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Whatever Tomorrow Brings	By : thewickednix Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 3024 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters portrayed herein. This is made for fun, not profit.

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
- 5
Chapter 4. Kaleidoscope

Bill Weasley�s room has little to cheer for. Located on the third floor, it has a small window with a view into a very ill-kept garden. The ceiling slopes so much that I can barely sit down on the bed without hitting my head.
The room is long and narrow, a small table by the window and a tiny wardrobe beside it. A low bookshelf is placed opposite the bed, and is filled with what looks like old schoolbooks and various knickknacks. It seems old William hasn�t been spending much time here since his last year at Hogwarts.
Sighing, I lay down on the bed, running my fingers over the rough, worn fabric of the bedspread. Closing my eyes, I try to imagine myself as far away from this strange place as possible. I imagine myself going home, finally stepping through those familiar doors which I haven�t laid eyes upon for years. I miss it. I miss the small things, the scent of the candle-lit dining room, the feel of the velvet curtains by the clear windows overlooking the orchard.
I shouldn�t complain. I got through the war with minimum injuries, and spending a month with Potter and the Weasleys afterwards isn�t the end of the world. I have endured much worse. It�s not as if the Manor is going anywhere.
What bothers me is the prolonging of the time before I return. The moment which I have been waiting for, dreading throughout the war. The moment when I step through those doors and realise there is nothing left for me there. Just a large, old house which I am supposed to fill with memories. But all the memories I have are from my childhood, from the war. Things I�d much rather forget. And building new memories is hard when you�re alone.
Once again I am unjustifiably jealous of Potter. For he gets to stay here with his family, his friends, together building up what has been destroyed.
I have nothing left to re-build.
My thoughts are caught off when a blurry vision of another room appears before my eyes. It takes me a second to realise it comes from Potter. The room in my is coloured with different, ghastly shades of orange and red, and the walls seem to be padded with Quidditch posters. A heavy weight lands on my shoulders, and I know it has nothing to do with my own thoughts. And suddenly I realise that the room in the image is surely not the one of the Prefect Percy Weasley.
Overwhelmed by a suffocating feeling of abandonment and loss that is not mine, I cannot stop myself from rushing out through the room in search of Ronald Weasley�s room.
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I don�t know why I came here. To torture myself further? So that perhaps one aspect of pain in my life would suffice to sooth another?
Ron�s room looks exactly as I remember it. Not a thing has been moved since I was here last. The nostalgia almost makes me believe that he will appear before my eyes at any moment, step past me in the doorway and hit me playfully over the head, laughing at me for spacing out. My chest tightens painfully, the immense discomfort from the bond merging with the aching memories.
Then suddenly I feel a shift in the bond, but I have no time to react before I hear him step in beside me in the doorway. For a moment I wonder how he found me, until I realise my distress was probably screaming at him through the bond. I feel a silly urge to apologize, ashamed of my weakness reaching him so markedly. But Malfoy says nothing, demands no apology, no explanation.
At the same time I am irritated by his intrusion on my sorrow on such a personal level, while on the other hand his presence makes me so relieved I could cry. He stands so close beside me, the sound of his breathing reaching my ear, his hand hanging by his side, a mere inch from mine. I long to reach out for him, to receive the comfort that the bond thinks he will provide. But I remain frozen in place, only clenching and flexing my hand in frustration.
Neither of us says a word.
�Boys? Fred ad George are here! It�s dinnertime!� Mrs Weasley�s voice cuts through the silence after what seems like a fleeting second in eternity.
I shake my head to retrieve my consciousness back into this moment, breathing deeply once before turning to Malfoy with an expression somewhere between a smile and an embarrassed scowl. �Great. I�m starving,� I say lightly, afraid to look up at Malfoy�s face but unable not to.
He stares back at me silently, his face expressing nothing of what he is feeling. Finally nodding curtly once, he turns back towards the hall. �Yes, me too.�
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�Are you two serious?�
Fred and George Weasley stare from Potter to me and back again with the familiar expression of shock and denial that befits the matter. The side of Fred�s mouth twitches, as if he is waiting for someone to step up and declare everything a joke. George on the other hand looks like he might fall off his chair.
Potter swallows loudly, and a bright blush creeps over his nose. �Yes.�
The twins look to me for confirmation, and when I make no move of protest, they look to each other with wide eyes. Then, so unexpectedly that Potter jumps in his seat at the noise, the two red-heads burst out in a roar of laughter. An nervous smile spreads over Potters face, and I grunt. What the hell does he have to smile about?

Being ridiculed by the Weasley twins is really nothing new. With me being a Malfoy, it is really unavoidable. I am proud to declare that in the last couple of years I have managed to ignore it. I have had other things on my mind than trying to get even with these two low lives. But with no war to focus on, no battles to prepare for, how am I supposed to endure this?
�Harry, I am so sorry for you!� George cackles, trying to look sympathetic. I snort mirthlessly, gaining an unappreciative glare from the red-head.
�Have something to say, Malfoy?� he hisses between his teeth, a malicious smile still on his lips.
�George, please,� his brother interferes with a good-natured chuckle, clapping him authoritatively over the back. George keeps sneering at me, but keep his mouth shut as Mrs Weasley appears with a large pot of some sort of stew.
Try as I may, I cannot bring myself to relaxing during the entire length of the dinner. The Weasleys are a strange family. The twins keep making lewd comments, causing Potter blush up to the roots of is hair, and forcing Mrs Weasley to hit her sons over their heads.
Apart from the occasional joke passed my way from either of the twins, or an overly polite question by Mrs Weasley, I feel completely excluded from the party. The four of them are part of a family, part of that group of friends and relatives that got through the war by supporting themselves. Mrs Weasley has lost three children and her husband is in the hospital, yet she has enough love for the rest of her offspring to pull through and fight for everything to be normal again. In spite of myself, I feel a tinge of envy growing in the pit of my stomach.
I don�t want to be a part of this poor, hectic, messy family. But I want to be a part of something.
I want to belong somewhere again.
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�Hah, I won again! Boy, Harry, you really suck at this!�
Malfoy lets out an amused scoff, but I fight to keep my focus on my opponent. �Just wait, Fred. Two out of three?� I dare him, thought I am pretty certain it will only result in an even bigger loss for myself.
�Sure thing, Harry. But I never knew you enjoyed losing so much,� Fred smirks, assembling the chess pieces onto the board again.
From the other side of the couch, George grins at me. �It�s useless, Harry. Ron could never beat Fred, and you could never beat Ron, so�� He chuckles lightly as I pretend to be insulted and show him the finger.
�We�ll see.�
Fred smirks at me and glances over at his brother. �You�re one to talk, George. You never beat Ron, either,� he says frolicsomely, causing me to burst out in laughter.
Malfoy huffs to himself, but the sound is not quiet enough to pass by George.
�What�s so amusing, Malfoy?� he asks, spitting out the name as if it tastes particularly bad. When the Slytherin doesn�t answer, it only increases George�s irritation. �What are you doing here, anyway? Why not take your little book and get the hell out of my face?�
I open my mouth to clarify the restrictions of the bond, but Malfoy silences me with a glare. He leers at George, putting his book aside on the coffee table and rising from his chair.
�I can see when I am not wanted,� he drawls, turning on his heels and heading for the hall. I feel the bond tug in my stomach again as Malfoy disappears out of sight, and I can barely prevent myself from calling him back.
George only huffs amusedly, before turning back to watch Fred�s and mine ongoing chess game. I sigh deeply, leaning back in my chair, fighting to relax. I believe I can feel Malfoy climbing the stairs, each step taking him further from me, closing the iron fist around my lungs.
George has never liked Malfoy. It�s no secret. He is almost as obvious about it as Ron always was, scorning and bringing down Malfoy every chance he gets. And Malfoy never hesitates to return the compliment.
Usually it is not so bad. For the most part their interactions have taken place in meetings or during battle, always in situations where they don�t have time to fight, or when someone is there to break it up.
But Ron�s death has only made it worse, and Fred has a hard time controlling his brother. Partly because he doesn�t really want to. And George takes every chance he gets, as soon as Mrs Weasley is not in the room.
In truth, I have no right to judge him. Not two days ago, I was much the same. I hated Malfoy. I hate him even now. But the bond confuses me, tells me to desire things that I do not, tells me to suppress my true feelings. It twists my emotions into an uncontrollable blur of revulsion and want.
My heart screams for him, but my head does not answer. And Malfoy remains as distant as ever.
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The house is all but quiet in the night. Even after Mrs Weasley has come home after her late visit to the hospital, and explosions have ceased to be heard from the twins� room, the house is filled with diverse sounds. Rats and what I believe to be a ghoul make a racket in the attic, the summer storm blows harshly against the house, making the walls creek and the windows resound with a cracking sound as they fight against the wind.
Perhaps I could sleep, even with all this noise. After all, no place I have slept in since the war began has been exactly what one might call peaceful. But right now, I would rather have to endure sleeping on the floor with fifteen other people in the room, than to be kept awake by the simple little detail of Potter�s presence. Or rather, the lack f it.
In spite of my exhaustion, he keeps me awake. For as long as he is awake, I can hear his thoughts, his emotions exploding in my brain. Not very clearly, for he is as tired as I am, but distinctively enough to keep me wide awake. The bond doesn�t want to allow me to sleep while I feel his distress. Well, what about my distress?

I know that if I were to give in, I could just descend those stairs, fall in next to him on the bed and fall asleep immediately. But that would be pathetic. Humiliating.
Dangerous.
Would I risk binging myself to Potter for life for a temporary peace of mind? No, I have more strength than that. I have lived through a war, I can live through this.
Then, just as I have mentally shackled myself to this bed, Potter�s emotions start to fade. I feel like I can hear him through the floor, his deep breaths filling the room as he slowly drifts off to sleep.
Breathing out in relief, I feel myself instantly falling asleep.
_____________________________________________

I open my eyes, finding myself outside a magnificent mansion. White stones, clear windows, and a gigantic black door adorn the façade. I reach for that door without a moment hesitation, pulling it open with a loud creek.
The hall with its high ceiling, velvet-curtained windows and polished stairway is just like I remember it. Except, I realise, I don�t.
My feet take me forward, running across the marble floor and up the stairs to the second story. Through dusky hallways I make my way, portraits of old, respectable, blond witches and wizards looking down at me an scoffing in dismay as I run past them. I laugh back at them, thinking that they are simply jealous because I am alive and they are not.
Finally I seem to reach my destination, reaching for the handles to a pair of double doors at the end of the hallway. Excited, I push them open, stepping into a familiar study. Heavy curtains cover the large windows, preventing the warm summer sun from lighting up the room. I cross the floor, stopping before a massive oak desk, smiling at the man behind it.
�Good evening, Father,� I say, slightly breathless from running.
Lucius Malfoy looks up slowly, taking in the sight of me with a look of dismay. I suddenly realise my error in disturbing him, at the same time become extremely conscious of my disarrayed hair and dirty clothes. I contemplate taking my leave and returning when I have made myself more presentable, but at the same time I know it is too late.
�Draco,� Lucius says slowly, setting aside the quill he is holding and leaning back in his chair. Hi curls his upper lip at my unkempt appearance. �What have I told you about bursting in like this when I am working? And why do you look like you just crawled out of a sewer?�
�I�m sorry, Father. I was flying,� I say, desperately trying to correct my error. �I hadn�t seen you since my return and I just wanted to--�
�I was just observing your report card,� Lucius interrupts, reaching for a parchment from the side of his desk.
�I got an O in Potions and Charms,� I proudly declare. Lucius silences me with a glare. He stands up from his chair and moves around the desk.
�Yes, and so did that Mudblood Granger,� he spits, running his hand over his cane, and I feel my insides grow cold. �She also exceeded you in both Transfigurations and History of Magic. What have you got to say for yourself?�
�I--,� I begin stuttering, fear growing in my stomach as I try not to tremble under Lucius� piercing stare. �I had to practise Quidditch. The Mudblood doesn�t have any such distractions,� I state, fighting to keep my pride.
Without a warning Lucius raises his arm and backhands me forcefully. �Don�t make excuses.�
I lose my balance but am able t remain standing. I fight to prevent myself from crying, but a small tear finds its way down my cheek.
I taste blood.
Lucius sneers down at the no doubt pathetic figure that is me. �If your Quidditch-playing should in any way justify what you lack academically, it would require that you won!� A second time he raises his hand, this time ramming his cane right into my stomach. I yell out silently as the air is knocked out of me. Gripping my stomach I feel my knees give out, and I fall down to the floor with a thud. I can no longer prevent the salty tears from running in floods down my face, but I do my best to refrain from sobbing out loud.
�I will not have my son shame me by being defeated by Mudbloods and halfbloods. I expect to see some improvement. Now get out of my sight and clean yourself up! Do not burst in here like that again!�
I cannot bear to look up into my father�s face as I crawl up from the floor and rush out through the door. I don�t want to see that man, his eyes blazing with disappointment and his lip curled in distaste as he looks upon his only son. When he gets like that, I do not recognise him. He is not the father I knew as a small child, the firm but loving man who would spoil me and treasure me above all else. Somehow that man has now disappeared to make way to this creature of unjustified brutality and scorn.
Still, it does not change the fact that I love him. I want to please him.
I will do anything to make him proud of me.

I draw in a deep breath as I awaken, trilled to find myself in my own body instead of the body of a twelve year-old Malfoy. I feel my breathing even out as I lay there in the darkness, trying to forget what I just saw. Was it my own dream? Or Malfoy�s memory? Subconsciously I reach for stomach, searching for even a trace of the pain, to confirm to myself that it is all in my head. And I find nothing, not even a sore rib, not a scratch in the skin. And still, my dream seems none the less real.

I fight to calm down, but it seems impossible. The feelings and thoughts of Malfoy still haunt me, as if I subconsciously used Legilimency on the Slytherin in my sleep. And I can�t get rid of the disturbing feeling of pity, of sympathy for the git.
I close my eyes, determined to fall asleep again. But as I do, there is only one thing on my mind.

I still taste blood.

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TBC
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Whatever Tomorrow Brings