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The Art of Shadow Boxing	By : Tommy-Lane Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 11212 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any charactors from the books and I am not making any money off of this

Chapter List
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Title: The Art of Shadow Boxing
Summary: It’s been seven years since Draco fled the Wizarding world, intending never to look back. He’s made a name for himself as a professional fighter and finds comfort in his new life. But all that is about to change in the course of one evening when someone from his past shows up during the most important fight of his life and sets a sequence of events in motion that could very well either heal or destroy him.
Warnings: Dark themes – including sever panic attacks, Angst, Anal, Oral, Violence (including few a rather brutal scenes), and Language
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Author’s Notes: This fic has an alternate seventh year (and a bit of sixth) that you’ll slowly find out about through some flashbacks. I am going through this again and editing with help from the lovely Severus1snape (Thanks so much darling!) Hopefully we’ll catch all the (many) typos but if you come across any we miss please kindly point them out. Enjoy!
It's the thumping in my ears, the smack of the cracked pavement beneath my feet, the pulse that drives and drives and drives.

It's oblivion.

The morning sky streaks its orange and red through the smog of the city, the unknown lives swarming in convulsing waves around me. It swallows me up and spits me out all the while the sweet drag of my breath catches the air as I force myself faster, letting the beat drown my senses. Sweat drips down my forehead from beneath the dark gray hood and I am solitary.

It is me and the ground and the sky and the rhythm in my ears, nothing else exists, nothing else can touch me.

I never thought I would find such release, such freedom, in physical activity. I had shunned it, cringed from it, standing back and directing my lackeys whenever there was a need that demanded the expense of my body. If you would have told my childhood self that I would crave this, crave the surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins, find comfort in the squeeze of my lungs as I push myself past my limit, I would have laughed in your face.

But times have changed and it is now my everything.

Pulling the headphone buds from my ears, I slow to a jog, pushing open the thick door before me with my shoulder - the solid smack of flesh against flesh and the deep thuds of skin against heavy pads filling my ears. Brushing the hood off my head, I wind my way to the back of the gym, kicking off my trainers under a bench and grabbing a jump rope.

"You're early."

I glance up at the gruff voice, swinging the rope over my head and jumping in a quick repeating pace. There's no use counting now, not with Donnie leaning casually against the lockers, his hawk eyes never leaving my bouncing feet. I don't bother answering, just lift my eyebrows lightly as I concentrate on the breath pushing in and out of my lungs.

"Ready for tonight?" Donnie asks, his short and thin frame moving towards me, his wizened face more a sign of his stress filled life than age.

"Of course." Breathe in one two, out one two. And repeat.

"She'll be there you know, there's a lot riding on this match Dray."

It's an unnecessary reminder, I know very well the importance of me winning tonight, Madame Safiya's words imprinted on my brain ever since she spoke them so softly and clearly a week ago. Losing is not an option if I value any sort of future.

"Relax Donnie," I say, tossing the rope back onto the bench and dropping to the ground, palms flat under my shoulders, toes curled upwards on floor. I extend up and down, keeping my back in a straight line, eyes focused on the crude grimy concrete. "I don't plan on breaking my winning streak any time soon."

I can feel him watching me, his breath drawing long and hard before he speaks again. "Don't get over confident, you've seen him fight?"

Another unnecessary question. Shen is a good deal bigger than your average Muay Thai fighter, all bulging muscle and sneering features that won him the favor of western audiences. But he is slow and that is a fatal flaw against a skilled opponent. Because brute strength isn't the backbone of Muay Thai, rightly dubbed The Art of Eight Limbs. No it's about skill and resolve and determination and focus.

It's a rhythmic dance.

And that dance flows through my blood in a manner I've never known before, the pulse of it dragging me through any fog or confusion or fear. My slight build perfect for the graceful but powerful moves unique to Thai boxing, where elbows cut like knifes and knees fly through the air with crushing speed and force. I was amazed at how quickly I picked it up, how fast I fell in love with it - my salvation coming not from a degraded mundane existence but this. This little violent world of underground fights and crime lords that like to play us as puppets to make their fortune.

They pull their strings and we dance but despite what Madame Safiya may believe I am not her tool. She is mine.

"Shouldn't you be building me up?" I send him a hint of a smile as I roll onto my back, fingers linked behind my head, legs bent at the knee. My abdominal muscles tighten and clench as I press up towards my knees, Donnie appearing before me with focus mitts on his hands, my arm automatically surging forward in a quick but solid jab before I descend back down.

"You don't need an ego stroke." Crunch up, punch one, two, and down. "In fact you should be home preparing."

My fist hits the pad with a resounding thud that I know sends a jolt of pain through my trainer’s hand. "I am preparing."

"You know what I mean, you should be resting your body and focusing your mind."

"I'm always focused." I tell him not in a haughty way because it's the simple truth. There is nothing outside of the ring, of my training, for me. There is nothing pulling at my attention, nothing demanding my time. I have no friends apart from this world, take no part in the salacious sins of the night life this particular city holds - I sleep and wake and eat and breathe all to the rhythm of the fight.

It is my very blood and heart.

Donnie lets out a harsh laugh that if I didn't know better would think of as a mockery. "There's no denying that. In fact I think it's safe to say that you should probably lighten up." He reels back on his heels at the force of my jabs and shakes his head. "After tonight's match I'm taking you out. Get you a drink and a girl."

"Maybe." I reply, not really having any intention on going through with it, the idea leaving a sour taste in my mouth. I let my back rest against the cool ground for a moment, my callused fists lying loose on my stomach where the muscles beneath are burning pleasantly.

"Go home Dray, I'll see you tonight."

I nod, hearing him get up from the floor and make his way over to another group of fighters. All people I know, people I could possibly even call friends if I ever decided to let them in enough. But to lower my wall would be to invite chaos back in and I have had enough of that for more than one lifetime.

****

"Dray...you listening buddy?"

"Mhmm?" My attention snaps away from the wall I had been staring silently at and over to Caleb, a small brunet with a boxy chin, wide shiny eyes, and a thirst for the glory in a fight. He's yet to enter a real competition yet though, Donnie stating that he's not ready but he's a good sparring partner and always accompanies me to my matches.
I eye him as he threads the black cotton wrap through my fingers, over my bottom knuckles and around my wrist - a methodical procedure that repeats, repeats, and repeats till the long length is snugly secure around my hand.

"I was wondering what you're going to do after winning tonight?" He asks, eyes bouncing up for a quick moment to glance at me before diving back down to his work of preparing my hands.

I stretch my back against the cold mud slapped wall, the wooden bench creaking beneath my weight. My fingers twitch in his grasp and I have to force myself to remain still so I don't wrench away from him and finish the wrapping myself. I don't much like being touched, ironically enough. But I catch my tongue, reign in my cringing nerves and let him work - reminding myself that it's a sign of respect for him to be helping me.

"Might grab a drink." I reply noncommittally. I like Caleb, I really do but it's hard to go out at night. When I'm training or fighting the press of bodies all around me barely registers and I can push it back as if it's a phantom, nothing but a wisp, but when the thunder of adrenaline and the tunneling focus needed to win fades away, I can't tolerate it. It closes in on me like knifes nicking at my flesh and I have to run, have to close myself off where there's nothing but silence.

He snorts. "Now why don't I believe that?" He flashes me a winning smile that I've personally seen melting many a girls’ hearts and his fingers pause briefly over my knuckles. "But you should celebrate after you -"

"...If..." I interject, not one to usually place any doubt in my abilities but there's something in his eyes that's making me a bit nervous and I don't need that right now.

"Right IF you win, you should celebrate for once." He pulls the wrap tight once more and secures it closed. "Since you seem to have a weird hatred about being around other living people unless you’re beating the shit out of them maybe we could have a drink at your place...a little victory party or something?" He picks up the other wrap from the bench and grasps my bare hand, starting the process all over again without looking at me.

I flex and curl my fingers, testing the binding as I let his proposition sink into me. I don't know what to make of it, don't even know what to think of it, and truth be told I don't really want to give the energy to figuring it out. At least not right now. Maybe after the fight but before the adrenaline high leaves my body, my mind is always clearest than, less encumbered by...memories.

But there's a tension stretching through the small room now that's waiting for my answer, demanding some sort of response. "Let's not jinx it, we'll talk after yeah?" Caleb looks up and smiles a crooked smile that pangs a bit too familiar. You'd think seven years would have sufficiently dulled the ache but it hasn't and maybe that's because I haven't let it go. Perhaps its time though and I force myself to curve a small smile of my own.

Of course the shadows I've spent all this time running from are deep and dark, ever shifting, and always dangerous with a death grip latched around me. It's not going to be easy. Yet somehow allowing that little unhindered smile feels like a gigantic step in the right direction.

The dingy graffiti stained door bangs open and Caleb's fingers slip, the wrap sagging loose and out of place in an instant. I hear him mutter a curse as he loops back his latest weave and starts again as Donnie bursts into the room.

"On in twenty Dray, you ready boy?" He smells likes he's been drinking, doused in tequila, as he sways into the room. I raise an eyebrow as he catches the door with his heel and sends it slamming shut, trying not to be annoyed that my coach is spirally into drunkenness. "There's a lot, A LOT, riding on this match!" He reminds me for the second time today and this time I don't hold back my eye roll.

"Yes I'm quite aware." I reply through clenched teeth. Bloody hell he's going to be absolutely no use to me tonight!

Donnie hiccups and falls onto the filthy couch in the corner, his eyes swimming in the drinks he's consumed. Truth be told he must be a right nervous wreck if he's taken to so much alcohol already, I wonder just what sort of pressure Madame Safiya is placing on him?
"Quite? Good god Dray I swear sometimes your nothing but a spoiled rich kid with the way you talk." He chuckles at his own joke and I exchange annoyed looks with Caleb. "Or maybe you just watch too many of those old movies huh? Like the Rat Pack a little too much do you?" He goes on, slipping backwards on the couch in his own hilarity.

Rat Pack? I try not to show my ignorance, there's still so much about the Muggle world that eludes me, as I sigh. Yup he's going to be no bloody use. Caleb finishes with my hand and scoots back as I stand up, rolling my shoulders to relive the tension building in the muscles. Picking up the focus mitts from the bench I toss them at Caleb, his eyes widening somewhat as he catches them.

I'm being disrespectful.

It's Donnie who should be prepping me but the stink of his ill-timed drunkenness is making me furious and right now I can't have that. I need to focus. To bring myself down to a pinpoint and collect all my strength, physical and mental, for the upcoming match. "Count them out." I tell him as he slips the mitts on and holds them up.

Caleb's voice is timid as he shouts out orders, a mix of punches, elbows, knees, and foot thrusts that threaten to knock him backwards on occasion. My body moving and curving and adopting to each of his commands as I beat the mitts as if they are a real life opponent, the thumping starting in my ears again and spiraling through me.

"Pull it back Dray." Donnie loudly intervenes and I blink, suddenly realizing the strained look on Caleb's face and the way he's started faulting back on each of my attacks.

"Sorry." I mutter, pushing the hair off my forehead and giving him an apologetic look. "Got a bit carried away."

"It's alright." He answers, slightly out of breath as he pulls the mitts off and smiles at me. "There's no way your gunna lose."

I shake my fists out a few times before turning to face my trainer for the past five years. "Any last minute sage advice?" I ask him, trying to keep any contempt or sneer from my tone. Despite his uncharacteristic behavior at the moment he has been a saving grace in my life. I wouldn't be where I am now without him and that's what I choose to focus on as he stands up on unsteady feet.

Donnie fixes me with a steady gaze as he pulls from his pocket the carefully braided black and white Mongkon, the combination of rope, fabric, and silk making a strikingly crafted ceremonial headband. I bow my head as he stops in front of me, his minute shaking fingers slipping it on until it rests against the middle of my forehead. "Get in fast and close." He says, his fingers dropping to press over my heart for a second. "Don't let him get any wide swings, use your knees and elbows and you'll come out tall."

I nod, feeling the fire spark in my blood and spread out through me at the sharp knock and bark of "times up," through the old wood. Donnie says something else as the three of us move out the door, but I don't hear it. Because everything is circling through me, plunging down and wrapping up all light and dark, all thought and feeling. The rhythm in my pulse picks up as we step out into the roar of the crowd, the dark and seedy club nearly splitting at the seams with the amount of people who came to hopefully see blood spilled brutally across the dirt encrusted floor.

I suck in a deep breath and let my eyes slip shut as we reach the edge of the ring. Everything spikes together and then releases in a steady hum in my ears and suddenly the crowd is gone. I open my eyes to catch sight of Shen across the ring, his long burly legs stretching through the ropes until he's standing in his corner. He really is an impressive specimen and it's no wonder that the betting pool is tipped highly in his favor, for I am not known here yet. Tonight, Madame Safiya says, is the night that's going to change.

But for now all the crowd has to go on is Shen's fame from his broadcasted fights and our appearances. And we are polar opposites in every way, he is dark skinned with shorn black hair and blinking brown eyes, his height a tower when placed next to me and my slim but muscular frame. He wears his own Mongkon of red and blue with matching short shorts that frame his bulging thighs. It's true I've never fought any as big as him but his size isn't what really catches my attention. It's the knotted coils of rope twisted around his hands, the old method of hand wrapping usually against the rules due to the death toll it tends to brings. But since when has anyone cared for rules in the underbelly of society? No one bats an eye as long as the show is good and blood spatters the ground beneath their feet.

His eyes find mine and I grin. The ropes on his hands don't change a thing because I am fast and will get inside before he has a chance to use them against me.

Yes, this is where I belong.

I slip into the ring without a backwards glance and vaguely hear the announcer shouting my name: Mungkorn. It means dragon in Thai and the closest thing I have allowed myself to have of my past life. A life where I wasn't Dray Evans, wasn't a professional Muay Thai fighter. A life that was filled with magic and darkness and...

I shake my head, the stray thoughts pricking at my brain for all but a moment before their gone. That life doesn't matter. There is no more Draco Malfoy and there never will be again.

Shen and I go through the opening rituals, circling around the ring three times before kneeling and bowing at the three appropriate points. We stop on opposite sides of the ring and begin performing our Ram Muay, a dance that's supposed to show a fighters control and style. Mine is short and fast and concise. It revels in simple strength and banishes all elaboration. Shen's is the complete opposite and tells me perfectly how he relies on his obvious size advantage more than anything else.

This is another reason I love this life. The brutality of the fight flows around the beauty of respect and tradition, if you shun one the other withers and dies. They hold each other up, making its own glorious dance. We face each other again when we've finished and place our hands together in a silent stance of prayer, a sign of respect for our opponent before we can touch each other.

I hear the crowd roar to a shaking high as I remove my headband, now that the rituals are over, and pass it off to Donnie behind me. He slaps my shoulder in what is supposed to be a reassuring gesture and Caleb slips the mouth guard between my teeth with a large grin and wide excited eyes. The bell dings and I meet Shen in the middle, touching our fists together lightly before molding back into our opening stances.

And then it starts and there's nothing else as we flow towards each other and back, testing the others strength with light jabs and foots thrusts. Then Shen's arm surges wickedly forward and I raise my elbow in defense and pivot forward, swinging my leg out and catching my shin against his side. Everything boils down to single vision and we dance back and forth, attacking and defending, dipping and moving, bouncing on the balls of our feet to stay in constant motion. I can see the sweat form on his brow as I lead him in chase and wait for the opening I need. Then he opens up, his defenses momentarily dazed as I send him reeling back and I take the opportunity to grasp the back of his neck - palms atop each other, forearms pressing into his collarbone.

My knee thrusts up with all my power as I press down on his neck, forcing him into my surging limb and I hear the painful crack of bone and feel the rush of sticky blood. Shen's body slumps, his weight sagging, his hands clawing at my neck now - desperate for dominance as my knee snaps up again. He roars in a gurgle of blood and I know he's almost done, that victory is in my hand. Just one more knee than push him back, add an elbow and...

There's a sudden tugging at me, a tingling that's rushing up my spine with such speed and force that it knocks the air from my lungs, my knee jerking and grip faltering. The sensation spreads, crushing my carefully constructed walls and driving straight through me. My heart starts hammering in my chest, the crowd a sudden deafening thunder that splits me open, shadows I hadn't noticed before multiplying before my eyes. Shen breaks free from the clinch as my head snaps up and around, the room expanding and contracting around me as I stumble.

This isn't right, I shouldn't be feeling this, haven't felt so much as a prickle of magic for years and suddenly it’s so completely overwhelming me that I can't seem to catch my breath. I'm drowning in its intensity and I feel a scream ripping at my throat but before it can come tearing out Shen's elbow slices across my cheek, splitting open my skin and I spin from the force, my body off balance and all my senses that I rely on in a fight so utterly muddled I can't even think straight.

I stagger and his shin catches my legs, his fist cutting across my face and black spider webs seep across my vision as I feel myself falling. And then in one long unearthly second everything goes dead quiet, even though I can vaguely see the screaming mob all around me, and Shen's deadly fist jams into my head right before I hit the ground.
I blink and feel my body go limp as I pass out, the image of two emerald green eyes that I'd never thought I'd see again burning into me.

****

"What should we do with him?"

"Let just kill him now, fucking prick lost me all my money."

"Can't gotta make him suffer."

"Says who?"

"Who'd you think moron?"

"Just shut the hell up you two, you know the rules."

"So we bend them."

"And end up like him? Like hell."

"I said shut up! Now rouse him."

Strangely familiar voices swim in and out of my head and there's an all-enveloping coldness that's wrapping itself around me, squeezing my lungs like death itself. Fingers dig into my limp unresponsive flesh and I feel the distant burn of rough ground against bare skin. And then full consciousness comes snapping back into me as my head and shoulders are plunged deep into a bucket of freezing water, my mouth opening automatically on a scream as my legs kick out behind me.

Two sets of strong hands hold me under as I struggle against them, growing increasingly desperate for air, my chest on fire from the lack of oxygen. And then just when I start to feel the welcoming pull of darkness creep through me they’re yanking me up and flinging me to the hard ground. I sputter and cough, curling in on myself as what feels like a million little explosions ignites all through me. My mind flicks back over the disjointed evening as I cough relentlessly on my hands and knees and then it’s all clicking back into place in one horribly clear moment.

I lost.

Oh god I bloody lost!

"That was a really stupid thing you did tonight Evans."

I freeze at the steely voiced words and look up slowly, taking in my three captors. They’re Madame Safiya's men no doubt about it and one's I've met before on more pleasant occasions. I don't recall their names though, just faces I can barely place amongst countless others that bend and scramble to do her every will. The one who spoke is standing closest to me, crouched down near my face with a look of fake pity.

"What I'd like to know is why you did it. Huh Evans, why'd you fuck everything up?"

A deep unending pain surges through me as I turn to sit but I don't let myself think on my injuries. I can tend to them later, once I've escaped, because I need to escape, and quick. Madame Safiya is not a forgiving woman and neither are those in her employ. I silently calculate the distance between each of the men, racking my memory for anything that might tip me off on any sort of weakness I could exploit.

The man before me...Timothy maybe?...backhands me across my split cheek and I have to fight the urge to cringe away and cry out in pain. "Better start talking soon Evans or we'll have to bring out some incentive." The lackeys behind him let out a soft crude laugh as he pulls out a long thin knife, the blade perfect for carving. My mind floods with images of the sharp tip drawing intricate patterns across my flesh, staining my pale body with crimson.

I hate knives.

"I don't recall..." I fix him with a haughty stare as I suck in air through my nose. I can do this, just form a plan and stick to it. Take Timothy first, the second two will charge but I'll have him on the ground before they can make it. Just aim for his right shoulder, he's favoring it to much for there to be any real strength behind it.

He smacks me again with his left hand and yes there's a slight wince, his right arm is definitely his weakness. "Don't get smart with me." He reaches forward and grabs a fist full of my hair, forcing my neck to crane painfully back. "You threw the match you piece of shit. You had him beat and then you just let him win! Are you working under someone else now? They offer you more money?"

I stare calmly up into his livid eyes, trying to ignore the unnatural curve of my neck. "I didn't throw anything." I reply coolly, the vision of those too green eyes suddenly slamming back into me and causing my heart to race.
No I didn't throw the fight on purpose, I had been paralyzed by a ghost from the past. Leave it to him to fuck up my life even after all this time.

"The hell you didn't." Timothy spits and I can feel the energy build in him, stretching taut through his body and it's now or never. "Madame Safiya is going to have your head on a platter unless you give us a fucking good reason not to!" He moves to hit me again and I gather all the blood and spit in my mouth and send it flying in his sneering face.

He roars and I fling myself backwards, my feet swinging up and out, catching him in the chest and sending him reeling back. I flip up, my fist connecting with his jaw, my knee landing on his chest, crushing him into the ground as I press the heel of my left foot into his injured shoulder. He cries out in pain as I rain my fists down upon his face, his body struggling beneath me for a moment before going still, his bloody head lolling to the side.

Not a second later there's a rushing in my ears and I fling myself to the side as the other two surge forward to tackle me. I barely slip past their fingers as I roll up into a crouch. These two are similar in size and build with no discernible weakness apart from their rage. Of course never underestimate the ability of such anger to blind you, as it is them now as they grunt and rush back towards me. I spring to my feet and swing my leg up sharply as I rotate my entire body, catching one of them under his arm and against his ribs.

He stumbles and I take the opportunity to cut his face right above his brow with my elbow, his dripping blood effectively blinding him in one eye. I catch the second lackey rushing at me from the corner of my eye and I reach out and grab him around the neck, using his own momentum to send him ramming into my knee, a sickening crack vibrating in the air. And then I feel myself flying backwards, a thick arm pressing into my throat and threatening my air supply as I slam into a solid chest.

"You're going to pay for that." The man before me rights himself, holding his bleeding nose in his hand as his partner keeps me locked in his grip. He grins at me with bloodied teeth and sends a fist straight into my gut. He punches me again and I try to keep the blackness from overtaking my vision as I wait for the right moment and then in a flash it comes and I press back into my captor with all my might - using him as leverage to bring both my feet off the ground and pushing them into the startled man in front of me.

He falls to the ground with a cry, if I'm not mistaken with more than one rib broken, and I'm starting to work myself free when there's the sudden sound of running feet at the opening of the alley way. The nauseating tingling that overtook me during the match suddenly comes crawling back up my spine but I shove it away with everything I have and focus on getting free while keeping an eye on the man who's starting to rise from the ground.

It tugs and pulls and calls to me but I ignore it, it cannot have me again, I will not let it!

And then the dark street is filled with shots of red light, the sounds of cries and bodies falling and in a matter of moments I find myself standing with barely managed pants of breath surrounded by three unconscious men. But I don't dare look up to where I can actually feel him standing, staring silently at me. Because If I do it will become real, there will be no more telling myself that those emerald eyes were a figment of my imagination.

"Draco..." His voice is hesitant and breathy and full of things I don't want to think on. He's not supposed to be here, I'm never supposed to see him again.

But no matter how much I may try to will him away with just the force of my mind and pounding of my heart, I know I can't. That even if it takes hours for me to acknowledge him he'll still be standing there. Stubborn git. I close my eyes and clench my fists, I can do this, just like a fight...it's all about determination and focus.

I know my eyes are completely guarded, my face an unfeeling mask, when I finally look up. "Potter." I drawl.
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The Art of Shadow Boxing