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deathlydragon
Feb. 21st, 2010 11:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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rarepair_shortsAuthor: a_shadow_there
Recipient:deathlydragon
Title: And All the World Drops Dead
Pairing: Dean Thomas/Draco Malfoy
Rating: PG-13 (angst, slash)
Word Count: 960
Summary: During his sixth year at Hogwarts, Draco struggles with the weight of his parents', and the Dark Lord's, expectations; of the commitment he has made. He seeks out some space, some room to breathe and to feel, for a moment, light again. What he finds, is Dean.
Author's Notes: Hmm. I'm quite unsure about this one, so I'm crossing my fingers that it's still something you'll enjoy,deathlydragon. Thanks to the mods for their patience.
The common room was stifling.
Even in this, the numbingly cold heart of winter; even here, in the Slytherin dungeons, the air was stifling.
Draco felt as though he couldn't breathe.
"Malfoy?" Pansy said, nudging Draco's knee with her own as they sat, slouched, on the sofa.
Receiving no reply, Pansy gave Draco a shove with her shoulder; "Draco? What's wrong?"
Draco turned his head slowly as he cobbled together the words of his reply. "Nothing," he said, "I need some air." With a heaving sigh, Draco, rose from his seat and, without another word, exited Slytherin common room.
It was too much.
It was all too much.
*
Draco braced himself against the bitter cold as he tramped out of doors and into the expansive, rambling grounds of Hogwarts. He strode, purposefully and yet without any purpose at all, other than that of an escape, regardless of how fleetingly temporary it might have been.
He walked on, the merciless sting of the wind chapping his face and igniting a fierce pink flush in his usually pale cheeks; the ground crunching underfoot as he plunged his hands deeper into his pockets and made for the greenhouses.
*
As Draco rounded the rear corner of the furthest greenhouse, allowed a relieved sigh to escape his lips; the warmth of his breath disseminating in a cloud of condensation as he slowed his pace.
He could breathe again.
He was alone.
He dropped to the ground and, settling himself against the back wall of the greenhouse, he leaned back. His shoulders dropped; the tension that had been bubbling inside him, simmering beneath his skin like some foul potion, eased. Closing his eyes, he turned his face to the sky.
"What in the name of Merlin's pants –"
Draco's eyes snapped open. He scrambled to his feet, grass and errant twigs grazing his palms as raised himself off of the ground and stumbled into an upright position.
"Malfoy?"
"Thomas," Draco hissed, glaring at Dean. "What are you doing here?"
Dean cocked his head to one side; his dark eyebrows knitted together in thought, or confusion, or some combination of the two as he watched Draco fidget. "I could ask the same of you, Malfoy," he said finally.
"Like I'd tell you," Draco snorted as he smoothed the front of his trousers and assumed a composed facade.
"I wasn't asking you to," Dean retorted sharply. "I was just saying."
Draco rolled his eyes. He was about to head off – though to where, exactly, he wasn't sure, he couldn't bear the idea of returning to the dungeons, to Pansy and Crabbe and Goyle and the unrelenting weight of expectation that had settled itself so firmly upon him, weighing down on his chest like some unknowably enormous and immovable anvil – when a thought occurred to him.
"Did Potter send you?" he asked, approaching Dean with an urgency that caused the other boy to step back hurriedly.
"What are you on about?"
"Potter," Draco whispered, his eyes flickering anxiously. "Did he send you? I know he's been watching me, and ..."
"Have you gone mental or something Malfoy?" Dean asked incredulously."We're not all at Harry's beck and call, you know."
Draco scoffed but otherwise he remained silent. He looked, Dean thought, like he was about to say something – to return fire, to put Dean in what Draco undoubtedly believed was his rightful place – but seemingly thought better of it and, instead, swallowed his words, whatever they might have been. And in that moment, as Draco struggled to voice whatever it was that was trying (and failing) to scramble out of his mouth, standing before Dean in a solitude that seemed to crackle like some imperceptible shield surrounding him, Dean thought he had never seen Draco so alone. He approached Draco, and brushed past him. Leaning against the back wall of the greenhouse, he slid to the ground.
Shaking his head, Draco turned to leave. The castle loomed large ahead, and the sheer enormity of all that it held – of his task – bore down upon him: fearsome waves, cresting before him, determined to crash down and dash him to pieces in such a way that he would never be able to recover them all.
"You don't have to go, you know."
"What?" Draco said, pivoting to face Dean.
"You can stay. You were here first, after all."
Draco furrowed his brow. His lip curled in distasted. With a contemptuous snort, he gazed at Dean and then, over his shoulder, to the castle.
He felt as if he couldn't breathe.
"Malfoy?"
"Fine," he said, his voice straining against the wind; against his fear. "But only because I was here first." Grudgingly, Draco seated himself beside Dean on the ground. Sitting cross-legged, he eased back against the greenhouse wall. He closed his eyes, and exhaled deeply.
Dean watched him: he watched each gust of wind ruffle Draco's white-blonde hair, and the flush rise in his cheeks; he watched his lips part as each breath passed over them, in and out; in and out. And as he witnessed Draco engulfed in a lonely silence, Dean was seized by an emotion he couldn't quite pinpoint, but that he was unable to deny.
He leaned across and, as Draco breathed out once more, Dean pressed his lips to Draco's in a fleeting kiss, a heartbeat; a breath.
Draco's opened his eyes. He made to pull away, to push Dean from him; to rise to his feet and flee – but he didn't. He closed his eyes and allowed the wave of warmth, of Dean's lips, hot and wet and flush against his own, to wash over him, to cascade in a deluge of feeling that was, for the first time in a long time, something other than fear.
a_shadow_thereRecipient:
deathlydragonTitle: And All the World Drops Dead
Pairing: Dean Thomas/Draco Malfoy
Rating: PG-13 (angst, slash)
Word Count: 960
Summary: During his sixth year at Hogwarts, Draco struggles with the weight of his parents', and the Dark Lord's, expectations; of the commitment he has made. He seeks out some space, some room to breathe and to feel, for a moment, light again. What he finds, is Dean.
Author's Notes: Hmm. I'm quite unsure about this one, so I'm crossing my fingers that it's still something you'll enjoy,
deathlydragon. Thanks to the mods for their patience. The common room was stifling.
Even in this, the numbingly cold heart of winter; even here, in the Slytherin dungeons, the air was stifling.
Draco felt as though he couldn't breathe.
"Malfoy?" Pansy said, nudging Draco's knee with her own as they sat, slouched, on the sofa.
Receiving no reply, Pansy gave Draco a shove with her shoulder; "Draco? What's wrong?"
Draco turned his head slowly as he cobbled together the words of his reply. "Nothing," he said, "I need some air." With a heaving sigh, Draco, rose from his seat and, without another word, exited Slytherin common room.
It was too much.
It was all too much.
Draco braced himself against the bitter cold as he tramped out of doors and into the expansive, rambling grounds of Hogwarts. He strode, purposefully and yet without any purpose at all, other than that of an escape, regardless of how fleetingly temporary it might have been.
He walked on, the merciless sting of the wind chapping his face and igniting a fierce pink flush in his usually pale cheeks; the ground crunching underfoot as he plunged his hands deeper into his pockets and made for the greenhouses.
As Draco rounded the rear corner of the furthest greenhouse, allowed a relieved sigh to escape his lips; the warmth of his breath disseminating in a cloud of condensation as he slowed his pace.
He could breathe again.
He was alone.
He dropped to the ground and, settling himself against the back wall of the greenhouse, he leaned back. His shoulders dropped; the tension that had been bubbling inside him, simmering beneath his skin like some foul potion, eased. Closing his eyes, he turned his face to the sky.
"What in the name of Merlin's pants –"
Draco's eyes snapped open. He scrambled to his feet, grass and errant twigs grazing his palms as raised himself off of the ground and stumbled into an upright position.
"Malfoy?"
"Thomas," Draco hissed, glaring at Dean. "What are you doing here?"
Dean cocked his head to one side; his dark eyebrows knitted together in thought, or confusion, or some combination of the two as he watched Draco fidget. "I could ask the same of you, Malfoy," he said finally.
"Like I'd tell you," Draco snorted as he smoothed the front of his trousers and assumed a composed facade.
"I wasn't asking you to," Dean retorted sharply. "I was just saying."
Draco rolled his eyes. He was about to head off – though to where, exactly, he wasn't sure, he couldn't bear the idea of returning to the dungeons, to Pansy and Crabbe and Goyle and the unrelenting weight of expectation that had settled itself so firmly upon him, weighing down on his chest like some unknowably enormous and immovable anvil – when a thought occurred to him.
"Did Potter send you?" he asked, approaching Dean with an urgency that caused the other boy to step back hurriedly.
"What are you on about?"
"Potter," Draco whispered, his eyes flickering anxiously. "Did he send you? I know he's been watching me, and ..."
"Have you gone mental or something Malfoy?" Dean asked incredulously."We're not all at Harry's beck and call, you know."
Draco scoffed but otherwise he remained silent. He looked, Dean thought, like he was about to say something – to return fire, to put Dean in what Draco undoubtedly believed was his rightful place – but seemingly thought better of it and, instead, swallowed his words, whatever they might have been. And in that moment, as Draco struggled to voice whatever it was that was trying (and failing) to scramble out of his mouth, standing before Dean in a solitude that seemed to crackle like some imperceptible shield surrounding him, Dean thought he had never seen Draco so alone. He approached Draco, and brushed past him. Leaning against the back wall of the greenhouse, he slid to the ground.
Shaking his head, Draco turned to leave. The castle loomed large ahead, and the sheer enormity of all that it held – of his task – bore down upon him: fearsome waves, cresting before him, determined to crash down and dash him to pieces in such a way that he would never be able to recover them all.
"You don't have to go, you know."
"What?" Draco said, pivoting to face Dean.
"You can stay. You were here first, after all."
Draco furrowed his brow. His lip curled in distasted. With a contemptuous snort, he gazed at Dean and then, over his shoulder, to the castle.
He felt as if he couldn't breathe.
"Malfoy?"
"Fine," he said, his voice straining against the wind; against his fear. "But only because I was here first." Grudgingly, Draco seated himself beside Dean on the ground. Sitting cross-legged, he eased back against the greenhouse wall. He closed his eyes, and exhaled deeply.
Dean watched him: he watched each gust of wind ruffle Draco's white-blonde hair, and the flush rise in his cheeks; he watched his lips part as each breath passed over them, in and out; in and out. And as he witnessed Draco engulfed in a lonely silence, Dean was seized by an emotion he couldn't quite pinpoint, but that he was unable to deny.
He leaned across and, as Draco breathed out once more, Dean pressed his lips to Draco's in a fleeting kiss, a heartbeat; a breath.
Draco's opened his eyes. He made to pull away, to push Dean from him; to rise to his feet and flee – but he didn't. He closed his eyes and allowed the wave of warmth, of Dean's lips, hot and wet and flush against his own, to wash over him, to cascade in a deluge of feeling that was, for the first time in a long time, something other than fear.
