InsaneJournal

H/D fic: The Power of Words
Title: The Power of Words
Author: bemygoodday
Beta: 4am_secret
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,828
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Warnings: There's a wee bit of angst
Disclaimer: I do not own. I simply play.

Summary: The Plan has gone wrong and Harry is left alone to contemplate Draco and the power of words.




Harry watches the clock in the pristine kitchen, his heart pounding faster than the ticking of the second hand. He's never cared so much about time before in his life. As the time passes his fear rises. After a few hours, he figures that The Plan failed. After a few more hours pass, he begins to believe he is the only one left alive. Harry has no-where left to go. This was supposed to be the final battleground. This was supposed to be the end of it all. Harry turns his head away from the clock, slowly because his neck is sore. He fixes his gaze on the cupboard under the stairs. He isn't sure when he began nodding his head in silent affirmation, but now that he notices he's doing it, he stops. He really doesn't know what he's agreeing to anyway. A few hours later sitting in the cramped space, he realizes he's nodding again, and decides that this is the end, just not how he imagined it.

He reckons that it could have been a brilliant plan. He now sees that all plans work that way. How they all have the potential to be genius, until they fail. It was Draco's idea, so Harry readily agreed. Harry used to think that Draco would never have any good ideas, until Draco, who wasn't Draco yet, but still Malfoy at this point, crept into Harry's bed one night. It took awhile, but then Harry had his first night of peaceful sleep and woke to an arm wrapped around his waist and Draco, who was Draco now, and not Malfoy anymore, asked him if he slept well. Draco, Harry decided, had some very good ideas. Harry wishes he hadn't agreed with Draco, about The Plan, not about... those other things.

Harry remembers listening to Draco whisper his ideas until they fell asleep. He supposes that it was why the sorting hat had put Draco in Slytherin; his ideas. He's in awe of Draco's ability to make even the most dangerous of his ideas seem safe, foolproof. He finds himself tempted to laugh at the thought. Foolproof. They must have all been fools. Harry has the sudden urge to kick something, but he's too tired to oblige.

Harry wondered where The Plan went wrong. He figures it couldn't have been when they kidnapped Petunia, no, he knew that would be the easiest part. He had wanted to be there for it, if only to see her face, but he wasn't the one to have to do it. In fact, Harry thought, he wasn't the one to have to do anything, save for show up and wait. He's been waiting for so long that he's sure he's the only one alive now. He wonders if his wand was able to help Draco even just a little bit before he died, because maybe if it did, Harry wouldn't be so angry about not having it now.

Harry contemplates the power of words. He remembers the night when he told Draco he loved him. He remembers being angry that Draco hadn't said so back. Instead, he was told, that for a wizard, Harry was shockingly oblivious to the power of words. Draco refused to sleep with him that night. Harry, in his outrage, promptly found Ginny and snogged her silly. Ron wasn't there any longer to have anything to say about it, which he supposed was why Ginny let him. Draco was right, he decides.

Harry thinks about how Draco wouldn't come to his room at all after that night. Then, he had wondered if the itch he got in his throat when he thought about it was a curse Draco put on him to get him back for Ginny. Now, he clears his throat against the ever persistent itch, but knows it isn't Draco's doing. He also notices that it is often accompanied with a dampness in his eyes.

Harry tries to remember the last time he saw Draco's face. It wasn't that long ago, but Harry's glasses are broken, and his hindsight is shite. It was fast. He had worried that Draco wouldn't be safe, his wand had been broken the previous week -Draco's wand, not his- so he pressed his wand into Draco's hand and told him he'd get it back, when they met- where he's waiting. Draco was trying to tell him something, but there was too much noise and confusion. Harry thinks he remembers the shapes Draco's mouth made, thinks it looked like I love you, but Draco knows the power of words and Harry feels that itch in his throat again and decides he's spent long enough thinking about Draco.

Harry watches the spiders in the corner angling his head so that he doesn't need to strain his eyes in order to see through the last dangling piece of lens on his frames. He wonders if maybe they are dead. The pain in his neck from holding the angle to see the possibly dead spiders tells him he lives, but possibly not the spiders. Possibly. He thinks he may have been here for days now, and he doesn't think he's been asleep, and if he hasn't, then he's sure that the spiders have not moved. He wonders if any of those spiders could be spiders he's seen before, ones he used to watch when he was younger, ones that didn't have a possibility of being dead, because he did sleep then, and even if he didn't, he knew they moved. Harry takes a moment to contemplate the lifespan of spiders. He's reminded of Aragog, which reminds him of Ron. He decides he doesn't care if these are the same spiders or not.

It could have been weeks, but there is a bigger possibility that it has only been days because surely he would have died of starvation by now if it had been weeks. He reaches his arm upward and the spiders do move now, but every one is slower than a snitch. He thanks his luck that the first one bursts, burning his tongue senseless with something acidic so that he doesn't have to feel or taste the others. He ponders the irony of ingesting deadly poison in order to save oneself from starvation. When his tongue stops tingling and taking up so much space in his mouth he ponders the irony of saving oneself from starvation when being hunted by a deranged mastermind and his legions of minions. He decides it isn't ironic at all and curses his stupidity.

Harry opens his eyes and realizes he's waking, which is of no significance now that the spiders are gone. He supposes it was the sound of thundering footsteps that woke him. In the seconds it takes for the footsteps to reach the cupboard door he decides that he must have done something to Dudley and that Uncle Vernon must want to punish him. Harry wonders what he did to Dudley but figures it was probably worth the look on his face. As he meets this conclusion the door opens and a hand much smaller than Uncle Vernon’s clutches his hair. No, not clutches. Clings. There is a wand being pointed at his chest and he can't tell where or who the hand and the wand are attached to. It's been weeks, probably days since there has been light. The hand in his hair keeps his head from attaining the proper angle to view the blinding white through the shard of lens that threatens to fall off due to the recent movement. Not Vernon then, Harry decides.

The wand at his chest seems more persistent now, jabbing at his ribcage in an uncomfortable manner. He assumes that whatever curse the Death Eaters are trying to cast on him isn't working, hence the poking. It takes him a moment to realize he never heard a curse muttered. Harry would have giggled at the image of Death Eaters dangling him by his hair and poking him to death, but the sudden fear that he has gone deaf makes him afraid that if he did giggle, he wouldn't hear it. More persistent poking and Harry realizes that his eyes have already adjusted to the light and he's not deaf because he hears someone with an urgent voice telling him to take his wand. Harry decides he's not afraid to giggle any longer, so he does.

Someone, the one with the hand and the wand and the voice asking him to take it, now wants to know what Harry is laughing about. Harry can't figure out how to explain without the image losing its humor, so instead he takes the wand and shakes his hair free of the grip, that he belatedly realizes was more of a caress, really. He recognizes the person in front of him now and thinks that maybe the humor won’t be lost on him.

"Death Eaters" he says and begins to grin again. He's vaguely aware that his voice sounds like sandpaper, which is probably why his statement is mistranslated as a question.

"Yes, they're here. Please, Harry, He's coming!" There is blood dripping down the side of Draco's face. Somewhere near his jaw line it mixes with sweat and dilutes the color so that it looks like he is blushing. Harry knows that the thought is absurd, which, in itself, is progress.

Harry begins walking to the front door, which hangs limply on one hinge. He hears Draco telling him that there are dozens of them, that it won’t be long now. As Harry steps out into the garden he registers the bright streams of color coming from behind his back. He assumes Draco hasn't developed several extra arms, nor commandeered just as many wands. He has the urge to giggle once more but it isn't fear that stops him this time. There must be more of them.

A giant mass of thick tangible hatred like tar falls from the sky or maybe it didn't fall, but it's there and it's standing and it's Voldemort at last. Harry grips the wand he forgot he was holding. The wriggling bodies of the injured, but not dead, remind Harry of the spiders he ate weeks, probably days ago. He is filled with sudden irrational anger that if he doesn't survive this, then he ate the spiders for nothing. He feels his magic swell inside him and just like that first spider there is acid in his mouth but it's pushing forward and out and his magic is rushing it faster than a snitch so he couldn't take it back if he wanted to and he doesn’t want to. He sees the shock in Voldemort’s eyes more than he sees it on his face. Shock that says he never thought Harry would win. Shock that Harry knows is reflected in his own eyes.

Words, Harry finally realizes, are just as powerful as Draco told him they were.