𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐔𝐒 2008

Feathered Deception (1/2)

Author: kcstories
Title: Feathered Deception (Part 1 of 2)
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco (mentions of Dean/Ginny, Ron/Hermione, past Harry/Ginny and past Draco/Blaise.)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: A few years after the war, Draco finds a wounded eagle on the Manor’s grounds and his solitary existence takes an unexpected turn.
Warnings (if any): Minor DH spoilers (EWE), explicit sexual content, mild angst, some AU elements.
Total word count: 11,820

Feathered Deception Part 1 of 2

A flickering candle stands on the desk, dripping hot wax onto an antique book and staining its precious, priceless pages.

The sole occupant of the room doesn't react. He doesn’t even notice.

He's too busy jotting down word after word upon worn parchment, chronicling tales of a regrettable past, a colourless present and a glorious future he'll never know—not here, not in this lifetime, not after everything that has gone before.

If they knew how he spends his nights, some people might call this therapy.

They couldn’t be more wrong.

Therapy would imply the possibility of healing. It would suggest a small glimmer of hope amidst the bitter desolation.

There is no hope here. There hasn’t been any in a long time.

The man’s shoulders are hunched, as though weighed down by life’s heavy burdens, and despite his obvious determination, he looks lost and directionless.

One almost gets the impression that he is writing against the clock and that even time itself has turned against him.

No, this definitely isn't therapy. Perhaps it's a form of punishment or some desperate attempt at redemption.

Whatever it is, it goes on for hours, night after night.

He generally sleeps during the day, if he sleeps at all.

Since the war, insomnia has become a common problem for many people. The apothecaries can barely keep up with the demand of Dreamless Sleep Potion.

Not that the man behind the desk would have even the slightest idea about that. He seldom leaves the safety of his home and the vast grounds surrounding it, and on those rare occasions that he does, it’s never of his own volition.

Perhaps that’s a form of punishment, too. Unless it’s a coping strategy, a way of digesting the loss that twists bitterly in the pit of his stomach and shows no signs of diminishing—not even after three endless years.

He sighs deeply and briefly pauses his furious scribbling to sharpen his quill. He’ll need to order new ones again. He goes through them so quickly these days. Their quality isn't what it was when he was still at school.

The room is quiet, eerily so, and if he were paying more attention, perhaps he’d hear the rustling of wide wings outside his window, moments before the large, black bird flies off into the night sky.

He doesn't know that the animal would sigh if it could and reach out in friendship because it regrets not having done so many years previous, in a different time when innocence was not yet dead and when nights were still reserved for sleeping.