Pre-Fic Rantings and a Sprinkle of Disclaimer: This is a bit of a foil ficlet to 'I C E'. I wrote it somewhere between finishing that, so it's very random, but written in the same style (Harry POV, this time).
Man, I love Latin. ^ ^
PS: I apologize ahead of time if I've got the specs on Draco's wand wrong... it's been a while since I read the series all the way through...

Harry Potter, the universe, the characters and everything else contained therewithin does not belong to me. I, for one, am glad we cleared that up. I was beginning to get worried.













Whispers in the Dark
Izzy Girl






Between my sixth and seventh year, the Dursley's decided that I'd far overstepped myself. I'd become too bold, in their opinion, and as a form of humbling punishment, I was locked back into the cupboard.

There wasn't much I could do about it, I suppose. I didn't get any owls that summer, and no surprise visits. I spent most of my days holed up underneath the stairs, realizing early on that I would have an easier time of it if I didn't show my face. I read, mostly, and spent countless hours trying to ignore the fact that I'd outgrown my prison years ago.

I was never afraid of the dark as a child. How could I be? I lived in darkness. In fact, I always found the abscence of light somewhat comforting. The cupboard was my personal haven (and hell) after all.

It's pitch black at night. You can't even make out the lines of light around the doorway. It's also oppressively silent. Well, aren't all small, closed off, dark spaces like that? I could never hear Dudley's whining in there. I couldn't even make out Uncle Vernon's bellowed newspaper commentry over the breakfast table: "What does the mayor think he's doing!? The police should be focusing on protecting the people who pay their taxes! If you end up living in the slums, it's your own fault for being a lazy bum with no education! It's outrageous."

"Oh yes, dear. You're absolutely right!"

"We WORK for our money, Goddamnit. It's not fair that it all goes to those too stupid to even find work!"

It makes me sick even thinking about it now.

When I was younger, they used to force me into the closet when I was in trouble. They'd latch the door and scream at me through the thick, wooden divider. I would lean my head back leisurely, close my eyes and laugh silently to myself.

"I can't hear you..." I would singsong quietly, content in my secret mirth.

Unfortunately, unless you're trying especially to keep your voice down, the cupboard is an excellent conductor of sound. I had a terrible flu when I was eight years old and was actually given my own room for a week (much to Dudley's aggrivation) because the rest of the family was unable to sleep with my throaty coughs echoing around the house.

I'm a light sleeper. The Dursley's are anything but.

It was early August and well into morning when I shot up in my bed, heart beat pouding and drenched with cold sweat to the sound of someone sobbing near the foot of my bed. I froze and moved catiously, reaching for my wand (there was no way the Ministry was going to care about one small lumos spell. Fred and George had done far worse and never been expelled).

"Lumos..." I whispered. At the sound of my voice, the sob stopped abrutply. I leaned forwards to peer through the dim, orange light at the face staring back at me.

Your eyes were red rimmed and distraught. How gray could ever appear distraught is beyond me, but the color of your irises reminded me of that eerie, damp calm after a rainstorm when the sky seems as if it's embarassed about it's momentary display of weakness. Your white-blonde hair, for once, wasn't slicked back and it fell innocently past your eyebrows, strands of it slipping down your regal, aristocratic nose. I had never realized how long your hair actually was.

You gasped sharply and gripped the matress tightly, knuckles growing white. You looked as if you had been praying when I sat up.

Draco Malfoy praying? That's a mental image both ridiculous and saddening. Who would a Death Eater pray to? No God, surely?

Never the less, your head had been bent and your hands folded underneath your sharply angled chin. Beside you laid a magicked knife and your wand.

Thirteen inches. Mahogany. Dagon Heart String. Reasonably thick and almost threateningly rigid. You'd forced me to memorize that in those fleeting moments, my back pressed up against the wall and your wand digging into my heart. Your fingers twined my hair gently, almost lovingly, as you whispered: "This will be the wand that takes your life, Harry dear."

I approached you slowly, aware of how your eyes followed my every movement, as if they could sense the twitching in my knuckles. I grabbed your wrist.

"Draco..." I said softly. You raised your chin proudly, but the effect was ruined by redness of your tear-streaked cheeks, "Were you going to kill me?"

I was surprised at my own voice... the calmness, the understanding.

Well, of course my lover was here to kill me! Why else would he come to see me in the middle of summer vacation?

You looked terrifyed as you slowly began to nod, then shake your head, breath growing choppy and frantic again, "I... yes... no... I..." you hung your head, hands, arms and chest shuddering, "I... don't know..."

I dropped my wand and the lumos spell faded. I still held your wrist and could hear your distressed breathing. I imagined that I could outline the steep ridges of your gaunt face through the darkness, but the truth was we were equally blind when your fingers shot to my face, searching for my lips.

You kissed me long, sweet and tortured there in the darkness of my cupboard under the stairs. You kissed me and nothing more. For a few long moments there was only the drag of your lips against mine and the quiet murmer of your broken voice into my cheeks.

You spoke Latin, I think. Of course, being from a noble family they would have taught you that. After all, it is the official wizarding language. I didn't understand it, but the sound of the words, spoken with a thick, wet accent, chilled my spine.

"Devotus..." (Devotion, or loyalty at least...)

"Anima..." (Wasn't it the old word for... soul?)

"Corpus..." (It sounded far too close to corpse for my comfort...)

"Fractus..." (A broken or fractured bone? Broken?)

"Excisio..." (Makes me think of... cutting... tearing... crumbling and... destruction...)

And at the end, you said softly, and nearly sweetly: "Avada Kedavra."

I pulled away hastily and clutched at my heart, realizing in the dark, you very well may have broken away to grab at your wand still resting beside your pointed elbow.

I was still alive, so I reached for you, only to find that you had gone. A thin strip of moonlight fell across my face and I turned my head to see your slender figure outlined by moonlight.

You ran your hand through your hair and tucked both your wand and knife inside your robe. I could see the snake's tail of your Dark Mark curled about your wrist and you sighed dramatically against the muted night.

"I'll be going then, Potter..." you spared me only the barest of glances through slitted November-colored eyes. Your nose was raised and you were fighting desperately to regain your clam, collected, slightly superior, demanour.

I smiled weakly and you dissapeared in a flutter of black cloak and blonde hair, leaving me alone to ponder your whispers in the dark...