nekare

Well, I've just come back. The first dance was ok, but by the third one (the new one, also) we couldn't hear the part of the song we were supposed to change steps and waaaah it all went downhill. *sigh* I guess it's good practice for the actual presentation.

All right people, Remix names have been announced! Curious thing is, my recipient... Is also my remixer. XDD So go read Comfort (The Extremely Basic Remix) by edenfalling It's based on Comfort, a tiny James/Lily story I wrote in turn based in one of thitlerose's prompts. I loved the way she humanized James' parents, instead of them being just a plot turn, and the ending is lovely. :)

I suspect my feedback got lost in the internet, 'cause I didn't get none (apparently hotmail isn't ashorrible as I think, if the spam filter is so good...), so I'll post in here. Dunno if it's right to crosspost, though... (Expect fic tonight for Wellymuck. I'll have time!)

Title: Lesson Number Two (The Open My Eyes Remix)
Pairing: Harry/Draco preslash
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2592
Summary: Potter decides Draco must learn about life, and Draco isn't quite so fond of the idea.
Author Notes: A remix of edenfalling's Seeds. Beta-ed by the wonderful lilian_cho.


The fire creates a cloud-like rain of ashes, and Draco’s hair turns gray with the last of Dumbledore’s investigation, twelve uses for dragon (oh irony) blood that will forever lay to rest under Voldemort’s orders.

Draco hasn’t walked four steps away from the bonfire when his blood freezes in his veins the same way his body does at hearing the voice behind him.

“Petrificus Totalus.”

He falls into the muddy earth on his side, loose dry leaves – the few ones he didn’t use to light up the bonfire – sticking to his face like a tattoo, like a scar.

He curses, his lips not moving at all, and he can feel the tip of a boot prodding at his stomach, turning him roughly onto his back. He can see the sky, tinted gray with the fire’s smoke and a solemn face above him.

Potter.

He chokes a bit on saliva, an almost impossible action with his immobile tongue and his near stopped heart.

“Well, hullo, Malfoy,” says Potter with none of the scorn his tone used to have, and Draco wants to spit, wants to move, wants to crush Potter’s bones in the way he did in sixth year and stop the burning satire of it all.

Potter stares right into his eyes, left hand in his pocket in a fake relaxed posture if the unwavering grip of his wand is any indication. “Right. I’ve got a deal for you, and you don’t really have a say in it, so you can stop trying to curse me to death with glares right now.”

Draco stops breathing out of indignation, pale face going red with the strain of hating this infuriating stupid boy that can’t seem to leave him alone, and Potter rolls his eyes at the same time Draco breathes once again. “See, Malfoy? This little melodramatic act is the proof that one has to lower oneself to your level only to speak. Can you believe our first meeting at Madam Malkin’s was probably the one decent conversation we’ve ever had?”

Potter laughs a little by himself, ashes falling on his hair like twilight bathed fireflies, and Draco’s breath goes funny for a completely different reason. Potter looks at his watch, somewhat anxiously, and he speaks again. “All right, let’s stop beating around the bush. I’ve three options for you. One,” he says as he takes his hand out of his pocket and hides all but one finger. “I take the charm off, after I bind you, of course, and send you to the Aurors, and…” he stops, abruptly, crouching next to Draco, and he starts feeling over Draco’s robes with his free hand, tongue peeking out of his mouth, and Draco realizes he can move his eyes when they widen on their own.

Potter smiles as he finds something oddly-shaped in the pocket of his burnt parchment-covered robe, and he grins as he takes the white mask out. “And you know what they do to Death Eaters,” he continues still staring at the mask, holding it up so it’s easier to see in the pale morning sun. He puts it back, and Draco’s stomach clenches as he has to swallow the flinch, the wince, and the disgusted expression at Potter’s hands on his body, the same one that hasn’t been as honest as it used to be for a while now.

“Option number two,” Potter keeps on talking, holding out his hand again with only two fingers outstretched in a mockery of that silly Muggle peace sign, knuckles facing him. Draco takes advantage of whatever movement ability he has, and his eyes stray to the muddy grass next to him. He spots a mangled, half-slaughtered Vetiver plant hidden amidst the common herbs, and he recites all of the uses of the India-born little root in his head, trying to drown out Potter’s voice. “I lift the spell, you try to attack me, I kill you.” and that got Draco’s attention back. “Simple as that.”

“Now, and this better get you attention: Option number three,” he waves the three fingers merely two inches away from Draco’s face, and he fumes in silence as well as he can. “Again, I lift the spell off, you act like a decent human being for the first time in you life, and you surrender willingly. Or change sides. Or something. Up to you, as long as it’s, well, legal and technically good.”

They stare at each other for a little while after that, both of them trying to swallow the heavy words coming out of the supposedly Chosen One, the words that were trying to get caught on Draco’s throat. There’s Death hiding in the folds of curtain number one, burgundy and rich just like Aunt Bellatrix’s robes after a kill. There’s stupidity written clearly on the second one. And then there’s this reflected image of freedom behind the third one.

Choices, choices. Draco is so very human, in the end.

“So what it is? Blink once for option number one, twice for either two or three. And I don’t have all day, Malfoy, so think fast.”

Draco blinks once, takes a deep breathe, blinks again and sees Potter’s face light up with a smile; all in one moment, one second, and then, suddenly, he can move again, even before he can see the other boy flick his wand.

“Now that’s a good boy. Great choice.” Potter offers him his hand, and he slaps it away before standing up with as much dignity as he can muster. Potter rolls his eyes. “Well then, let’s shake on it, shall we?” He holds his hand out again, and Draco starts thinking of escape routes as he takes it. There’s something between their palms, an acorn, by the rough feel of it.

Draco frowns, Potter laughs softly, and the tell-tale signs of a Portkey, pull at his navel and tingles in his hand, make his eyes widen.

He’s still holding Potter’s hand when they appear inside a cave, dark and moldy, and he drops it as if it burned him, looking around with what seems to be the beginning of a mild panic attack. He has let himself be lured here out of sheer stupidity, and the words ‘never get caught’, whispered by a snake-like man echo in his ears.

“Lumos,” says Potter, walking to the slightly lighter part of the cave.

“You tricked me!” he yells indignantly, and Potter rolls his eyes as he continues to walk.

“I did no such thing. If you were gullible enough to shake my hand then that’s your own problem.”

“Bullshit! Whatever happened to the ‘Do the right thing, be a good boy’ crap?” he follows Potter, not because the cave is too dark for his eyes, and not because of the frankly disturbing scratching sounds coming from the pitch darkness behind him, but because he wants to keep yelling at Potter.

He almost convinces himself, too.

“Why, funny that you mention it, Malfoy, since we are here for you to learn the right thing to do.” He can almost picture a smirk on Potter’s face, and he stomps his foot on the uneven stone in anger like the child he thought he wasn’t anymore.

“I will not be your hostage, Potter!”

“You’re not. You agreed to surrender, after all.” Potter looks at him over his shoulder, the dim light coming from his wand making his eyes shine in that slightly eerie way that the Slytherin First Years had been afraid of, and Draco wants to shudder a little at the sight of this boy he never actually knew at school - too strong for his own good, too calm, too much in control of himself.

“I’d planned to escape.”

“I know that, Malfoy, I’m not as stupid as you think I am. And you can still escape, later, when you’re done with your lesson.”

Draco runs a bit to catch up, the air feeling thinner than on the surface and making his side burn with exertion. He pushes Potter hard, and the other boy spins quickly to push back, and this Draco can recognize, the want to hurt only appease one’s confusion with such a single-minded action, and as he punches Potter on the temple (Shit, that hurts) he feels a bit of his own immature self come back, the silly boy that he wishes he could go back to. Potter punches back, vicious and angry, and Draco’s lip is bleeding now, but he doesn’t give it much thought as he launches again, and then, then the fucking savior of humanity is back where only his rival used to be, and Potter holds his wand to his throat with the focused expression back on his face.

“I have your wand, you know? And I could break it anytime I want,” he finally says with a raised eyebrow, and Draco, pure-blooded to the core, trembles a bit at the thought of losing it. He nods as Draco stills, lips pressed taut. “Alright. Let’s stop the childishness, then.” He turns, warily, and keeps on walking, feeling the stone with his fingertips as if he was looking for something, his glasses falling down to the tip of his nose every time he leans close to the rocks.

Draco follows him, head held high even as he stumbles more easily that way, hands under his armpits to warm them a bit from the chill deep below the earth. Potter stops, a hand outstretched over some deep marking that look like they could have been made with claws in the darkness, next to a big crack that allows seeing another room. Draco leans a bit and he can see through it that it’s made out of stone. Potter bites his lip, and turns to him again, fumbling with something just under the collar of his robes. He takes some kind of thin chain from under his clothes, and before Draco can say anything he’s too close, slipping the long chain into his head also. They’re both almost adults now, and the chain makes them stand far too close than what would be admitted in society, but Draco is somewhat paralyzed, somewhat needy, so he stays put as Potter turns the chain around, scratching his own neck in the process, until he finds a little hourglass, tiny and perfect, and Draco can’t help but ask “What the fuck is that?” instead of the ‘What the fuck are you doing’ he really wants to say.

“A Time-Turner. Professor McGonagall found him in Dumbledore’s – well, her now, I guess - office, so we think he never did return it to the ministry after Hermione didn’t need it anymore.” He speaks absentmindedly, counting with his fingers with his eyes moving from side to side.

“What? Granger had a Time-Turner? What is--”

“Shut up,” Potter interrupts him, and he turns the hourglass, five times. The world spins, blurred and made out of spots of dark paint form the somber palette of the cave, and he can’t really breathe right when the world reforms in front of his eyes.

He’s back where he started, the same dark stone and mossy smell on his nose, mixed with another, bitter, coppery smell. Draco is just about to ask what that all about when a savage roar coming from the crack in the rocks makes his blood run cold.

Potter takes the chain off his neck, hiding it quickly under his own collar, and Draco has to force his eyes to look away from the stone as Potter talks. “Welcome to the otherside, Malfoy,” he says, hands on his pockets once again. “I do believe you’re already met Professor Lupin.”

----

They listen to the wolf in silence, shivering with every howl, every scratching coming from the other side of the stone wall, Draco with his back to a small rock in the middle of the spacious vault, Potter against the same wall that contains the beast that as much as he tries he can’t identify as the nice professor that had treated him the same as the rest of the students. The wolf claws at the rock through the tiny gap, just a few feet from Potter, and the scratches that had been absent as of yet from this surreal reality five hours earlier (for him, five hours later for the furious werewolf), and he wants to run, wants to get away, wants to Apparate but he can’t, he can’t, can’t, because the Ministry would track him down and he has to stay put for the sake of his mother.

The hours pass, the scent of blood fills the room and makes Draco’s nose itch. The howls are tainted with pain now, and Draco hides his face between his hands. “Why are you doing this?” he mutters, and Potter keeps looking straight ahead, pass him.

“Because you have to know. Because you’ve already seen death, but you have to know tortured life now.” He finally turns to him. “Because I have a use for this.” They fall silent again, and then the screams turn human and bone-chilling.


----

An hour later and Draco feels like crying as he can hear another, younger by minutes, Potter asking Lupin whether he’s all right through the wall, and he hears Lupin’s broken voice saying he’s not to worry.

The Potter on his side stands up and gestures him to follow. They don’t say anything as they reach the place they had first arrived at.

“Do you live with Snape?” Potter asks out of nowhere, and he sighs at Draco’s frown.

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Do you, or do you not live with Snape?” Draco looks away, but nods after a few moments. “Good. Then, your first task for the Order is to learn the proper way to brew Wolfsbane.” he says with his arms crossed against his chest, chin up.

“Wait, I didn’t agree to anything, and even if I had, I can’t do it, as you already must know, you bloody Chosen One!

“Your mother will be taken to a safe-house. I can’t guarantee there won’t be a trial, but at least she won’t be killed.”

And there, Potter suddenly has the upper hand, and the last of his worries is gone and he knows he should accept it, because he’s smart enough to see an opening, a way to escape the Lord that he had once idolized and that now terrifies him. Then there’s Lupin’s screams as he turned human again, Potter’s own voice thick with fear and worry, and on the other side, his own pride that has never really gotten him anything good.

He looks away. “Fine,” he spits the word, furious at himself.

Potter allows himself a little smile. “Alright. You’ll be meeting me here in two weeks. We will know if you try to betray us, so don’t you dare try something funny.”

He hands Draco his wand, and the pale-haired boy closes his eyes for a second at the familiar feel on his hands.

“I know you can’t Apparate, so…” he leaves the words handing in the air, and he comes close again. Draco is suddenly scared by the urge of leaning in, and he just stands there, awkward and breathing hard. Potter slips something into his pocket, and Draco reaches down to touch it still looking into Potter’s eyes. An acorn, once again.

The pull on his navel surprises him more than it should have, and Potter’s face blurs and fades before he can blink.