moonlite_tryst (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
moonlite_tryst) wrote2008-01-20 08:24 pm
moonlite_tryst) wrote2008-01-20 08:24 pm
Is that a ficlet I see before me?
Seven months it's taken, but the muse is back! I
I've been mulling for some time on Auror training: the kind of things that would be needed such as physical fitness, first aid, field craft, etc, and not just the ability to point a wand. So, here goes with what could be the prologue.
Arc: Basic Training
Title: Selection (Prologue)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lusiology
Pairing: DM HP
Genre: Auror fic
Rating: PG-13 at the moment
Word Count: 770
Summary: Draco made the grade, but will he survive Basic Training and Potter.
Warnings: 2nd person POV
Disclaimer: No ownership, no money.
Beta: Nope.
You hate this.
You hate them for their small mindedness and mistrust and refuse to consider that you would’ve acted the same way, although you know you would.
At times you tell yourself you hate him, or at least want to. But the word rings hollow, lacking the emotion behind it. Still, it sits better with you, with what you need to believe to stay strong in the face of such hostility than… no.
No. You won’t say them. Won’t admit to them, even. Won’t let the words form in your mind, letting them grow from the spectres that haunt you, that want to make you weak again, into tangible feelings.
Uncertainty.
Loneliness.
You quash them with a sudden shake of your head and a scowl. They will hold no power over you, because you are, will be, strong, not weak. Never again weak. Sinking into your subconscious, they’ll bide their time, ready to strike at any moment, when you’re caught off guard by a friendly acknowledgement, or simple act of courtesy.
And that’s when it happens: the tightness in your throat, the prickle in your eyes that signals the onset of want, of needing to reach out and commune with someone. Something so potentially dangerous, your only way to cope with it is to surround yourself with anger. To snap and snarl. You reach out and grab the emotion, no matter how destructive it is, twist it into a tight ball and lock it inside you to let it seethe and grow, along with bitterness and yearning.
Misery loves company, apparently.
You hate the fact that no matter how much you’ve tried to redeem yourself: working tirelessly during the last two years, since the end of the war and completion of your NEWTS, helping in relief efforts, rebuilding work, and with the homeless. The plain fact is you fucked up. And time, it seems, does not heal wounds quickly. People do not want to forgive or forget, at least not yet. And no one, except Potter, and maybe Shacklebolt, seems willing to give you a second chance… or should that be third chance?
Dumbledore gave you a second chance, but you were too frightened, chained to your family by links of loyalty and love to take that chance when it was offered to you. Potter understands what it is to live with a mistake, an error in judgement when one is young, you think. After all, he’s lived with the consequences of his parent’s poor choice of Secret Keeper all his life and this would, in other circumstances, make him a strong ally. But to acknowledge some form of camaraderie, some common link between the two of you, to actively seek his friendship would fan the flames of want that you know you have simmering away inside you. And you fear what that could lead to.
So, here you are, sitting in one of the briefing rooms of the Auror Development and Selection Centre with the others who passed the statutory medical and fitness tests and interview, trying to remain aloof, disinterested. Everyone but you rises to make their way out, shaking hands and congratulating each other. You can hear the murmurs, the not so subtle whispers of disbelief and incredulity that you, Draco Malfoy, made the grade and will be joining the rest of them for Phase One of the Auror Basic Training course.
You’re about to slump with relief; let your guard down momentarily while you’re alone, when you hear a cautious cough at the back of the room. Turning in your seat, you see Potter standing in the doorway with that damn, disarming, hopeful look, about to speak to you. The cold knot of anger thaws a little and hope flares briefly, bringing with it a little welcome warmth. You hold your breath, waiting for Potter to speak, curious as to how you’ll answer, and then the moment is lost. You’re saved. By Weasley, of all people, who grabs Potter’s arm and pulls him away to join the others in their celebrating.
You release your breath in a sigh of relief. Thankful that Potter didn’t get the chance to ask anything of you because at this moment, after the strain of the last two days, you don’t know if you’d have had the strength to sneer and refuse him.
You scrub your eyes with the back of your hands and then pick up the training manual next to you. The next twelve weeks of Phase One Basic Training will, you think, seem like an eternity.
"God help me," you murmur to yourself.
~*~
TBC
I've been mulling for some time on Auror training: the kind of things that would be needed such as physical fitness, first aid, field craft, etc, and not just the ability to point a wand. So, here goes with what could be the prologue.
Arc: Basic Training
Title: Selection (Prologue)
Author:
lusiologyPairing: DM HP
Genre: Auror fic
Rating: PG-13 at the moment
Word Count: 770
Summary: Draco made the grade, but will he survive Basic Training and Potter.
Warnings: 2nd person POV
Disclaimer: No ownership, no money.
Beta: Nope.
You hate this.
You hate them for their small mindedness and mistrust and refuse to consider that you would’ve acted the same way, although you know you would.
At times you tell yourself you hate him, or at least want to. But the word rings hollow, lacking the emotion behind it. Still, it sits better with you, with what you need to believe to stay strong in the face of such hostility than… no.
No. You won’t say them. Won’t admit to them, even. Won’t let the words form in your mind, letting them grow from the spectres that haunt you, that want to make you weak again, into tangible feelings.
Uncertainty.
Loneliness.
You quash them with a sudden shake of your head and a scowl. They will hold no power over you, because you are, will be, strong, not weak. Never again weak. Sinking into your subconscious, they’ll bide their time, ready to strike at any moment, when you’re caught off guard by a friendly acknowledgement, or simple act of courtesy.
And that’s when it happens: the tightness in your throat, the prickle in your eyes that signals the onset of want, of needing to reach out and commune with someone. Something so potentially dangerous, your only way to cope with it is to surround yourself with anger. To snap and snarl. You reach out and grab the emotion, no matter how destructive it is, twist it into a tight ball and lock it inside you to let it seethe and grow, along with bitterness and yearning.
Misery loves company, apparently.
You hate the fact that no matter how much you’ve tried to redeem yourself: working tirelessly during the last two years, since the end of the war and completion of your NEWTS, helping in relief efforts, rebuilding work, and with the homeless. The plain fact is you fucked up. And time, it seems, does not heal wounds quickly. People do not want to forgive or forget, at least not yet. And no one, except Potter, and maybe Shacklebolt, seems willing to give you a second chance… or should that be third chance?
Dumbledore gave you a second chance, but you were too frightened, chained to your family by links of loyalty and love to take that chance when it was offered to you. Potter understands what it is to live with a mistake, an error in judgement when one is young, you think. After all, he’s lived with the consequences of his parent’s poor choice of Secret Keeper all his life and this would, in other circumstances, make him a strong ally. But to acknowledge some form of camaraderie, some common link between the two of you, to actively seek his friendship would fan the flames of want that you know you have simmering away inside you. And you fear what that could lead to.
So, here you are, sitting in one of the briefing rooms of the Auror Development and Selection Centre with the others who passed the statutory medical and fitness tests and interview, trying to remain aloof, disinterested. Everyone but you rises to make their way out, shaking hands and congratulating each other. You can hear the murmurs, the not so subtle whispers of disbelief and incredulity that you, Draco Malfoy, made the grade and will be joining the rest of them for Phase One of the Auror Basic Training course.
You’re about to slump with relief; let your guard down momentarily while you’re alone, when you hear a cautious cough at the back of the room. Turning in your seat, you see Potter standing in the doorway with that damn, disarming, hopeful look, about to speak to you. The cold knot of anger thaws a little and hope flares briefly, bringing with it a little welcome warmth. You hold your breath, waiting for Potter to speak, curious as to how you’ll answer, and then the moment is lost. You’re saved. By Weasley, of all people, who grabs Potter’s arm and pulls him away to join the others in their celebrating.
You release your breath in a sigh of relief. Thankful that Potter didn’t get the chance to ask anything of you because at this moment, after the strain of the last two days, you don’t know if you’d have had the strength to sneer and refuse him.
You scrub your eyes with the back of your hands and then pick up the training manual next to you. The next twelve weeks of Phase One Basic Training will, you think, seem like an eternity.
"God help me," you murmur to yourself.
TBC
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