HP Fics: arcadia/gloria (Harry/Draco, PG-13/R)
Yes, I said I'd probably never write one of these again didn't I? Oh well, I blame my imagination. Of course, it meant I didn't get 1.05 written but eh.

What follows is a repost and a new fic: back in January I wrote a vaguely Robin Hobb-esque HP fic called arcadia. I was interested in playing with the H/D dynamic in a post-War situation when Draco is the active protagonist, and Harry just sort of sits there and goes "Mm-hm." Besides, I like the idea of Draco being the vaguely good politico who has to convince Harry to come out of self-imposed exile, and it's all wistful and haunting like the beginnings of the Tawny Man trilogy, because I could write a whole essay on the parallels between Harry/Draco and Fitz/Fool.

I called the fic 'arcadia' because I liked the word, and the background behind it. arcadia was sort of the classical rural paradise, the place for honesty and good solid work and people moving lots of hay. Rather like Sussex, probably, but arcadia also comes from the phrase 'et in arcadia ego', which refers to the ideal that even in the rural paradise, there death is. For all his attempts to flee, Harry can't escape that in his own little paradise.

Now, I was watching B5 recently, and the episode 'sic transit vir' stuck out at me cause I love it when people use latin and try to sound clever. I did some reading and found that that episode title is derived from the latin phrase used during the corination of a new Pope - 'sic transit gloria mundi', or thus passes the glory of the world. That one phrase developed into a sequel in my head.

So, first arcadia, so you know what happened, and then gloria, so you know what is happening.

Credit goes to the usual suspects: sarahtales, ashkitty, littlealex, switchknife.

Don't everyone fall all over themselves to rec me now I'm writing H/D again. ;)


arcadia.

The rambling old house was covered in ivy and moss, creeping vines and climbing roses forming an almost impenetrable barrier to the outside world. Not many people came here, now. Not many even remembered it existed. It was a testament to an age gone by, and memories long since forgotten.

The current resident of the house trusted to that; trusted that anyone who knew of Godric’s Hollow was long since dead and buried, just the way he wanted to be. The sign outside had been taken down, as well, and he’d blackened out the windows with charms and spells. The paths had not been swept, and the garden lay untidy, all the beds gone to seed. Inside, he shuffled from room to room like a man old before his time, bent and wearied by age. He avoided the rooms that faced out onto the road; for all his charms, he did not trust them. He trusted little anymore, save for the wolfhound that slept by his bed, and that was because dogs could not lie.

Even then, he only kept Cedric by his side as a reminder of his own humanity, and a concession to his need for company. Even he could not live alone; even if he wanted to, even if he should.

Every Monday he ventured down to the nearby supermarket and got his groceries, cap firmly on his head. It didn’t matter now, really, seeing as the scar had healed itself once everything was over, but he didn’t trust that either, and besides, he was used to the cap by now. The townspeople were used to seeing him round, and there were plenty of people who kept to themselves in and around Bristol. Cedric didn’t rate much of a mention either, as he stayed close and almost underfoot during shopping trips.

It was a quiet, peaceful existence, for a man who’d never known quiet or peace.

And then after six months, Harry came back from a shopping trip, laden with plastic bags, eased himself through the gate at the side of the property, made his way through the tangled growth to the kitchen entrance, slid the key into the door, and found Draco Malfoy sitting in a chair in the kitchen.

“Hello Harry,” the young man said, looking like a spirit of spring in the sad, grey room. “I’ve come to bring you back. The world needs saving again.”

Harry looked at him for a while and did not speak.

“I am serious,” Draco responded, a bit irritated by Harry’s silence. “I wouldn’t have come if I wasn’t.”

“I don’t care,” Harry told him, dumping the shopping on the kitchen table with a rustle of plastic, beginning to unpack things and put them away in the fridge. “I told you to leave me alone.”

“And we did. We did as long as we possibly could.” Draco spoke from behind him, close enough to touch – too close in Harry’s opinion – and he shuffled off towards the pantry, stacking packets of crisps and cans of dog food for Cedric, as the dog eagerly tangled in and out of his legs, knowing damn well what Harry was putting away.

“Couldn’t you have left me alone forever?” Harry murmured, and refused to face him. He opened up one of the upper side cabinets, getting out a glass and filling from the faucet. His hand was shaking as he brought it to his mouth, and Draco saw that quite easily, his own hand wrapping around Harry’s own.

“I missed you too much,” Draco replied, helping Harry lift the glass to his mouth, other hand smoothing under his left arm and resting on his belly.

“Got a funny way of showing it,” Harry swallowed, and took another sip. “‘Please, come back, we’ll make sure you die for us this time.’ Charming.”

“Alright then. We need you. I need you,” Draco insisted, and when he rested his head on Harry’s shoulder, Harry did not shrug him off. Cedric growled, and they both turned to look at him.

“You always were a bad liar, Draco. Even Cedric can tell.”

Draco recoiled at that, chin sharply lifting from its resting place. “Merlin. Is that what you called him?”

“Yes,” Harry retorted bluntly, jaw set. “I suppose you’re going to tell me I live in the past or something, that I dwell too much on what happened, eh? Well, guess who’s trying to drag me back to the past right now. Hermione was right about-”

“Granger’s dead, Harry,” Draco spat. “She’s been dead for three years. Weasley’s dead, Dumbledore’s dead, Lupin’s dead. The world needs a hero and he’s taken a leave of fucking absence.”

“I never wanted to be a hero. I couldn’t have a life, or friends – or a boyfriend! – without wondering who was going to try and kill me, or them.”

“Well, you don’t get a bloody choice, do you? You’ll always be Harry Potter, no matter how many times you run and hide.” Draco’s voice was cold and taut, just the way that Harry remembered it from fights he’d always pretended he’d forgotten.

“What if I don’t come back?” Harry asked, after a long pause.

“Then I’ll have to be the hero,” Draco told him, evenly, and stood his ground.

Harry almost smiled. “And how will you go at that?”

Draco looked fit to hit something. “I’ll die, probably,” he said curtly, and made an offhand gesture.

“Probably,” Harry said, nodding slowly, “heroes usually do. And this is what you’re asking me to come back to.”

“Yes. No.” Harry kept looking at him, that even steady gaze driving his frustration into anger. “Please!”

“You’re only doing it to save your precious skin.”

“No.”

“You’re still a terrible liar.”

“Alright then so I don’t want to die!” Draco bellowed, the words running into each other as his voice echoed through the mundane little kitchen. “Is that such a sin? You’re dying here already, or as good as.”

“So I might as well die for the greater good, is that it?”

“You might not die,” Draco said.

“But I might.”

“I might get killed by a Muggle bus on the way back,” Draco retorted, clearly getting irritated. “Are we going to sit here all day and play what if and twenty questions, Potter? There’s a world to save!”

“Not my world any more.”

“Oh, don’t be so bloody morose.”

“Did you ever love me?” Harry asked suddenly, and Draco breathed in sharply in response, as if he’d just been hit.

“Yes. I still do.”

“But you recognise that sacrifices need to be made,” Harry turned to face Draco, looking him right in the eye. To his credit, Draco did not flinch.

“There was a reason why I didn’t get put in Gryffindor, Harry.”

“I suppose so,” Harry observed. “Draco?”

“Yes?”

“Remember how much you envied me? You wanted to be me.”

“I remember.”

“Do you still want that?”

Draco didn’t answer.





gloria.

Harry Potter saved the world again at four twenty two p.m. on a Sunday afternoon. It was in retrospect a relatively simple matter; he got dressed up in a slightly tattered old suit, insisting that he had to dress for the occasion, set a much loved tweed trilby on his head, tucked his wand into his pocket and emerged from the rambling building he lived in. He was careful to dislodge as little of the ivy and creeping vines as he could, and left the small cast iron gate swinging in the wind behind him.

He did have a certain image to live up to, and that image said that he was dead as far as most people knew and Godric’s Hollow long abandoned.

Cedric had enough food and water to last several days, and all the windows and doors were shut – he was as safe and secure as Harry could possibly make him, and that was how things were between the man and his dog.

By three-oh-five he was walking along the streets of Bristol, and by three-twelve he’d apparated to the distant field in Sussex where yet another final battle was about to take place.

A small ring of Ministry personnel waited for him there, huddled together in thick coats and gloves against the January chill. They looked at Harry as if they thought he might freeze, and maybe he should have. Harry gave them a thin smile, knowing that in days to come they’d speak of The Young Man Who Didn’t Feel The Cold. They were probably also quite surprised he wasn’t dead, but then again, so was he.

Draco wasn’t there of course; Harry had left strict instructions about that, which was why Draco was probably sitting anxiously in Somerset and sipping lemon tea to attempt to get rid of the knot in his gut. It wouldn’t work, but that really wasn’t the point, and knowing Draco he’d be at Malfoy Manor in his mother’s old parlour.

The young Malfoy had a thing for self-recrimination and punishment; the tea cup would be his mother’s finest china, and lemon was always Narcissa’s favourite blend. It was her only tendency towards the plebeian, and Draco would remember that as he remembered everything else.

The bunch of Ministry people didn’t speak to him, although one did make a lame attempt at a wave. Harry just looked at him until he stopped. He needed no consideration, no adulation; he was just there to do his job, as were they. To watch and record and fall back if anything went wrong.

There was a small hut on one side of the field; it looked like mud brick, white washed and cast iron roof. Harry just jammed his trilby on tighter so the wind wouldn’t blow it off as he strode towards the hut. One brief look over it just before he went inside, and clearly dastardly evil had lost a lot of its street cred if these were the digs it could find nowadays.

Wand at the ready, Harry Potter entered the small daubed lean-to at three-twenty. He emerged from the hut at four twenty five p.m., a little shaky and a little scuffed around the edges. His trilby had disappeared and no-one was quite willing to ask where it had gone. The five or so Ministry personnel waited on the edge of the field, wands at the ready, and didn’t blink when Harry Potter doffed a hat that was no longer there before he Apparated away.

He could have been possessed or under Imperius, but they doubted that, and even so they knew they couldn’t have stopped him. After all, Harry was supposed to be dead, and this technically never happened, so the five figures just disappeared as well, and the day was lost to history.

Harry Potter arrived home at four-thirty-five p.m. on a Sunday afternoon having just saved the world, and made himself a cup of tea. He made sure that Cedric was alright, and looked through the pantry to see what he could rustle up for dinner. After another look at his dog, pulled out a stack of Post-It Notes from a drawer, cribbed a pen from somewhere and wrote out in a messy, basic hand “Tomorrow: Wash Dog.”

The night went both slow and fast, with Harry settling in to watch Sunday night telly behind a plate of spaghetti bolognaise. He checked his watch every now and then, and the ticking of the clocks lined up along the wall made him drift off to sleep. When he woke up Monday morning it was eight-sixteen a.m., and someone was singing badly in the kitchen.

The dishes had already been cleared.

Harry rubbed the cobwebs from his eyes, found his slippers, and trundled into the kitchen, where Draco Malfoy was the one singing off key, and looking somewhat anxiously at the pile of dishes in the sink, a bottle of detergent clasped by a pale hand that was never as well manicured as he wanted it to be.

It was eight-twenty when Harry showed him how to do the dishes the Muggle way, and eight-twenty-five when he asked Draco what he was doing here.

“What are you doing here?” he asked Draco, drying plates as the young man handed them to him, and set them aside to be put away later.

Draco nodded to the suitcases that stood by the kitchen door. Harry had seen them when he came into the room, but having Draco acknowledge them made them real. “I thought I’d move in,” he said simply, and handed Harry a fork.

“Did you now?” Harry remarked, and placed the fork with all the other cutlery that was waiting to be shelved.

“I did. After all, I’m the only one who knows you’re here. Seeing as how I’m now here with you, you can make sure no one learns your secret.”

“I could kill you,” Harry told him as if they were discussing the weather, and moved to start putting the kitchen things away. Tick went the clocks in the background, tick tock and it was eight-thirty-seven now.

“You could,” Draco said, and didn’t miss a beat. “You could very easily, and I might even be good for the gardenias out back. But I don’t think you will.”

“I do things Muggle style here. You’ll go mad.”

“Have you seen the way they’re doing things back home now?” Draco enquired tartly, and instantly regretted it. “No, I suppose you haven’t. Anyway, there’s barely enough difference to piss over.”

Harry blinked, and pushed his glasses a little more securely up his nose. “Right. You can wash Cedric tomorrow then.”

This was how Draco moved into Godric’s Hollow, and how Harry did not stop him.

As promised, on the first day Harry got Draco to wash Cedric, although Draco ended up the wetter after that encounter. On the second he put bleach rather than washing powder in with the laundry and ruined a load of washing. On the third he burnt supper, and they were up till all hours cleaning the oven out. On the fourth he cut himself while shaving, and tried not to complain. Harry had all the mirrors covered off with cloth; those he couldn’t remove completely at any rate, and when Draco pointed to his bleeding face, Harry airily commented that it didn’t take long for one to learn to shave without a mirror. On the fifth Draco managed to succeed with dinner, but he clumsily asked why every room in the drafty old house had more than one clock ticking away, and Harry watched B.B.C. One for the rest of the night while pointedly not talking to him. Draco didn’t raise the subject again of course; he’d been brought up to know that the customs of a household ran deeper than any law, and that was doubly so when you used to fuck the host. As recompense Draco took Cedric for a walk on the sixth day, and nearly ended up with a fine not knowing how to clean up behind him, and on the seventh Draco finally cracked under the constant sound of time passing, and grabbed one round, tubby clock from a bookshelf to hurl it at the wall.

Harry moved like a mad thing, pinning him up against the wall and taking the clock gingerly, so gingerly out of Draco’s hand to set it back on the bookshelf where it just kept ticking along.

“Why do you have so many clocks, Harry?” Draco asked quietly, and picked himself up from off the wall. “You only had a few last time I was here; I certainly didn’t notice the noise.”

“You came back,” Harry told him, and sank slowly onto the couch. “And the world came back and I wasn’t a part of it any more no I wasn’t. I knew that sooner or later I’d help you, and then there would be something else and something else. I couldn’t escape it any more, so I wanted to capture it. Measure it. I could be dead in a second; I will be dead in a second. Already am dead, depending on how you look at it.” He chuckled slightly, and drew his knees up under his chin. “A second is all we have, Draco. I wanted to be sure of the time.”

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day, Draco thought, but he didn’t dare say it. “And the mirrors?” Draco asked, and it was nine-oh-eight p.m.

“I didn’t want to see myself,” Harry murmured, face pressed into his thighs. “Not after what I’ve done. No. I am not that person. I am no general, I am no killer. I never did the wrong things for the right reasons and I did not do them again for you and the world, although not necessarily in that order.”

“Harry, no-one’s ever asking you to-”

“I’m not Voldemort,” Harry said, and his head came up so fast Draco briefly wondered if he got whiplash as a result. “He wanted me to be, you know. I could feel him. I understood everything he did, and I knew he was right, but I had to kill him. I had to kill him so I wouldn’t turn into him, although by killing him I lost who I was. The reflection in the mirror isn’t me; it's him. I’m older than I appear to be and alone and I have a dog called Cedric and the name means nothing and I buy my groceries between nine-twenty a.m. and nine-fifty a.m. every Thursday morning and the world has passed me by.”

He started shivering despite the fact it wasn’t actually cold, and Draco moved across the floor to him, slow and obvious, careful not to make any sudden moves. He had seen enough of the War and its aftermath to have a vague idea how to tread here, and Draco Malfoy had been made cautious by the War.

“You remember who I used to be, don’t you?” Harry asked him softly, face turned up to see Draco as he moved forward, and his eyes were so big behind his glasses.

“I do,” and Draco sat besides him on the old and faded couch, sure to slip one arm around his waist.

“You always were my best mirror,” was the sleepy reply. “Better than any glass.”

Draco got him up to bed – they weren’t sleeping in the same bed, it wasn’t the right time and Draco didn’t want to move too quickly – but he undressed Harry as gently as he could, and was surprised when Harry’s hands snaked themselves up his shirt to cup his face, and pull him down for a slow, languid kiss, tongue moving slyly between Draco’s lips to map his mouth so thoroughly Draco wondered if Harry was trying to memorise the shape, the taste, the texture of teeth and jaw and palate, and perhaps he was at that.

Still clothed, Draco settled himself in the small cot he’d made up against a wall, and pulled the blanket over his body. There was always tomorrow, and the last syllable of recorded time would not wait.

The next morning Draco rose (at seven-fifty-seven a.m.), showered (at eight-oh-four to eight-oh-nine a.m.) at which point Harry joined him and they continued to shower together until eight-forty-three. That morning Draco cooked breakfast: eggs, bacon, toast, things even he could find were not too easy to ruin and he had it on the table at nine-eleven.

“I never answered your question,” Draco remarked as he was carting away the dishes, and he didn’t need to turn to see Harry pressed lightly against his side.

“What question?”

“About whether I wanted to be you or not.”

“Oh, I think you have,” said Harry, and kissed his ear to end the conversation.

Precisely one hour and twelve minutes later, and they were enjoying tea and biscuits in front of the telly. Harry had explained what Sainsbury’s was, and was now attempting to make a good showing of what exactly Basil Brush was, but Draco seemed distracted.

“You get used to the clocks after a while,” Harry told him, honest and open and eager, and Draco nodded once in response.

“I expect I shall, after a while.”