Disclaimer: Characters contained in this story are property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Bros, et al. No infringement of copyright intended, no profit being made.
Notes: Contains excerpt from 'Enjoy the Silence' by Depeche Mode. Go and find it somewhere – on Media Player, for instance – and listen while you read. While not essential, it's rather like watching a film with a good soundtrack, and makes the whole thing a lot more affecting/effective.
POV: Harry's
Stop All the Clocks
All I ever wanted,
All I ever needed
Is here in my arms.
Words are very unnecessary;
They can only do harm.
- 'Enjoy the Silence' by Depeche Mode
The clocks upon the wall and the mantelpiece are ticking out of time again. One is slightly faster than the other – the wall, I think – so that with every second the disparity lessens or grows and occasionally – unpredictably – they meet in perfect synchronicity, a single sound where once there were two, like the skipping of a heartbeat. It thuds across the room, incessant and deafening, and fills the silence.
There is a storm gathering outside. The sky is the colour of a healing bruise; yellow and purple and rolling darkly over us. Once, not so long ago, I found you standing by the window in that grubby little flat watching the clouds broil above you, and you looked so peaceful, and I understood. Now you have angry finger-shaped marks above the ridge and trough of your collarbone exactly that colour, which have never seemed to heal, and I can't find it beautiful anymore.
It used to make me feel safe, to lie awake listening to the thunder while you folded yourself around me and breathed into my shoulder. You were my cocoon, then, for me to slip into and become nothing except what you wanted of me. You hated that ability to find in you the peace you couldn't find in me. That's why I liked to watch you as the lightening lit your face and you smiled that beatific smile, glowing with the assurance of your insignificance.
While others dreamed of glory, you wanted only to disappear. And so did I, at least until I was with you.
You murmur wordlessly and I start, your fingers almost slipping from mine. There is no flicker of movement behind your eyelids, though, nor twitch of awakening fingers. By now I should have learned not to hope.
You would hate this, I know, and I think it a thousand times whilst I'm here. I can hear you as I stroke the palm of your hand with my thumb or lay my head upon your chest to make sure of your heartbeat. You laugh at me and hate me – You're sick, Potter – because I have you here, captive, the helpless object of my adoration. Even comatose and silent, you still intoxicate me and I'm sorry to inflict myself upon you.
Two hours I've spent with you today. I'll stay another two, perhaps. Your fingers are cold, you're getting chilled, but I don't want to close the window. You might as well have the thunder; it's all I can give you now.
"We'll both end up dead, Potter," you used to say, "It's only a matter of time."
It shouldn't amuse me that you were wrong. Once, I hated it. I hated youfor lying to me; for living, when you'd promised to be dead. I tried to stay away because I knew you'd remind me of my perversion when all I wanted was for you to be gone, so that I could grieve for you, and for things that never were. But I found you here, broken and bruised, an angel in hospital linen, and I knew I could never leave you again. Not with my sanity intact.
You once told me that was part of your plan; to drive me mad. You said you wanted to look into my eyes and know that you alone had done it, that it was you who had shaped me to your will.
"You'd be mad," you said, "but you'd be mine."
I can't remember whether or not I thought you were joking. But I understand now that desire to control, though you'd scoff at my attempts to achieve it.
"Buying me, Potter, like a whore?" you'd smirk, "How droll."
And I'd have no acceptable answer. I did buy you, though not like a whore – except my whore, by which I mean that you're beautiful and abused and mine to take care of. Though if it comes to it, I'm yours and I'm sure you know it. I'm sure it gives you satisfaction, even in your oblivion, that I'm an eternal whore to Draco Malfoy.
You'd probably laugh, too, at the ease with which I managed to prostitute the both of us. For Harry Potter, the price for anything is rarely very high, even people. I think they were happy to be rid of you, or perhaps they hoped I'd kill you myself once I took you away. Draco Malfoy – Death Eater, Death Eaters' orphan, comatose and vegetating in a darkened corner of St Mungo's – went for one hundred galleons. It didn't take much more to find you a private room in a less-reputable Wizard's institution. So now you're mine.
The thunder seems to have stopped rolling and the lightening has pierced holes in the clouds, making them sieves through which rain is pouring, beating steadily against the open window. A little pool begins to collect on the sill, and I stand to pull the shutter to. I pause to look out over the dull, soggy earth below and feel a sharp kick of longing somewhere inside me. If I can't bear to be parted from you even over this negligible distance – that which lies between the bed and the window – what hope is there for me at all?
I'm aware that my devotion to you has scuppered my chances of regaining a sense of normality in my friendships with the others who, like me, are left. For all the proposed meetings and offers of dinner from Ron and Neville, I have found it easy to invent previous commitments, simply for the reason that I know I will spend the evenings here, having drifted in almost involuntarily to check that you've not woken since my last visit. By now I should have learned not to care.
It's strange that you've become to me almost like a lover, even though it's nearly four years since you last touched me or even looked at me. I spend my spare time with you, to the point that now the invitations have stopped coming and my time is never anything but spare. You are the Yoko to our Beatles; the Cleopatra to mine and Ron's Anthony and Caesar. Have you realised yet that you're stuck with me now, until death do us part? I hope it softens the blow that you've finally managed to drive a wedge between the Gryffindors.
The dusk is drawing in, now, and the shadows falling across your bed are lengthening. I won't climb in with you tonight and hold you, crying into your hair and creasing the sheets. I often imagine I can hear you, feel you trying to push me away: "Don't be so fucking dependent, Potter." Sometimes it's enough to sit with you until midnight, holding your hand, my head resting on your chest so I'll wake up if your heart beat stops.
I don't know how long I'll keep this up, though the past four years suggest I've nothing else better to do. I don't expect to get bored any time soon. It should feel tragic that outside this room there's nothing else I'd rather have than this. Perhaps I'll stay here until I die – we can be an aged Romeo and Juliet and be buried together under a rosebush in the graveyard. It will be beautiful, but with thorns amongst its flowers. It will be white and scented like snow so that no one is ever allowed to forget you. Perhaps we'll have some of the eternity which you were always so obsessed with. I think forever is a timescale I can comprehend, if it means avoiding a lifetime without you.
One day I will have the clocks fixed so that they mark time together. But not just yet. For the moment you will lie here in the broken, irregular silence and I will fall asleep with your knuckles pressed against my lips. For now, this will have to be enough.
This was written in response to everyone who asked for a sequel to Darkshines. Thank you to everybody who took an interest. Feel free to comment this time, too!