Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  J.K.R is God. Don't sue, I'm broke from watching the movie 7 times already. I plead temporary insanity.

Author's note
Special thanks to Elise for being the bestest muse ever. :) I'm rather stuck in my writing now so the next chapter might never happen. *points to Kissaki* Blame her, it's all her fault that Harry/Snape makes sense to me now. :P Dedicated to all at #malfoymanor too: Krissy, Libby, Ivy, Kickflaw, Morrigan, etc :)

Dragons exist only in fairytales

Part 1

By Altricial

       

Just one more. One more fare to make my night.

Been driving around in the blasted rain for ages, picking up random strangers stranded in the rain and depositing them back to their safe little havens behind those white picket fences. Perfect people living their perfect lives. They tell me all about it, the pristine excellence of what lies behind the bleached picket fences. And I pretend to listen, to be impressed, because they need to brag and I need the extra tips. I'm almost out of weed.

Heh, listen to me, sounding pathetically bitter at the age of 30. Isn't that the supposed "prime" of a men's life? I'm at my prime all right, not a care in the world, not a burden to bear, not a home to belong, living each day earning solely enough to buy my crack and fags.

I shouldn't even be granted the right to be jaded. I was given a chance at my very own white picket fence, wasn't I? Yeah, that fence and a pair of silver greys, recurring theme in the nightmares that plagued me deep into the swirling, endless nights.

The things I see when I close my eyes are enough to make a grown man cry. But I don't. Not because I can't but because I know I will never stop if I do. Tears pronounce the finality and reality of what will never be. I can't, I just can't put a full stop on my once-upon-a-time. And so I refuse to cry, letting the anguished denial force the tears back into me. Years and years of unshed grief saturating a broken heart.

Maybe that's why my heart always feels so heavy.

Everyone has their half-chances at a happy-ever-after. Most grasped at it wildly, some grabbed and missed, but I... I had it served up to me on a precious platinum platter and I threw it all away. But that was then and this is hell. Too late for regrets now, mate. Yet, at times...when I get pissed drunk, like two nights ago, lying motionlessly on the draughty concrete floor of my humble flat... I let the tears come.

Because I allow myself the hope of that one picket fence still waiting for me to walk back in.

I scoffed silently at all that uncalled for sentimentality. No point in reminiscing, is there? Everything that happened in the Wizarding World was nothing but memories, and half of them weren't even worth remembering. But then again, memories are all I have now. And in a way, it is enough. It could've been worse.

Frustrated, I stopped my tatty cab at the nearest cabstand, rolled down the window and dug in my pocket for a pack of fags. A cig break would clear my cluttered mind nicely. I've been itching for a smoke since I dropped the last passenger off. Nice lady that one, generous tips. I fished around the cash compartment and counted the day's earning. £40.25 in 5 hours. Not the best, but not too shabby either. Enough for a couple of joints.

Lately, well actually, for a long time now, it seems as if my life is simply spent between episodes of mindless drunkenness and being stoned to oblivion. It blocks out the nightmares of those piercing grey eyes intensified by the flashes of silver blonde. Blocks them all out. Sometimes I sleep all day and wake up past midnight. It's rather disorienting to wake up to darkness, knowing that you've woken up to yesterday, since today was technically over.

If only I can find a way to wake up to yesterdays.

Good thing I decided to reside in the Muggle World again. I'm just another drugged out vagabond here, with a peculiar scar. No history, good or bad, to dictate how I am expected to live my life. No one to judge me if I decide not to follow my Gryffindor instincts. Embrace the darkness within; being brave and stupid does start taking its toll. No Rita Skeetar here to publish a cover story of The Boy Who Got Stoned.

If only scars from the Wizarding World could be dispose of just as painlessly.

A loud slam of car doors followed by a slight pressure in the backseat jolted me out of my incessant haunting thoughts. A customer. Finally. Taking one last drag of my cigarette, I flung it out of the window into the pounding rain. Without even a backward glance, I mechanically started the engine and asked, "Where to?"

"Malfoy Manor."

I frozed. It can't be. It can't be him. After all these years... It just can't be. But it has to be. That voice. I hear it every single night. I hear it all. That laugh, the moan, that goodbye. That voice. It has to be him. But it just cannot be.

I drove on, albeit shakily, not daring to breathe. It doesn't make sense not to breathe but nothing is exactly making sense at the moment. 'Look into the bloody rear mirror, you git,' I chided but still not daring to move my head. A primal fear overtook me. I might just drop dead from disappointment if it's not him. But it has to be.

For two agonizing minutes, I stared straight on, watching the street lamps sped by like fireflies out of reach, listening to the raindrops tapping on my car top, tapping into buried yesterdays. Slowly, I lifted my gaze and looked into the rear mirror, vaguely aware that my heart appeared to have plummeted to the pit of my gut.

It's him.

Would you catch me if I fall out of what I fell in
Don't be surprised if I collapse down at your feet again
I don't want to run away from this
I know that I just don't need this
Cause I cannot stand still, I can't be this unsturdy
This cannot be happening
Cuz I'm wating for tonight, then waiting for tomorrow
And I'm somewhere in between
What is real, and just a dream.

My world started to spin. Everything and nothing came rushing towards all my senses, in flashes, in slow motion, in psychedelic colours, all at the same motherfucking time. How I managed to not black out on the spot is beyond me. Jumbled, incoherent thoughts flooded my consciousness, overwhelming me with intensified helplessness. Numb, yet not.

Dumbledore's Pensieve would be much appreciated right now.

I have to do something. Anything. I probably should say something, but what? I'm not even sure what or how I'm supposed to be feeling now. Even in my wildest fantasies, meeting him again wasn't a merciful option. Sweet dreams are not made of these. Should I be happy? Angry? Did I even want to see him again? Yes. Of course I do.

He's my white picket fence, after all.

Tentatively, I wetted my lips and tested my vocal cords. Here goes nothing.

"You look familiar."

As I mentally bashed myself for the lack of wit and style, I sneaked a peek at his reflection in the rear mirror. He looks so tired. An involuntary jolt of rage and protectiveness burned within me. He used to be so beautiful. Still is. Always will be. But tainted by the grim of weary defeat, marred by untold melancholy. It's so wrong. He does not deserve to be acquainted with anything less than perfection.

"I'm sure you're mistaken." That voice again. Not even bothering to look up, he continued to gaze blankly at the falling rain, wisps of long pale fringe lingering upon his porcelain jaw line. And he didn't say anything more.

It took a while, but he looked in the mirror, and he glanced at the license for my name. A smile seemed to come to him slowly. It was a sad smile, just the same. And he said,

"How are you, Harry?"

How am I? It's almost laughable. Life's just brilliant, ain't it? Some smart-ass philosopher once said 'life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.' It's not right. It's not right that through the too many miles and the too little smiles, he still has what it takes to put me in a trance, to leave me gasping for air, for release, for salvation. Like a fish out of water, longing for completion. It's just not fair.

"How are you, Draco?"

He looked like he almost laughed but settled for a smirk instead. To say that I missed that smirk is an astronomical understatement. The smirk was tailored exclusively for him, no one else carry it off the way he does. The way it hung off from the corners of his lips on his well-practiced poker face, so nonchalantly yet enticingly infuriating, artfully accentuated by the subtle hint of smarting mockery gleaming within those smoky eyes.

"Fine. Just fine, Harry."

The trademark Malfoy smirk, gone too soon. The very same smirk that tormented me for a good part of my childhood years, which bewilderingly transformed to the source of fuel for the deepest, darkest desire in me that I never knew existed. Yeah, I can still recall that day in Hogwarts 5th year with appalling clarity. A single smirk from him and I knew I was a goner.

I'd fallen in love with my only hate.

"Taking Muggle transport now? Lost your prized broom, have you?" I tapped lightly against the steering wheel, trying to concentrate on the roads while stealing glances at his ashen reflection in the rear mirror.

"Could've asked the same about you." He arched his eyebrow challengingly and added, "England's Golden Seeker."

"I'm not playing Quidditch no more," I gripped the clutch a little harder than necessary. "Quitted. Kicked out. Whichever. You've heard, I'm sure."

"Why?" he asked simply.

Good question, Draco, five hundred points to Slytherin. Too bad I don't have the answer. Well, I do, but it's not for him to know. Truth be told, I was kicked out of the Quidditch team but Oliver was kind enough to save me the humiliation by announcing that I'd quit instead. It was a tough truth to stomach nonetheless, the fact that I've never been a good seeker at all. All those years in Hogwarts; catching snitch after snitch, soaking in pride and glory of Gryffindor's triumph over Slytherin, and jumping through hoops after hoops from the annoying Dark Lord; that wasn't me.

That was Draco.

He was the reason why I flew so well. Some people play by skills, others play by talents. I play by passion. And there is no other person in this universe and the next than Draco Malfoy who can push me to my limits, making me do things I usually can't, making me love things I usually don't. Hell, I didn't even know I was capable of loving someone with such a terrifying lack of self-control.

If he hadn't taunted me with Neville's Remembrall in the 1st year, I'd never have been the youngest seeker in Hogwarts' history. 'Give it here, Malfoy,' I remembered that fateful confrontation. That's not like me. Living with the Dursleys conditioned me to be passive, to watch indifferently from the sidelines, not to be seen nor heard. But Draco, only he can make me live up to my Boy Who Lived reputation. He brought me the fame that he'd hated me for, making his own childhood a living hell.

That's sweet irony at its best.

Of course, I never knew I needed him to soar through the skies and beyond. How was I to know that my sole intent for catching the snitch each and every time was just to get under Malfoy's skin? To beat him, to torment him. To impress him. I joined the England Quidditch team straight after graduation. I was going to fly, flip, and fight, all for a little golden snitch. Then my silver-eyed boy left me. And I realized, there really wasn't a reason to fly for anymore.

Nothing in the skies of boundless promises can bring the one thing I loved and lost, back to me, where he belongs.

Needless to say, I lost interest in Quidditch and pretty much everything else. Not long after, everything else started to lose interest in me too. Ron and Hermione stood by me for as long as best friends could but we soon drifted apart. Because life goes on. For them. Not for me. Life ended the day I lost my reason to fly.

"I don't know," I shrugged. "You don't want to know anyway."

"I guess I don't."

If he was feeling anything at the moment, he certainly didn't show it. That's the way it is with Draco Malfoy. Show nothing. Other than a perpetual sneer that seems to creep its way up the edge of his mouth every time I'm near, Draco spent most of his Hogwarts years looking like nothing ever bothered him. He's the kind of guy who wouldn't laugh in the face of danger; he wouldn't fight either, because, according to him, courage is nothing more than brainless death wishes best left to Gryffindors and well, Malfoys don't laugh.

Emotions are indulgences of the weak; he used to say. It's not easy being a Malfoy. That was something I learnt only too late. Malfoys don't cry. Malfoys don't giggle. Malfoys don't say sorry. But there was one night he did.

Draco Malfoy cried and I was there to see.

Words, playing me déjà vu,
like a radio tune I swear I've heard before.
Chill; is it something real or the magic I'm feeding off your fingers?
Who do you need, who do you love,
When you come undone.

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