If We Never Go Back to Hogwarts

Chapter 1

Without Hope or Agenda

Harry sat at Privet Drive, sweating from the temperature. It was at least ninety degrees. Compared to the cool breeze of Hogwarts, this was hell. Pure and untainted hell. He sighed. Would his life ever get any better?

Outside, he watched children play. They were so innocent, these Muggle children, laughing and screaming and basking in their undaunted ignorance. Harry wished that for just a moment he was one of them, playing their games and learning their ways. They were interesting…they were like a separate species.

He pondered that for a bit, then laid his head on the desk and drifted in and out of a hazy, fragile rest. A million thoughts skimmed his subconscious, some of Sirius, some of parents, some even of Draco Malfoy. He groaned, unhappy with the face of the sneering, blonde boy in his mind's eye. He fumbled around and cried out but all within the borders of his own dream land. He struggled but only in vain. He was trapped under the fountain of visions spouting from the underbelly of his soul.

Suddenly, he felt his fingers grasp hold of the ink pen that had been lying on his desk. He knew he was writing, but what, and why? He moaned again, hopeful that he might soon gain control. He didn't even know what was going on. He felt paralyzed, let he could feel his body moving all around him, and his heart was in limbo and all his conscious thoughts were overturned by this new and exciting force running through his nerves and muscles and to his palm, this urge to write whatever this force was compelling him to etch.

Slowly, he began to rise from the desk and open his eyes. Parchment stuck awkwardly to his cheek and, in a mad frenzy, he ripped it off and threw the ink pen out the window. Then, with shaking hands, he picked up the piece of paper that he had so unwilling inked on and began to read.

What fear might I have

Were I to kiss

The pink rose petals

That are your lips?

What nerve

Might I possess

If I were to remove

All that you dress in?

What love might I have

If I swept you away

Into a kiss

And take you were I lay?

What might I admit

When inside me sun shines

And you are there behind me

An angel, so divine?

What love might I share

With you, Draco Dear,

When you will stand there

And I will stand here?

That was it. Harry slapped the paper on the desk and clawed at it with his own fingernails. This wasn't real. Why had he written this, of all things? A poem of love to Draco Malfoy? It made no sense, no sense at all. He nearly screamed, then remembered where he was and bit his hand instead. This meant nothing. It had to mean nothing. It certainly didn't mean something.

Sighing, he crumpled the paper and tossed it under his bed. As he gazed out the window at the now setting sun, he wondered what had just happened to him.

Draco Malfoy sat on the roof of his mansion, breathing heavily. All that running was going to kill him one day. Perhaps he should just kill his father instead. Yes, that was a spectacular plan. What would he use? A knife, morning star (his father had some under the drawing room), a sword, or perhaps something even deadlier?

He smirked at the idea of murdering his father. It would give him such pleasure, such satisfaction to be rid of the bastard forever. He hated him. All the scars on his back, the bruises on his arms, all were from Lucius Malfoy. His father always said it was his fault, because he chose the olive branch over the Malfoy crest…

But that was an entirely different story. He glanced at the moon, the sickly pale orb. This place, this earth, it sickened him. He longed to be somewhere where human things could not reach him, where he was isolated and happy about it.

The only answer he could think of was nonexistence, meaning death.

Well, his father had already threatened that.

He sighed rather loudly. These stars told a story, he knew. But which? One of a happy ending, or a sad one? He sighed again. What was life worth in this world but perhaps hunger and deprivation?

Draco really didn't like having such morbid thoughts all the time, but he couldn't help it. His lifestyle didn't really contribute to happy thoughts. He pondered this all while gazing into the Milky Way, wondering how the balance of his life had come to be.

He remembered the story vaguely. He had been two. His father had come home from work, pissed about something. His mother was screaming. He knew there had been a child before him, but it had died. They never talked about it. His father approached the Malfoy toddler, looking menacing, a horrible glint in his eyes. He had retrieved from the pocket of his coat an olive branch and the original Malfoy crest. Draco, curious, reached for the olive branch. It was by that and that alone that his father judged him. Somehow, his mother had persuaded him not to kill Draco, but to let him live in torturous conditions instead.

The memory flashed inside his head at the speed of a blinking eye. He hated it. It had started everything.

Not that he didn't (in some way) have his parents under his thumb. It was strange, their relationships. They bought him whatever he desired, were persuaded to do whatever he asked, let him roam freely. But even this freedom was empty to him.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps. He jerked around. His father was there, his hair tied back in a suave black ribbon, his cape swishing around him. He looked rather flawless, like a marble statue. He didn't look human. "Draco." He said, almost in surprise. "You're here."

"And I could have easily been anywhere else in the world." Draco replied. He wasn't sure why he said that, but he did.

"Yes," his father said. "I need to inform you that we are going on vacation to Romania in a week. We'll be going for a month."

"Romania?" Draco inquired. Who goes to vacation in Romania? He wondered.

"Yes. So be ready to go." He replied and ducked down into the house.

"Fine." Draco said softly, and focused his gaze again on the universe, which seemed to shrink slightly every time he looked at it.