Title:  Dissonance (Love Ridden 15)

Author: Romie

Archive:  anywhere.  In fact, I'd appreciate it.  Let me know if it's convenient.

Rating:  PG

Pairing:  prelude to Harry/Draco.

Spoilers:  none

Disclaimers:  Rowling is God.

Warnings:  This series features a same-sex romantic pairing in inexplicit situations.  If this isn't your cup of tea, then go make yourself some cocoa.

Summary: Harry tries again to apologize.

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Whenever Dudley was upset about something, Aunt Petunia would buy him a new toy.  It was generally expensive, often redundant, and rarely appreciated.  Even though it was never her fault that he was angry, and even though he was never placated by her offerings, (he far preferred breaking them into small pieces,) she persisted.  I think she equated gifts with love, and perhaps had some romantic idea that love fixes all.

 

(It's likely that I'm giving her too much credit, but she *is* the closest thing I have to my mum.  That's not to say that I think of her as my mother, but rather that she is my mother's sister and therefore my only solid reference point.  Since I can't imagine that my mother was anything like Aunt Petunia, I've gotten into the habit of assigning Petunia depths which are not strictly in evidence.  It occasionally reaches the point where I have her painted as an artistic soul trapped in a repressive marriage.  Then I talk to her again and remember that she's fairly horrible.)

 

I promised myself that when I had children, I would never do the same, would never try to buy their affection with *things*.  If they were irate, we'd discuss it calmly and rationally - or *not* calmly, and *not* rationally, but at least with words and actions instead of objects.  I guess I haven't technically broken that promise, since I don't have any kids, but what I'm doing now skirts dangerously close.  I'm sitting in Draco's room, on Draco's bed, trying to charm the tasseled drapes so that they'll dance whenever he plays music.

 

(This is greatly complicated by the fact that I'm asleep on my feet; after Pomfrey was done with me this morning, I had a full load of classes.  No chance to catch a nap until just now - and instead, I'm here in Draco's room because I knew he wouldn't be here and I had to take the opportunity when I could.  (He's doing potions with Snape - the one class they can't hold here in his room.  Too much equipment to transport; too many protective spells on the lab that would have to be transferred.))

 

(There's a word for what you are, Potter, and that word is "stalker.")

 

It's a stupid gift, and I know that.  Silly.  But that's almost the point.  Any *thing* that Draco wants, he has enough money to buy on his own.  Any enchantment he wants, he has the skill to enact.  All I can offer him is laughter - which I suspect is what he needs most anyway.  I wish I could just talk to him, could offer my sympathy.  But it's obvious from the pain in my jaw that we are incapable of communicating on the level we need to.  I'd say we speak two different languages, but I suspect it goes beyond that - I suspect that we're two different *species*.

 

(When you approach a human with your palms held out from your sides, the message is clear: you are holding no weapons.  Approach an animal with the same posture, and you're making yourself appear larger, more threatening.  In every single human culture, a smile is a gesture of friendship and goodwill; to an ape, you are showing your willingness to bite.  Blowing in a horse's nostrils gives him your scent, reassuring him; do the same to a cat, and you're hissing.)

 

God, I'm exhausted.  It's not just the lack of sleep over the past few nights, although that certainly doesn't help.  It's the constant high level of careening emotions, more stressful than even the triwizard tournament.  Worries heaped upon worries, overlapped and intertangled and without promise of respite.  On a macro level, I have the same problems everyone else does: Voldemort, exams, the rapid approach of graduation.  On a micro level, I have these feelings for Draco that I didn't want, didn't plan for, and don't know for certain how to deal with.  That I still haven't told my best friends about.

 

All of that's not so bad.  But now, with the capture of Narcissa. . .  The situation is completely bipolar - in Draco's room, in his world, it's a cause for fear and sorrow; out in the halls of Hogwarts, it's a decadent party.  I can't reconcile the jarring dissonance.  It's as though I'm a yew bow, and an indecisive archer keeps pulling at my strings, sawing back and forth, bending me at top and bottom until I arc so far I fear I'll snap.  My neck is so tense that it's an effort just to look sideways.

 

My spell just failed for the. . . Damn, I don't even know how many times I've tried.  Lost count.  I should probably stop after a few more attempts, as Draco should be back soon and I'd rather be well away by the time he returns.  It's frustrating, because this is an *easy* spell, and I have a knack for charms; I have trouble accepting that I'm presently inept.

 

I stand and run through a few quidditch stretches, trying to loosen my muscles, trying to free up the blood flow to my brain, trying most of all to stay *awake*.  And that's when I see it peeking out from under the edge of the bed, almost hidden by the drapes.  It's a small, pale crescent of wood, delicate as a lady's hair comb, but without the teeth to hold it steady.  I can't place it, but a lingering familiarity keeps me fixated; I *know* this fragment, this holy relic, this mona lisa carving.  I turn it over and over again in the palm of my hand, feeling the smooth curves, fingering the petite holes.  I feel an inordinate need to protect it, to hold it close and keep it safe.  This mystery should be cradled close.  Treasured.  Loved.

 

(I apologize.  When I'm this sleepy, I get overly sentimental.  Well, that or testy - the odds are about the same.)

 

Back to charming.  Three more tries, and then I'm out of here whether it works or not.  Too dangerous to stay, and I *have* to rest.  I sit back down - determined; focused; alert.  I restart the complex patterns, wand slicing and interlacing in fluid lines, dancing in the rhythm I want the tassels to mimic.

 

All the time, I clutch the sliver in my right hand, holding it more tightly than even the wand.