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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
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3. As if Tomorrow Will Never Come
'Look, your threats don't bite on me, Potter. And if _you_ bite me, you can kiss the Dark Lord's whereabouts goodbye. Got it?'
'Could you _not_ be an utter nuisance for _one_ minute, Malfoy?'
'A _minute_? I could try a second. Oh, look, it passed. Now say please and buy me a gold frame so expensive it'll make Weasley itch just looking at it.'
'See, this is why I wanted to have this discussion here,' Harry smirked, gesturing vaguely at whatever lurked in the dark corners of his bedroom. 'No one can hear you burn. And I need some light.'
'I tremble in my--' Malfoy stopped, suddenly. His face grew still, and for a moment, Harry thought the magic had run out, that the sketch lived no more. He felt a pang of somethingorother just before Malfoy spoke again, his voice deeper and more monotonous than usual. 'Knockturn Valley. That's what they call it. Stupid nickname that stuck.'
***
'Never heard of it,' said Hermione, sitting primly on the sofa in the Weasleys' living-room.
'I can't pronounce its real name,' said Malfoy, 'but it translates as Valley of the Sharp Dark.'
�Sounds lovely,� muttered Harry, slouching by the window and gazing into the darkness outside.
�It is, actually,� said Draco. �Very picturesque . . . but insanely hard to get to.�
�Have you tried fluttering?� asked Ron, glaring into the fireplace.
�Blowing in the wind?� added Harry.
Hermione sighed. �Where _is_ this valley?�
�Always did have you pinned as the moderately sane one, Granger. It�s in central Europe, part of a mountainous region so large you�re sure to miss it.�
Hermione sat up straight, eyes wide. �The Lost Lands?�
�Lost Lands, Land of the Lost, or even Land of the Free � depends on who you ask.�
�But Wompslerun�s Historical Atlas calls the Lost Lands a myth��
�A rebel�s fairytale? A haven for the horrid? A bedtime story for the biggest bastards of the Wizarding world? Yes, that�s the one.'
'Look,' said Ron, turning to the little parchment propped up against a pile of books on the coffee table. Backlit by the fire, his hair made him look like a particularly irate fire demon come to torch defenseless parchment people. 'If you're just going to stall with ridiculous stories like that, we might as well burn you now and get it over with.' He reached for the parchment.
'Stop it!' screeched Malfoy. 'Just because you're too thick to recognise the truth, you have no right to burn the messenger!'
Hermione slapped Ron's hand away, but her fire-tinted hair made her look no less a threat as she bent close to Malfoy's pale face. 'You're seriously suggesting there's some big _conspiracy_ to conceal the existence of the Lost Lands? A cover-up so complete that not even I have read about them as anything _but_ myth, even in medieval texts?'
'Bit over-confident, aren't we?' Malfoy sniffed. 'Like, well, _me_, documents can be burnt, shredded, or locked away. And while you are undoubtedly a factoholoic, you've had access to only a certain _kind_ of libraries, haven't you?' He smirked.
'But _why_?' Hermione exclaimed, sitting back and throwing up her hands so roughly she almost sent Malfoy flying.
'Why? Isn't it _obvious_? Would _you_ care to admit that there's a whole country you have no access to? Where wizards and witches who have committed heinous crimes can live in relative safety, because you can _never_ get to them? Where wizards like Voldemort and Grindlewald can amass _armies_ if they're daring enough?'
'Well,' began Hermione, but she got no further before Harry's palm slammed into the window frame.
'DAMN!' he roared into the darkness. 'DAMN THEM ALL! THEY NEED MY HELP BECAUSE OF SOME BLOODY PROPHECY AND STILL THEY KEEP THINGS FROM ME!' He spun around. 'THEY KEEP _COUNTRIES_ FROM ME! FUCKING COUNTRIES!'
From the look on Malfoy's face, he would likely have done as Ron and Hermione if he could: Cowered. Pulled back. Paled till he was white as a bleached ferret.
Harry felt his rage recede as quickly as it had come, pulling all its black tendrils of hate, frustration, fear, and other feelings he didn't care to name into that tight knot inside him that only seemed to grow larger with each passing year. His shoulders sagged. 'So, that's where Voldemort went to recover after killing my parents, right?'
'I,' said Malfoy, clearing his throat, 'would assume so, yes.'
Ron snorted. 'You lying little ferret! If that was true, how come Aurors capture so many Death Eaters? Wouldn't all dark wizards just escape to this fairyland of yours?'
Malfoy's eyes--thick black strokes making it look as though he was wearing eyeliner--narrowed. '_Relative_ safety, Weasel. _Relative_! The Lost Lands are like a very large and infinitely more dangerous version of the Forbidden Forest! The scenery will literally eat you alive. And getting there is no picnic either,' his eyes sought out Harry, 'as you will no doubt discover for yourself. Because I assume you _are_ going?'
Harry hung his head and sighed.
'It's a trap!' Ron exclaimed. 'You can't seriously consider walking right into it!'
Harry didn't answer, except with an even deeper sigh.
'Paranoia suits you, Weasel, but it really makes me want to shove a sharp corner in your eye. So, Potter, are we going or not? Or should I--'
'We're going!'
It took a moment to register, even for Harry, that it hadn't been Harry who had spoken. All eyes turned to the doorway. Well, all eyes that could turn. 'Is that Weasley-who-was-caught-by-a-Veela?'
It was. Bill held onto the doorframe to steady himself. He looked like a particularly nasty and solid shadow of his former self. 'Or at least, _I'm_ going.' He turned to face Harry. 'But if you want He Who Must Not Be Named dealt with, you better come along. I have my own monster to deal with.'
Harry felt he should probably have said something poignant and inspiring at this point, but all that came out was a weak and wavering,
'Sure.'
***
Harry awoke to the sound of incessant beeping. He rolled over and slammed his hand onto the overturned piece of parchment next to his alarm. The beeping continued. He patted the parchment a few times more as he pulled himself up to peer at the bedside table.
'Oh, _sorry_,' he drawled and shut off the alarm with much less force than he'd used moments before. 'My brain registered an obnoxious noise and I just naturally thought of y--' He stopped, blinked, leaned forward and frowned. Something wasn't right. There had been no outcry of unrighteous indignation, not even a muttered 'Bastard'. He poked the parchment. Nothing. 'Fine,' he muttered. 'Be that way.'
When he returned from the bathroom a while later, the motel room was still uncommonly quiet. No demands to be turned over. No supposedly witty remarks, nor any rather odd ones about Harry's half-naked body.
Harry packed, tidied up, and spent too long just sitting on the bed staring at a piece of parchment. For some reason, he was almost afraid to turn it over. No, he _was_ afraid. Of course he was. They were well on their way to the so-called Lost Lands and without Malfoy, they would have come all this way for nothing. But perhaps he should be more irritated than afraid. Perhaps he should just be grateful for a morning _not_ filled with bickering. Perhaps he should extend his arm an inch further and flip over that damn parchment.
There. Was nothing. The parchment was empty, both sides the same. Harry flipped it over again, and again, and again, just to make sure. He grabbed it with both hands and stared hard. The black knot inside him, surprisingly loose, tightened. The parchment remained blank.
Harry was sure some more reasonable part of him was already halfway to Ron's and Hermione's room, which they shared in order to save money, honestly. This reasonable Harry would keep calm and allow no emotion but mild annoyance to surface. After all, Malfoy was worth no more. This reasonable Harry would not find his motel room lonely and cold because a bloody obnoxious picture went missing. He would not even think about other reasons than money to share a room, because even though Ron and Hermione had fought a lot lately, neither of them was a piece of parchment, and only one of them was a boy.
But this actual _unreasonable_ Harry was betrayed by his own mind. With nothing but blank parchment before his eyes, his thoughts could run wild in all kinds of undesirable directions. There was the loss of a guide to Voldemort's whereabouts, but there was also the loss of a presence that had been permanent for over a week now. Still, that should weigh in on the plus side of things, not add to the emptiness. Surely.
'Shit, Potter. You look like crap.'
Harry's gaze focused on a no longer empty parchment just as his hands dropped it to the floor. He bent forward and stared at Malfoy. The tiny face frowned up at him.
'I'll just go back, shall I? Before you stomp on me.'
'Back?'
'Yes, Potter, back. To the place where I was when I wasn't _here_. _Back_.'
Harry blinked. 'You can . . . go places? Then why-'
'Not _places_, you nit. _A_ place. The original painting.' He raised an eyebrow. 'You didn't think _you'd_ somehow managed to tie me to this little doodle of yours, did you? There has to be a proper magical painting, made with charms and whatnot, for any lesser portraits to . . . connect to. Honestly, that Granger person _explained_ this to you.'
'Well, yeah, I suppose,' stuttered Harry, feeling his face heat up, 'but I didn't know you could . . . go back.'
'Yes, well, I can. But I'd rather not.'
'Why?'
At first, it seemed Malfoy would refuse to answer. But then, he looked away and said, once again in that low, cold voice, 'It's empty. An empty studio looking out over an empty lake. And I was . . . trapped there for so long. I thought I would go mad. And here I am, being serious with you, so maybe I did.'
'But then--'
'Why did I go back? Isn't obvious? Given the choice between staring at the dust on a bedside table all night or contemplating the reflection of stars, what would _you_ choose? At least there I don't have to put up with a sadistic keeper who most of the time won't even tell me where we are, much less show me the sights. Takes all the fun out of being,' and here he returned his gaze to Harry, and his eyes were darker than Harry had ever seen them, 'dead.'
That morning was the first time they watched the sunrise together, perfectly quiet as a small Swiss town shifted in pink hues before them.
***
'So,' said Ron, gesturing with a precariously ice-cream-filled spoon, 'when is the foldable ferret going to tell us how to actually _find_ this imaginary country?'
'If it's imaginary,' said Hermione, her jaw clenched and a cup of coffee near the breaking point in her hands, 'then why are you here?'
'Weather's nice,' said Ron, his mouth filled with ice-cream, gesturing around at the crowded, sun-soaked street and outdoors caf�, 'and someone has to be ready for the trap you're all walking into.'
Bill tapped a finger against the table. 'And you'll save us all using . . . a spoon?'
'Oh,' drawled Malfoy, extra annoyed by having just been wiped clean of ice-cream by one Harry Potter, 'you mean that _isn't_ the weapon of choice for the Weasley clan?'
'We prefer,' said Bill, smiling down at Malfoy, 'not to _have_ a weapon of choice.'
'Which is just another way of saying you'll make do with anything you can get your grubby little hands on?'
'And so live to see another day,' said Bill, still smiling. 'Unlike the ponce who forgot to polish his wand and got distracted.'
There was a moment of quiet. Then someone chuckled. It took Harry another moment to realise that it was Malfoy.
'_Anyway_,' said Hermione, 'Ron does have a point. Where _is_ this secret hideout?'
'I know,' muttered Ron. 'It's hidden in a tiny piece of parchment. Let's throw it away.'
'Let's throw away your ice-cream.' That was, in fact, not Malfoy. It was Hermione, and she meant business. Ron started gobbling up his ice-cream, in silence.
Harry, however, felt that Hermione was being rather too easy on Malfoy, who by all accounts did seem to tell tales as tall as his imaginary mountain range. 'But,' Harry said, 'I've been thinking. There's just not _room_ for these "Lost Lands", is there?'
'It must hurt, using that narrow mind of yours for thinking,' said Malfoy. 'Let's just say the trip from Italy to Africa used to be quite a bit shorter. Made managing the Roman empire a lot easier for a while too.'
'You can't be serious,' said Hermione, real doubt clouding her face for the first time that day.
'Perfectly. The Lost Lands were _founded_ by a Roman. A general - non-magical, would you believe, but with powerful allies - who wanted to escape the empire's wrath and rightly figured that to do that, he'd have to go to a whole new world. Instead of being always on the run in this world, he sent a slice of the empire into a sort of . . . fold in reality, and made it his domain. My kind of coward.'
Hermione had her mouth open and her face was eager as ever, but Harry got in first. 'I thought you'd be of the opinion that he should have fought instead of run away, even though I know you'd _do_ the latter.'
'Unlike others present, I'm no hypocrite. Besides, he stole a _country_. Who wouldn't have run away with _that_?'
'I, for one, especially if it's as nasty as you say it is.'
'Wasn't always that nasty. But it's always attracted a certain _type_ of immigrant.'
'Why is that?' asked Hermione, chin propped in the palm of her hand and eyes wide. 'Did the general _want_ to make it nasty for protection or--'
'No, the place turned bad after his time, when some dark wizards discovered the secret to entering the Lost Lands.'
'And you mean to say no good wizard or witch has ever figured it out?' asked Hermione, sounding both incredulous and rather indignant.
There was a pause. And then that low voice again. 'If they did, they didn't _stay_ good.'
The black knot inside Harry twitched.
***
'It involves dark rites, doesn't it?'
'Something like that.'
The sunset had faded long ago. Harry wasn't sure why he was still on the balcony, or why they had come out there in the first place. He should have been angered enough by Malfoy's cryptic non-answers to leave the latter folded in a pocket, with sand poured in. Instead, they had watched the sunset. They didn't usually, but it had seemed somehow appropriate, more so than a sunrise. They were nearing their point of entry into the Lost Lands, or so Malfoy said. Might as well sleep in, perhaps in the hope that tomorrow might never come.
It didn't seem to be out of spite, that Malfoy said so little on the subject of the Lost Lands. It went against all Harry's expectations, but the silence didn't appear meant to anger him. That was what Malfoy's acerbic wit was for. No, there were other reasons, some more obvious than others.
Though he had resisted it for a long time, Harry had finally allowed himself to consider Malfoy's actual position - dead, stuck in a painting and on a fragile piece of parchment, at the mercy of his enemies. Not his _former_ enemies. Harry understood Malfoy's position better now, but there had still been no talk of Dumbledore's death. No apology, which was good, but also no explanation, which wasn't good at all.
Piecing together a still fragmented picture from silences and offhand comments, Harry had come to see a Malfoy both more pathetic _and_ more human than before. Helped along by brief talks with Hermione, Harry now saw that it was easier to imagine yourself a strong, willing follower than an aristocrat born into serfdom, tied by blood to what always appeared as the losing side from a Hogwarts perspective.
And now he was dead, a drawing, doodled by Harry Potter, and the only thing he had of any worth was his knowledge. Of course he would keep things to himself until the very last moment.
Because he couldn't know that Harry's firm grip on the parchment was not from anger but a fear of Malfoy fluttering away in the wind. Because Malfoy was always there, ready to take Harry's mind off the world with his so-called wit and annoying little ferret face. Because Malfoy was more easily shredded now than back in that bathroom, where he cried in front of ghost larger but no less dead than a piece of parchment.
Because Harry had drawn Draco Malfoy more than once without even realising during those lonely nights in Godric's Hollow, and he needed reminding of just why he despised the little git.
'The wind's increasing,' muttered Malfoy. 'Better not let go. You can't get in without me, you know.'
'I know. Otherwise, I would have shown you how I fold an ugly little airplane.'
'Maniac.'
'_Malfoy_.'
It was meant to be witty, but Malfoy just sighed. They said no more, and the morning came as advertised.
***
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The Image of You