Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ Fu Inle ❯ inle. again ( Chapter 2 )

Fu Inle
Again, see preface for warnings and disclaimer.
Again, I don’t own anything, and I warned you.
Chapter 2: inle, again

He jolts awake, gasping for breath. Pain wracks his ribs spreading as each breath makes him move. The cloth against his bare skin sends every nerve ablaze. Silence takes over where the noise had once been. This place is nowhere near normal. No trace of spent magic rests in the air. It doesn’t have the stale odor of anything that his father had used and then abandoned. It’s cold, long since abandoned by those who know what magic is. A creak of springs groans on furniture next to him. There is a grumble of someone who is still sleeping. Draco struggles to link a few thoughts together.
No, I’m not with anyone who serves the dark lord. They wouldn’t leave their house this free of magic. They wouldn’t let themselves sleep around me either, no matter how much I’m hurt or helpless.
His eyes refuse to open. His limbs are lead. The pain spreads on it’s round trip to his body.
An alarm makes him jump. Well, flinch really. Not enough movement for one to consider it a jump. There is a grumble from the one beside him.
Who is that? I recognize the voice from somewhere…
The alarm is shut off; the radio’s song ceases mid-verse. The person hums where the song let off. The faint tenor voice is so quiet and gentle, as if to make up for any mistakes that the clock had made.
Draco can hear the end table drawer open and close. The voice pauses for just an instant to sit on his bed.
Fire across every centimeter of skin makes the young blond wince. The humming stops completely, the voice’s owner holds his breath. He lets it out slowly.
Whoever it is doesn’t like me hurt…that rules out half of the world, and a majority of the other half, too.
A gentle hand presses a bottle to his mouth. The glass provides cool relief to aching lips. As if by instinct, Draco parts them. Cool, but bitter, potion flows past chapped lips to a sore throat. Even the simple act of swallowing contributes to the ache and fire that consumes him.
I can’t do this. Why can’t I just die? Things would have been so much simpler. Now I have to deal with it all again. Why wouldn’t God let me die? I can’t do this. I can’t. Please, God, let me end this. Have this person kill me. Forgive me if I kill myself. I don’t care. I can’t. I won’t put up with that again. Not my pere. Non. Merci...
Tears start to flow past closed lids. Heartache and bad memories are quickly taking the place of physical pain.
Thoughts of the dark lord’s kiss, so much like his father’s, make him sick
The stranger brushes a stray piece of hair away. The hands are young and gentle, but it does nothing to calm a now panicking Draco.
I was wrong. It is one of them. A death eater with a debt to my father. He must be using me to pay his debts before he’ll let me die. I don’t think that I’ll be able to keep my sanity with any more torture.
He flinches away as this stranger tries to touch him again.
“I’m glad you’re not yelling anymore.”
The voice is so low, barely audible even in this silence.
“I can’t stand hearing you like that, Draco. You need to get up. You need to tell me what you’re saying, and what we can do to help.”
Potter?
If he had the ability to speak, the word would have been spoken at the moment of recognition. Now, all he can do is let the question rest in his brain.
“I just want you to wake up. Please, Draco? You can insult me, curse me, but I know that you aren’t bad. Be alright…”
Why does he care? I’m no hero. I’m not the perfect little golden boy like him. I’m wrong. I have accepted that. He should kill me while he has the chance.
Potter’s form moves on the mattress beside him. The pain is dulled now, at least.
He gave me a painkiller? Are they planning to torture me?
He can feel the warm breath on his forehead, moving light blond strands. So softly, it could be imagined, Potter’s lips touch his forehead.
I guess I’m already insane then. Potter doesn’t want me dead? Oh well. I can’t believe that it’s with him of all people, though. My imagination should have at least come up with something plausible. Then again, if I am insane, it wouldn’t have to make sense.
He can feel the warmth and breath of the face hovering just above his own.
Or maybe I have died and this is hell or purgatory.
The chapped lips of the former Gryffindor seeker meet his own. It’s a small kiss, but a kiss nevertheless.
Then again I don’t suppose hell would be this gentle. If it weren’t for that being Potter, I would assume it was heaven.
Sleep longs to come again, to whisk him away to things that he wants buried.
I guess Potter could find a spot in heaven, if I could. Or I’m not dead. Right now insanity seems the most likely.
His thoughts are fading fast. One last full thing comes before he passes out.
I could think of worse things than death or madness.
Darkness, again, takes full control.


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