nekare

Am incredibly sick. I spent the entire night shaking in my sleep, and I even had to go and put on some socks and a jacket. With fever, of course, come bizarre dreams, and I dreamt about being tied up (which was actually my sheet) and Harry. Good thing I don't have school, 'cause I feel to shity to even think about going. And I wanted to go to the book fair today... *is angry*

In other news, it's official, I've turned to the Dark side. I've written H/D. Surprisingly, I don't feel as terrible as I should. Oh well, another pairing I've been sucked into. And this probably will be the closest to smut I'll ever write, even when this is still quite tame. Crossposted at harrydraco

Title: The Mask You Wear
Rating: PG-13
Fandom/Pairing: Harry/Draco
Word Count: 1432
Notes: Kind of an AU. Lucius never went to Azkaban, and the Malfoys still have all of their prestige. Seventh year. For why_me_why_not's challenge, who wanted H/D and a masquerade. Hope she likes it!
Summary: Harry attends the Malfoys Christmas party, and learns more about Draco that he ever wanted to.



Malfoy Manor is literally glowing, fairies flying over the illuminated Ball Room and leaving the bright imprint of magic dust inside Harry’s lids. Fake snow falls over the Christmas trees in the far corners of the room, and when Harry downs his seventh glass of the finest champagne the world seems to become even brighter, contrasting with the moonless sky outside the windows.

For the seventeenth time this evening, Harry asks himself just what is he doing in the Malfoy’s yearly masquerade, where whispers follow him through the room and Lucius’s glare has long ago failed to intimidate him. He tries to put his hands in his pockets, but then remembers his new dress robes don’t have any. He fidgets with them for a while, until he finally lets them rest at his sides with a long sigh. Couples are dancing all around him; multicolored robes sparkle with too expensive jewels swishing in time with the music and the laughter in a joyous display of normalcy of the Death Eater elite.

Then his eye catches a pale blond head, and he gets his answer. He watches as Draco dances merrily with Pansy Parkinson, looking carefree and laughing; all of the things he never did with him. A man asks Pansy the next song, and Draco untangles himself and moves to the edge of the dancing floor. As Harry moves towards him he can see the scowls on everybody’s faces as they recognize him, the dark blue mask not enough to conceal his uncombed hair and trade mark scar. It isn’t as if he hadn’t expected this, and the irony that he’s walking head on into the viper nest with the unseen protection of the Prophet’s events reporters is far to laughable to be ignored.

“I think you’ve made a mistake with your costume,” Harry whispers into Draco’s ear when he’s right by his side. “A ferret would be far more fitting.”

Draco twirls to face him, and his face shows surprise for a mere second before his usual smirk (the one that makes Harry want to either hit him or grab him) replaces it. “Well, well well.” He looks up into Harry’s eyes, lifting himself on tiptoe in the discreet way he always uses to hide the fact that Harry is at least four inches taller than him. “Harry Potter himself, indulging us mere mortals with his presence. Or are you here for a present? I hear your Muggles aren’t quite the givers.”

There’s a tint of hurry in Draco’s face, as if he just wanted to be done with this and go away. Well then, he’d just have to change his mind. “Oh no, I only came here to see whether the rumors were right. You know, that your parties usually feature bloody virgin sacrifices and the such.”

Draco’s expression darkens, pale eyes narrowing. “Well, now you’ve seen we’re fully capable of being human beings, you can go on your merry way.” His lips curl in distaste, but his words lack the hatred to back them up, the hatred that had dripped from his every sentence mere years ago. “Goodbye, Potter,” he says as he turns away, and Harry suddenly can’t take it anymore.

(He refuses to hear the treacherous voices in the back of his head telling him about the embarrassment he’s become, pining after Malfoy over any other person.)

Draco’s wrist is warm under his fingers, and Draco’s sound of outrage warms him even more as he drags him to one of the adjacent hallways. Harry turns him around, and he presses Draco against the wall before crushing his mouth violently to Draco’s, a silent fight more than a kiss.

Harry’s hands lift themselves to Draco’s face, taking his mask off with trembling fingers as he continues to kiss him. The mask falls unnoticed to the floor, burgundy against unblemished marble, and Harry can feel his blood rush as Draco’s mouth opens wider beneath his, as pale hands curl up at his nape; the same thing he feels everytime they meet in deserted classrooms, as they fight in front of their friends in a messed up kind of foreplay.

One hand on the wall to brace himself, Harry lowers the other one tracing invisible paths over Draco’s torso, and earns a sigh. He brushes his lips slightly against Draco’s in chaste kiss before leaning slightly away and opening his eyes, staring as Draco pants against the wall. Harry slips his cold fingertips beneath Draco’s waistline, and caresses tentatively at the coarse curls of blond hair as he lowers his hand steadily.

Draco suddenly grunts, eyes opening wide, and shoves Harry hard on the chest. Their breathing has become erratic, and they stare at each other from across the hallway. Harry frowns lightly and steps closer, and Draco’s tone, filled to the brim with poison surprises him. “Stop it.”

“Don’t be such a hypocrite, Malfoy, you certainly seemed to be enjoying it,” Harry says as he crosses his arms and lifts his chin in what he hopes to be a decent enough imitation of Draco’s superior tone. He doesn’t take his eyes off the pale boy, swollen lips and clothes askew, breathing hard with his most heated glare directed at Harry.

“This,” Draco says with a hand gesture; everything, he probably wants to say, “has got to stop.”

“Stop what, exactly? Didn’t know we were an item, Malfoy.” Harry hopes the cold posture is still working, since he definitely doesn’t feel as brave as he’s acting.

Draco stands dangerously close, then, on tiptoe again as he shakes an accusing finger into his face. “You know what I mean, and it’s got to stop now.”

“Why, then?” And now Harry’s certain his voice carries some of the confusion he has been trying so hard to not let show. “Why now after so many months of this?” and fuck it if he’s going to put a name to it when Draco won’t even address the issue. He suddenly remembers he’s still wearing his own blue mask and takes it off, fumbling with the cheap elastic band and almost dropping his glasses while he’s at it.

Draco grimaces once he sees his face, and he stands back slowly, averting his eyes and playing idly with the hem of his left sleeve with the most vulnerable expression Harry’s ever seen on him. Silence stretches, and a good five minutes later, Draco bares his left forearm, and Harry isn’t able to fight back a gasp of surprise when he sees the Dark Mark slithering in a vivid green on the pale skin.

Harry’s lips start trembling, and he moves his gaze back up, looking for confirmation. Draco still won’t look him in the eye, and he straightens his robes hurriedly. Everything falls into place, and Harry realizes the reason of Draco’s reluctance to even set eyes on him that evening.

A muttered “Goodbye, Harry,” is registered in his brain mildly, and then Draco’s walking away, back into the party filled with laughter and light (light that matches his hair, decorations that match his eyes) and Harry rests his forehead on the wall and slips to the ground, closing his eyes tightly as he remains crouched in there.

The part of him that is being trained for the war is rejoiced that such an enigma has been resolved, and that he finally knows where Draco stands. The other, larger, part of him that relies on emotions is screaming in anguish. His right hand brushes against something, and he turns his head slightly to find Draco’s mask thrown carelessly on the floor next to him. He picks it up, and carries it with him as he goes out the Manor, to everyone else’s relief, with a haunted look he can’t really conceal.

As he is about to close the front door, he catches Draco’s eyes from across the room, the cold and unfeeling mask he wears daily on his face, as if he’d not been pressed against the wall by the fucking Boy Who Lived only ten minutes ago. Harry mouths a bye and leaves before his Gryffindor tendencies make him cross the room and hit Draco in the jaw and fill all of that pretty pale skin with angry purple bruises as every part of his body wishes.

His breath fogs next to his lips as he walks outside, clutching the mask tightly and not giving much thought to the snow that’s damping his shoes.

Harry isn’t even sure why he took it. A memento of sorts, probably, of the happy ending that wouldn’t be.