaution, putting a Fidelius on the actual cottage too.'
'I suppose,' muttered Ron, 'but how are we supposed to get in then?'
Harry turned to Hermione. 'Couldn't I just - lead you in?'
'I don't think that would work. Surely, it wouldn't.'
'It's worth a try?'
Hermione hesitated, then held out her hand. 'Can't hurt, I suppose.'
Harry stepped over the remains of a wicket gate, pulling a reluctant Hermione along. She screamed. Ron grabbed her other hand, and for a few seconds, there was a confused tug-of-war between the two boys, Hermione howling in the middle. Harry let go.
Hermione staggered backwards, bent over and gasped, 'How - how dreadful!'
'You were bloody splitting her in two!' exclaimed Ron, gesticulating wildly.
'What?' said Harry, stepping back onto the lane and squinting at a Hermione who physically looked quite together.
'I,' panted Hermione, standing upright again, 'I suppose that's what it must look like - from the outside. It felt like being pulled into nothingness - with every atom of my body wanting to go somewhere else.' She shuddered.
'So,' said Harry, 'not something to try again.'
'Don't even think about it.'
=
Hermione's and Ron's attempts to get into the cottage on their own had proved equally useless, though not painful, as they were simply transported to one side of the plot and proceeded to wade out into the surrounding meadow.
Harry had to explore the cottage on his own as his friends sought accommodations at the local inn.
=
Months later, the cottage was no cleaner, the grass no shorter but considerably less vivacious, and the hedge had grown still further out of control. But the cottage had not been abandoned; it remained Harry's new old home, his place of solitude and rest. The irony of his enemies having been let in on the secret, long ago, that kept his friends out was not lost on him, but he thought it unlikely he'd be attacked in the Hollow. Not yet; there were still mysteries to be solved, Horcruces to be found. If Voldemort did arrive ahead of schedule, Harry would be ready, armed with hate, anger and utter determination, but mostly with the love he could still feel lingering on the charred, blackened balcony that had once been baby Harry's - and his parents' - bedroom.
Hermione and Ron had taken up semi-permanent residence in nearby Castledermot, with Hermione spending much of her time examining hidden runes at the Abbey. None of them had returned to Hogwarts. Although the school had reopened for what would have been their seventh year, this was largely dependant on them not being there, a factor the board felt made Hogwarts less of a target for the Death Eaters. The conclusion of their education had, in short, been postponed till after the war. Hermione, whom Harry had expected would never agree to such a delay, had been the one to suggest this compromise. She felt confident there would be time after they had won to complete her NEWTs, and she wouldn't hear of anyone suggesting otherwise.
The time he didn't spend with the Order or in seemingly futile search of further Horcruces, Harry spent amid the rubble of his black balcony, looking out across the Hollow, at a world to which he, during those moments, did not exist. He studied books, pondered the prophecy, emptied his mind, doodled on old parchment, and gazed at the stars, perfectly alone - until one night he heard an unmistakable voice from his past speak up behind him.
'I would knock, but the parchment's rather soggy,' it drawled, 'and Malfoys don't squish.'
Harry jumped up from his rickety chair and spun around, wand at the ready. There was no one there.
'Show yourself!'
'Must you be so dramatic?'
Harry stared into the darkness of the still intact section of the cottage. 'Pull of that Cloak or I swear I'll start hexing everything.'
'Look. Down.'
Harry did, and backed almost clear off the edge of the cottage in pure bafflement. There, amid the rubble and his discarded doodles, lay a piece of parchment with Draco Malfoy on it - a painted, accomplished portrait Harry was sure he'd never doodled, or even drawn.
'You're - you're a painting,' Harry stuttered, regaining his balance and advancing on the parchment.
'Really? I hadn't noticed.' Malfoy's voice was parchment dry.
He was just as pale and pointed as Harry remembered, though perhaps - prettier, and with no dark shadows under his eyes. Harry crouched beside the parchment. 'What - are you doing here?' he asked, feeling rather silly for talking to what was clearly a hallucination.
Malfoy quirked an eyebrow. 'And here would be?'
Harry blinked. 'Don't you know?'
'From the perspective of this particular piece of parchment, how do you think the world looks?' exclaimed Malfoy. 'I'm just going on the assumption that we're not actually floating through space!'
So, thought Harry, no evil Death Eater plan to infiltrate the cottage then, presumably, possibly. Hallucination or not, Malfoy wasn't a killer, which made him delusional rather than a real Death Eater. Right? That was what Harry had come up with during his silent contemplation of the case of Draco Malfoy, but faced with the latter's sneering face, his mind seemed to go soft, his brain blurry.
'I could - pick you up?'
Malfoy hesitated. 'Just - don't shred the parchment,' he muttered, 'you homicidal maniac.'
Harry felt his face heat up. 'Look, I'm - I'm really sorry about�'
'Oh, stuff it.'
Harry picked up the parchment, rather more harshly than necessary. 'I'm - in a cottage.' He inclined the parchment towards the nearby wall.
'You mean we're in a cottage, Potter. With precious little roof. Can't afford one? Did you give all your money to the Weasel then?'
Harry gritted his teeth but ignored the bait. He had more pressing concerns. 'How come you're - ehm - in a painting?'
'Well, obviously,' drawled Malfoy, and Harry thought he saw a shadow pass over that haughty, picture-perfect face, 'I'm dead.'
---------------------------
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The Image of You