Spells Aren't EnoughWord count:
Flangst, emphasis on the angstDisclaimer:
The boys belong to JKR, even though I’m often nicer to them than she is.Author's Notes:
This was written for dracoharry100
's challenge words
Words matter to wizards. Spells and enchantments, charms and curses; a wizard’s words can reshape the world around.
Words matter to Muggles too. Prayers are just another kind of spell: an appeal to a supernatural force to make things different, to revise the natural order until it’s not so painful.
Spells have not helped Harry. He lies, bound by a criminal’s curse, in his hospital bed; no potions or talismans or incantations can bring him back. He’s frozen; and though he despises himself for it, Draco hopes Harry’s mind is gone, that he isn’t thinking and alive inside his shell.
If his mind’s alive still behind his closed eyes, he must be screaming. Draco clutches Harry’s limp hand at the thought, throat catching until he can barely breathe, let alone speak. For his puppyish, physical Harry, paralysis would be torment; and to be gagged by his own body...
Words are identity. They’re being not-helpless. Draco has an utterly inappropriate flashback to Harry binding Draco’s wrists. He’d never gagged him, ever.
He shivers and opens his eyes. The shock of seeing Harry deathly still and bone-white after the memory is too much. Draco buries his head in the duvet and howls.
Finally, finally, he regains some semblance of control, sitting up and cleaning his face with a monogrammed handkerchief. The Healer said Harry might be able to hear them; he doesn’t want to upset Harry by selfishly sobbing through his visit.
A cold sense of hopelessness trickles through Draco, something he hasn’t felt since Voldemort’s death. If even the magic can’t help Harry...
Suddenly, he remembers a cathedral. What Muggles do when they’re desperate.
The magic isn’t enough. So Draco Malfoy, consummate pureblood, gropes for poor, Muggle words to try and save his lover.May the blessing of our Lord Jesus Christ...
The prayer changes nothing. Draco’s face twists in miserable derision that he’d ever thought a Muggle method could help.
He’s so cold.
He gives in, doing what he always does when in need of comfort: he climbs onto the bed and lies close, linking their hands across Harry’s stomach. Harry doesn’t murmur kind words or kiss his hair, but at least he’s close.
“I keep wondering if this is my punishment. If it’s because I don’t deserve you. I don’t care
if I don’t deserve you... I need you.” Draco keeps whispering. He can always trust Harry with his secrets.
Draco’s crying now. “You can’t die Harry. Don’t you remember being rivals? If you die now I’ll have won and that’ll ruin Heaven for you.” There’s a tinge of hysteria in his voice.
A twitch of fingers. It sends Draco leaping up, on his knees beside Harry and staring desperately into his face. “Harry? Harry was that you? Harry, I felt it, come back...” He can hardly see for the blurring of his vision.
After forever, Harry’s eyes twitch open.
“I heard you call me...”
Hours later they’re still lying snuggled on the sterile bed, whispering words of love.