![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mildlunacy i have a weakness for carnival stories-- set in the dark, with shooting stars & cotton candy & fortune tellers & whispered secrets & magic circus tents & sticky fingers & lost innocence & stray wishes & the whole bit. the Starlight Carnival comes to hogwarts? a day trip to hogsmeade, mayhap? ahhh... nothing quite like a love-story set on a ferris wheel-- muggle, shmuggle-- it could be run by magic, hmf..!
a shooting star-- and a wish.
and some strategically placed roses.
~~
One May evening, Draco Malfoy made a wish, against his better judgement. He was staring listlessly past his window, boring holes into the night sky, but no stars were moving, no matter how much he glared at them. He wasn't bitter-- Malfoys were never bitter. Malfoys had it all under control. You waited, and you planned, and you granted your own wishes. He wouldn't be able to say what he was looking for, if you'd asked him. In fact, he'd ignore you in the best of moods, and tear you apart in one of his more usual moods. Of course, no one bothered to ask him.
He wasn't sure why he remembered it right now, the old tale. It was fluttering through his mind, as restless as a dandelion seed. There was a legend-- that if you needed it enough, if you wished hard enough, if you looked long enough-- the Carnival of Dreams would come to your town. The legend didn't say whether it would fulfill your dreams or realize your nightmares, but certainly, at that certain point, you just wanted to see it happen, for good or ill. The night before it came, you would see a shooting star, and your heart's deepest wish would find physical form. A lot of rubbish, it sounded like. You had to wish for it, of course. Wizards didn't make wishes, you would think, and you would be right. Wizards granted their own wishes, with magic they shook loose from their wand-tips with a whisper and a wave. It was a down-on-his-luck sort of wizard that resorted to wishing. Certainly not a Malfoy. Why, it was shameful-- unthinkable. Draco grimaced, and closed his eyes. He was almost beyond that shame, but not quite. He thought of it as taking advantage of a rarely considered opportunity. Squeamishness did not produce results, as Professor Snape might say. Or he might sneer because this had nothing in common with the elegance of a potion. Was there a potion for this? Draco doubted it.
He picked out a star-- it was brighter than the rest, glittering with a pale blue light, rather near to the horizon. It was as good a subject as any, he supposed. He sighed, and moved his lips silently, his eyes closed, his breathing even, his mind carefully steady. He didn't think of consequences. He thought only of his want, uncolored by bitterness or resentment or vengeance. In the end, these were just extraneous to the white meaty heart of the matter. He wanted. He was frustrated. He was out of ideas. He needed magic, and luck, and maybe something like a miracle, though he'd never admit that to himself. He opened his eyes, just in time to catch a blue streak disappearing beyond the horizon, and he didn't smile.
~~
Harry didn't really want to wake up. He was having a really good dream, where he got just what he always wanted, though he wasn't quite sure what that was. He was smiling, and feeling as if he was floating, the soft sheets tangled about his legs seeming as insubstantial as air. Lately, he'd started to linger in these moments, right before waking, where he didn't feel quite himself, and he hadn't quite remembered everything that had brought him to this moment. He was free to love life, and smile at sunshine. He'd never been very sentimental, but he took his comfort where he could get it.
It was his arm, which was thrust out, hugging the pillow, that pulled him relentlessly forward into the new day. He could feel something-- something prickly, something alien, something he couldn't place. It was disturbing his pleasant, soft, dreamy morning. Harry scowled. He was laying on his side, and the prickly object seemed to be to the right of him, apparently very close. All he had to do was open his eyes, and so he did. At first, it was a small slit between his still-heavy eyelids, but it quickly grew. There, right there, not five inches from his nose, lay a perfectly shaped, impeccably white rose. Harry blinked, several times, but it was still there. For long moments, he had no idea how to react, and just stared at it, almost hypnotizing himself with its lily-whiteness. It seemed almost to glow softly in the muted light coming through his (still-tied) bed-curtains. He reached out a hand, fingering the a stiff green thorn carefully. It seemed real enough, quite common really, though Harry's experience with roses and thorns was quite limited, not to say non-existent. Usually, he just looked at them and quickly passed them on to someone else, someone more suited to care for them, to appreciate their supposedly romantic nature. Harry wasn't a romantic. He sat up, groaning at the strange, thick muddled state his head was lingering in, and gingerly lifted the long-stemmed rose to his face.
It smelled fresh and sadly sweet, and it reminded him of the feel of grass outside his house with the Dursleys, in the spring. It was a scent bearing false promises, of April rain and maybe rainbows, and long evenings he could have to himself. Inadvertently, the petals brushed against his cheek, and his eyes drifted closed, relishing the sensation. So soft, and fragrant, and gentle. It was almost enough to make him forget the thorn pushing against his thumb, and the nagging, uncomfortable feeling of not knowing what in the world this was about. It felt strange, interrogating the origins of a rose, but what else could he do? Go get something to put it in, and add water? He could just imagine the sort of questions that'd invite.
"Ah, a secret admirer with some flair at last, Harry?" they'd say. Or better yet, "So tell us, tell us, who is it? It's not Ginny, still, is it? You'd have thought she'd have given up by now...."
Not Ginny, he was sure. He didn't know who would do this, and somehow, he didn't want to know. He wanted to just pretend this rose existed for its own pleasure, as magical and yet mundane as a stray beam of moonlight upon his pillow. He knew this was silly of him, but he was really tired of wondering who might be having strange, devious plans in his regard. No one should want to send him roses, especially not in this creepy, secretive manner. Besides being disconcerting, it wasn't in character for anyone that he remembered knowing, which did little to ease his mind. Luckily, there was something he could do about this, if he could only remember the correct phrasing....
"Accio Retexere," he murmured, hopefully. The rose vanished, leaving his fingers curled around one another, strangely bereft now that they weren't curled gently around the thick stem. He blinked once, twice, and it was still gone. He had done it. A sort of magical return-to-sender, with anything from unwanted letters to well-- other objects, delivered in any number of ways. He wasn't sure if he'd succeed, since he'd never tried that particular charm before, but he supposed he would have to use one of those obscure spells he'd had to memorize for his sixth-year Charms class someday. Otherwise his education at Hogwarts was even more useless than some of his classmates believed. Harry sighed. Well, so much for that. Might as well go on, as much like nothing had happened as possible. Putting the rose away in a musty corner of his mind, Harry swung his legs over the edge of his bed, drawing back the curtains. This was just an ordinary day, just like any other, and lately, he quite liked it that way.
~~
Draco was just having a completely forgettable talk with Pansy, before heading off to breakfast, about the lack of suitable entertainment at Hogwarts, and her maddening boredom, and her lack of palatable dresses, and her amazingly fortuitous choice of boyfriends (she never seemed to tire of trying to stroke his ego, little good though it ever did). It was not a good moment to find himself, arm outstretched, holding a beautiful, flawless, long-stemmed white rose. He winced. There was no way to adequately explain this. Apparently, he didn't need to. Pansy beamed, and blushed, and looked positively amazed at his sudden display of courtliness.
"Why, Draco! I didn't know you had it in you!" she cried, and giggled in a high-pitched girlish manner that made Draco wince.
"I don't. I have absolutely no clue how that rose ended up in my hand, believe me," he said, emphatically, though he knew it would be a tough job actually getting Pansy to believe him. Some traitorous part of him whispered that he didn't know if -he- believed him, but that part was pointedly ignored. The last thing he needed was self-dissent right now.
"Awww," she cooed. "You don't have to be like that, Draco dear. I won't tell anyone, I promise. This'll be just our own little secret. Though, you don't mind if I wore it to breakfast, do you?" Pansy said, tucking it carefully in a breast pocket, careful not to wince. It wasn't every day that Draco Malfoy showed his sentimental, romantic side, even if it did have thorns, just like the rest of him.
Draco made a sickened face, but he knew he had no easy excuse as to why it would be a bad idea. After all, everyone knew they were going out. And if anyone decided that he was going all soft and sentimental-- well, they should know better. In fact, he'd enjoy showing them better. Draco smirked. No one knew what the rose was really about, after all. Not even him, really. So, all was well. And his suspicions-- well, they were just that. Suspicions. And they would stay that way-- firmly tucked in the back corner of his mind. Last night was simply a moment of weakness, which he was allowed, once in a while, he thought. Wasn't everyone? As long as no one knew, it wasn't anything. In fact, there was nothing to say it had ever existed, even, really. The rose proved nothing. Just a random rose. Who knew why it had decided to sprout from his hand? He hadn't wished it, certainly. What he wished for had nothing whatsoever do to with reality, anyway. And that was fine by him. Smiling tightly, he took Pansy by the elbow, and led her out of the Slytherin common room toward the Great Hall.
~~
Harry was unusually silent at breakfast. Reality had firmly reasserted itself, of course, but something still felt a bit off. It was a strange, fluttery feeling in the pit of his stomach, like a hunger for something he couldn't quite place. He wouldn't quite admit he missed the scent of it, the feel of it against his cheek, so soft and smooth and unassuming in the sensuous spell it wove. It puzzled him, and he wasn't one to shy away from puzzles, even if they made him blush for no good reason he could possibly imagine. He tried to simply put it out of his mind, and concentrate on the morning banter between Ron and Hermione, but his mind refused to obey, which, while not exactly unusual, wasn't very welcome at this point especially. He picked listlessly at his oatmeal. Disgusted for some strange reason, he lifted his eyes, feeling unaccountably antsy, and scanned the room, unsure of what he was looking for. Signs, but of what? Hadn't he told himself there was no one among his classmates he could imagine making such a silly romantic gesture? Whoever the culprit had been, they would not be found by scanning the Great Hall, that much was certain. Harry sighed.
As his gaze passed the Slytherin table, his eyes widened, and he had to stifle a gasp. It couldn't be. It was. There was Pansy Parkinson, looking at Malfoy with that simpering, adoring gaze, with him just barely seeming to pay attention, as usual. What wasn't so usual was the blindingly white rose stuck in her robes, set off nicely against the black material. His mind whirled, unable to come up with anything coherent as a response. He gaped. It couldn't be. It was. Pansy Parkinson? Harry shuddered, unable to supress his distaste. It didn't make any sense. She was still slathering herself all over Malfoy. This was ridiculous! It couldn't be her, he had to be mistaken. After all, there was a large number of white roses around. And while it may be a strange, insane sort of coincidence to have two of them appear in Hogwarts within such a short time-span, it wasn't impossible, by any stretch of the imagination. Harry tore his eyes away from the taunting white flower. He would eat as fast as he could, and concentrate on his next class. Hopefully, he'd never have to see another glimpse of that white rose, whether it was his or not. And of course it wasn't his. It never had anything to do with him. Just because it appeared on his pillow, meant nothing. Harry stabbed his spoon into the oatmeal somewhat viciously, uncaring that he made a mess. It meant nothing.
~~
"Potter."
"Wha--? Gimmeafewmoreminutes, Ron," Harry mumbled, and buried his head further into the pillow.
"-Potter-," the voice came, more emphatically this time.
"M-Mal... Malfoy?!" Harry sat bolt upright, and his eyes darted about frantically before he remembered he forgot to put on his glasses, and moreover, he didn't really feel like that level of activity suited his present needs. In fact, he really must be dreaming, he thought, because there was just no way in hell Draco Malfoy was sitting cross-legged on his bed, looking perfectly composed and awake, and smirking at him for all he was worth. These kinds of things didn't happen, even in his worst nightmares, but reality was out of the question entirely. "Oh, I get it," he mumbled irritably, his voice muffled against the pillow he'd pressed on top of his head, as he lay back down, once again turned away on his side. "I really don't know what you're thinking, Ron, April Fools Day is months away, and I thought we'd agreed not to use the polyjuice potion so flippantly anymore... and it's really too early in the morning for this, anyway...."
The pseudo-Draco laughed. It wasn't really an unpleasant sound, Harry thought crossly, even if he didn't have a thing to laugh about. "See how funny you think it is when I wake you up with a nice cold bucket of water tomorrow," Harry said ominously.
"Out of luck, Potter," the other boy said lightly. "I'm the real thing, alright. I'll pinch you if you want, though."
"Huh? Real? Pinch? Huh? Oh, why are you doing this... are you still mad about the cream incident," Harry said, not even trying to hide the beginnings of a pout. "I think I need sleep," he continued, mostly talking to himself now.
There was a muffled sound coming from the other boy's direction, sounding suspiciously like a chuckle. "Have it your way. Just thought you should know, all things considered. I got my wish-- the Carnival is coming. Meet me by the Wheel, when it does, at midnight. Don't be late, Potter."
Harry's mind couldn't quite process this, especially seeing as he was barely awake, if at all, but the bizarre nature of this pronouncement made him snap awake, staring blearily in the spot he imagined his unwelcome visitor occupied. Somewhat predictably, there was no one there, though he had the distinct impression he heard what sounded like someone disapparating, just moments before. Of course, he could've imagined it. In fact, he probably imagined the whole bloody encounter. In his only vaguely cognizant state, Harry found himself easily convinced. Yes, it was just a very strange and vaguely disturbing dream. Just like a white rose, though probably this had slightly more to do with him, and his perverse imagination than that fiasco, which pretty much didn't happen in any way, shape or form, of that Harry was almost entirely convinced.
And besides, -what- bloody carnival could the idiot have possibly been going on about? There were no carnivals anywhere near Hogwarts, and there haven't been, and there never would be. Unless Voldemort decided to stage a sneak attack using treacherous fortune-tellers and insane clowns, that is, Harry thought darkly. Harry flopped onto his back, his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling, once again caught in his unwillingness to start yet another day in a procession of days, all dedicated to fighting the impending threat, and learning all there was to learn in Defense Against the Dark Arts class, and not failing Potions too badly this term. He realized he shouldn't condense all his dissatisfactions and bitterness and just plain morose glumness into these few moments before he bounded out of bed, as cheerfully as he could manage, but it was better than doing it right before he fell asleep. His dreams were already dark enough as it was, Harry thought, his mouth curving easily in a frown. He had to allow himself some time to not be optimistic and hopeful and brave, he knew, or he'd simply go mad. And apparently, it wasn't helping -enough- in that department, anyway, this latest Malfoy incident just a case in point, he thought sourly. On that note, he bolted up once again, and painted his usual half-smile on his face. Nothing to be done about it. After all, just like always, this was a day just like any other. And this was something he knew how to deal with, at least.
A half an hour later, while sharing other assorted pieces of gossip over sausage and eggs, Hermione said, talking and chewing carefully all at once, "Oh and I almost forgot. The Carnival of Dreams is coming, in a week or so. Both Lavender and Parvati are positive, it's all over school, and Professor Trelawney has been going on about it since the day before yesterday."
"Huh," Harry said, blankly, not quite processing as of yet.
"Oh Harry. I forgot, you aren't taking Divination with us this term. The Carnival of Dreams. It's a legend that no one was quite sure was real, but apparently it is. It's a traveling carnival, that's supposed to signal the fulfillment of someone's wish, every time it passes by. There hasn't been one anywhere near Hogwarts for ages now."
"The... Carnival... of... Dreams?" he said, slowly, refusing to hear what he was saying, still.
"Yeah. Someone got their wish, it seems," Hermione said with a strange little smile.
"What a load of nonsense," Harry snapped, not thinking about how he sounded, and stood up, away from the table, suddenly. "I've got some homework to do, I just remembered. Sorry, everyone, see you later," he said, and tried to keep himself to a walk, as he made his way frantically out of the Great Hall. His heart was pounding, and his hands were shaking, and he didn't even know why, exactly. Against his will, the scent of spring rain and green things and a faint brush of something, soft and sensual and silky against his cheek, came back to haunt him. His scowl deepened. What nonsense, indeed. He walked faster, not thinking of where he was going, not bothering to wonder at his sudden, inexplicable anger. Therefore, he didn't see it coming, but the next thing he knew, he was colliding with something soft and warm and most definitedly quite as annoyed as he was.
"Potter, you clumsy oaf, watch where you're going!"
"Malfoy," Harry said, his anger intensifying automatically. He couldn't deal with this, not now. One look at Malfoy's sneering face and he knew he'd do something he'd regret later, like punch his lights out. Not that he didn't deserve it. And not that an aching fist wouldn't be entirely worth it to see Malfoy satisfyingly sprawled on the floor. Still, he wouldn't give him the satisfaction. "Could say the same for you," he said, settling for putting as much venom into that statement as possible.
Draco glanced up, a bit surprised at the unusual level of vehemence. Of course, the usual smirk quickly reasserted itself. "Having a bad morning, Potter?" he said sweetly. "Want to tell me all about it?"
Harry almost laughed at that, it was so ludicrous. "Yeah, right. When roses grow out of my arse, maybe," Harry said, before he could think better of it. After he did, he groaned inwardly, quite belatedly. He really didn't need that mental image right then-- or the reference to roses for that matter.
A breathy, surprised sort of laugh escaped Draco's lips at that. "Ha. Well, well. Aren't you the unpredictable one," he drawled.
"Ergh. Whatever. Let me by, Malfoy. I have no patience for this right now," he said. And I'm starting to have one monster of a headache, on top of it all, too, he added to himself.
"Well, go on then, don't let me stop you Potter. I, for one, have important business to attend to, I don't know about you."
"Oh please. So do I-- I think I need to go and throw up. That will be much more satisfying-- and clean-- than any moment I spend talking to you," Harry said, over his shoulder, feeling an unsavory sort of satisfaction at getting the last word in before he strode away, quite aware he was in no way fit for company of any sort, even for the evil, arrogant bastard sort. It did nothing to help his mood to hear Malfoy's surprisedly soft, genuinely amused laughter following him down the corridor.
"Run all you like, Potter. No one escapes the Carnival for long," Draco said, mostly for his own benefit, after he was out of sight. "Not even me," he added, strangely wistful. He wished for change, he knew, but now that it was coming-- he wished he had the luxury of not anticipating the outcome, at the least. He wished he didn't know where that fallen star had landed. He wished he didn't have the most unnerving suspicion it was actually in his lap. He wished a lot of things, all of a sudden, but none of them counted, he knew. He'd made the one that counted, and even if he didn't feel very sure he knew what he wanted anymore, again, he realized that one way or the other, he was going to get it. And he realized it would be nothing like his dreams.
~~
a shooting star-- and a wish.
and some strategically placed roses.
~~
One May evening, Draco Malfoy made a wish, against his better judgement. He was staring listlessly past his window, boring holes into the night sky, but no stars were moving, no matter how much he glared at them. He wasn't bitter-- Malfoys were never bitter. Malfoys had it all under control. You waited, and you planned, and you granted your own wishes. He wouldn't be able to say what he was looking for, if you'd asked him. In fact, he'd ignore you in the best of moods, and tear you apart in one of his more usual moods. Of course, no one bothered to ask him.
He wasn't sure why he remembered it right now, the old tale. It was fluttering through his mind, as restless as a dandelion seed. There was a legend-- that if you needed it enough, if you wished hard enough, if you looked long enough-- the Carnival of Dreams would come to your town. The legend didn't say whether it would fulfill your dreams or realize your nightmares, but certainly, at that certain point, you just wanted to see it happen, for good or ill. The night before it came, you would see a shooting star, and your heart's deepest wish would find physical form. A lot of rubbish, it sounded like. You had to wish for it, of course. Wizards didn't make wishes, you would think, and you would be right. Wizards granted their own wishes, with magic they shook loose from their wand-tips with a whisper and a wave. It was a down-on-his-luck sort of wizard that resorted to wishing. Certainly not a Malfoy. Why, it was shameful-- unthinkable. Draco grimaced, and closed his eyes. He was almost beyond that shame, but not quite. He thought of it as taking advantage of a rarely considered opportunity. Squeamishness did not produce results, as Professor Snape might say. Or he might sneer because this had nothing in common with the elegance of a potion. Was there a potion for this? Draco doubted it.
He picked out a star-- it was brighter than the rest, glittering with a pale blue light, rather near to the horizon. It was as good a subject as any, he supposed. He sighed, and moved his lips silently, his eyes closed, his breathing even, his mind carefully steady. He didn't think of consequences. He thought only of his want, uncolored by bitterness or resentment or vengeance. In the end, these were just extraneous to the white meaty heart of the matter. He wanted. He was frustrated. He was out of ideas. He needed magic, and luck, and maybe something like a miracle, though he'd never admit that to himself. He opened his eyes, just in time to catch a blue streak disappearing beyond the horizon, and he didn't smile.
~~
Harry didn't really want to wake up. He was having a really good dream, where he got just what he always wanted, though he wasn't quite sure what that was. He was smiling, and feeling as if he was floating, the soft sheets tangled about his legs seeming as insubstantial as air. Lately, he'd started to linger in these moments, right before waking, where he didn't feel quite himself, and he hadn't quite remembered everything that had brought him to this moment. He was free to love life, and smile at sunshine. He'd never been very sentimental, but he took his comfort where he could get it.
It was his arm, which was thrust out, hugging the pillow, that pulled him relentlessly forward into the new day. He could feel something-- something prickly, something alien, something he couldn't place. It was disturbing his pleasant, soft, dreamy morning. Harry scowled. He was laying on his side, and the prickly object seemed to be to the right of him, apparently very close. All he had to do was open his eyes, and so he did. At first, it was a small slit between his still-heavy eyelids, but it quickly grew. There, right there, not five inches from his nose, lay a perfectly shaped, impeccably white rose. Harry blinked, several times, but it was still there. For long moments, he had no idea how to react, and just stared at it, almost hypnotizing himself with its lily-whiteness. It seemed almost to glow softly in the muted light coming through his (still-tied) bed-curtains. He reached out a hand, fingering the a stiff green thorn carefully. It seemed real enough, quite common really, though Harry's experience with roses and thorns was quite limited, not to say non-existent. Usually, he just looked at them and quickly passed them on to someone else, someone more suited to care for them, to appreciate their supposedly romantic nature. Harry wasn't a romantic. He sat up, groaning at the strange, thick muddled state his head was lingering in, and gingerly lifted the long-stemmed rose to his face.
It smelled fresh and sadly sweet, and it reminded him of the feel of grass outside his house with the Dursleys, in the spring. It was a scent bearing false promises, of April rain and maybe rainbows, and long evenings he could have to himself. Inadvertently, the petals brushed against his cheek, and his eyes drifted closed, relishing the sensation. So soft, and fragrant, and gentle. It was almost enough to make him forget the thorn pushing against his thumb, and the nagging, uncomfortable feeling of not knowing what in the world this was about. It felt strange, interrogating the origins of a rose, but what else could he do? Go get something to put it in, and add water? He could just imagine the sort of questions that'd invite.
"Ah, a secret admirer with some flair at last, Harry?" they'd say. Or better yet, "So tell us, tell us, who is it? It's not Ginny, still, is it? You'd have thought she'd have given up by now...."
Not Ginny, he was sure. He didn't know who would do this, and somehow, he didn't want to know. He wanted to just pretend this rose existed for its own pleasure, as magical and yet mundane as a stray beam of moonlight upon his pillow. He knew this was silly of him, but he was really tired of wondering who might be having strange, devious plans in his regard. No one should want to send him roses, especially not in this creepy, secretive manner. Besides being disconcerting, it wasn't in character for anyone that he remembered knowing, which did little to ease his mind. Luckily, there was something he could do about this, if he could only remember the correct phrasing....
"Accio Retexere," he murmured, hopefully. The rose vanished, leaving his fingers curled around one another, strangely bereft now that they weren't curled gently around the thick stem. He blinked once, twice, and it was still gone. He had done it. A sort of magical return-to-sender, with anything from unwanted letters to well-- other objects, delivered in any number of ways. He wasn't sure if he'd succeed, since he'd never tried that particular charm before, but he supposed he would have to use one of those obscure spells he'd had to memorize for his sixth-year Charms class someday. Otherwise his education at Hogwarts was even more useless than some of his classmates believed. Harry sighed. Well, so much for that. Might as well go on, as much like nothing had happened as possible. Putting the rose away in a musty corner of his mind, Harry swung his legs over the edge of his bed, drawing back the curtains. This was just an ordinary day, just like any other, and lately, he quite liked it that way.
~~
Draco was just having a completely forgettable talk with Pansy, before heading off to breakfast, about the lack of suitable entertainment at Hogwarts, and her maddening boredom, and her lack of palatable dresses, and her amazingly fortuitous choice of boyfriends (she never seemed to tire of trying to stroke his ego, little good though it ever did). It was not a good moment to find himself, arm outstretched, holding a beautiful, flawless, long-stemmed white rose. He winced. There was no way to adequately explain this. Apparently, he didn't need to. Pansy beamed, and blushed, and looked positively amazed at his sudden display of courtliness.
"Why, Draco! I didn't know you had it in you!" she cried, and giggled in a high-pitched girlish manner that made Draco wince.
"I don't. I have absolutely no clue how that rose ended up in my hand, believe me," he said, emphatically, though he knew it would be a tough job actually getting Pansy to believe him. Some traitorous part of him whispered that he didn't know if -he- believed him, but that part was pointedly ignored. The last thing he needed was self-dissent right now.
"Awww," she cooed. "You don't have to be like that, Draco dear. I won't tell anyone, I promise. This'll be just our own little secret. Though, you don't mind if I wore it to breakfast, do you?" Pansy said, tucking it carefully in a breast pocket, careful not to wince. It wasn't every day that Draco Malfoy showed his sentimental, romantic side, even if it did have thorns, just like the rest of him.
Draco made a sickened face, but he knew he had no easy excuse as to why it would be a bad idea. After all, everyone knew they were going out. And if anyone decided that he was going all soft and sentimental-- well, they should know better. In fact, he'd enjoy showing them better. Draco smirked. No one knew what the rose was really about, after all. Not even him, really. So, all was well. And his suspicions-- well, they were just that. Suspicions. And they would stay that way-- firmly tucked in the back corner of his mind. Last night was simply a moment of weakness, which he was allowed, once in a while, he thought. Wasn't everyone? As long as no one knew, it wasn't anything. In fact, there was nothing to say it had ever existed, even, really. The rose proved nothing. Just a random rose. Who knew why it had decided to sprout from his hand? He hadn't wished it, certainly. What he wished for had nothing whatsoever do to with reality, anyway. And that was fine by him. Smiling tightly, he took Pansy by the elbow, and led her out of the Slytherin common room toward the Great Hall.
~~
Harry was unusually silent at breakfast. Reality had firmly reasserted itself, of course, but something still felt a bit off. It was a strange, fluttery feeling in the pit of his stomach, like a hunger for something he couldn't quite place. He wouldn't quite admit he missed the scent of it, the feel of it against his cheek, so soft and smooth and unassuming in the sensuous spell it wove. It puzzled him, and he wasn't one to shy away from puzzles, even if they made him blush for no good reason he could possibly imagine. He tried to simply put it out of his mind, and concentrate on the morning banter between Ron and Hermione, but his mind refused to obey, which, while not exactly unusual, wasn't very welcome at this point especially. He picked listlessly at his oatmeal. Disgusted for some strange reason, he lifted his eyes, feeling unaccountably antsy, and scanned the room, unsure of what he was looking for. Signs, but of what? Hadn't he told himself there was no one among his classmates he could imagine making such a silly romantic gesture? Whoever the culprit had been, they would not be found by scanning the Great Hall, that much was certain. Harry sighed.
As his gaze passed the Slytherin table, his eyes widened, and he had to stifle a gasp. It couldn't be. It was. There was Pansy Parkinson, looking at Malfoy with that simpering, adoring gaze, with him just barely seeming to pay attention, as usual. What wasn't so usual was the blindingly white rose stuck in her robes, set off nicely against the black material. His mind whirled, unable to come up with anything coherent as a response. He gaped. It couldn't be. It was. Pansy Parkinson? Harry shuddered, unable to supress his distaste. It didn't make any sense. She was still slathering herself all over Malfoy. This was ridiculous! It couldn't be her, he had to be mistaken. After all, there was a large number of white roses around. And while it may be a strange, insane sort of coincidence to have two of them appear in Hogwarts within such a short time-span, it wasn't impossible, by any stretch of the imagination. Harry tore his eyes away from the taunting white flower. He would eat as fast as he could, and concentrate on his next class. Hopefully, he'd never have to see another glimpse of that white rose, whether it was his or not. And of course it wasn't his. It never had anything to do with him. Just because it appeared on his pillow, meant nothing. Harry stabbed his spoon into the oatmeal somewhat viciously, uncaring that he made a mess. It meant nothing.
~~
"Potter."
"Wha--? Gimmeafewmoreminutes, Ron," Harry mumbled, and buried his head further into the pillow.
"-Potter-," the voice came, more emphatically this time.
"M-Mal... Malfoy?!" Harry sat bolt upright, and his eyes darted about frantically before he remembered he forgot to put on his glasses, and moreover, he didn't really feel like that level of activity suited his present needs. In fact, he really must be dreaming, he thought, because there was just no way in hell Draco Malfoy was sitting cross-legged on his bed, looking perfectly composed and awake, and smirking at him for all he was worth. These kinds of things didn't happen, even in his worst nightmares, but reality was out of the question entirely. "Oh, I get it," he mumbled irritably, his voice muffled against the pillow he'd pressed on top of his head, as he lay back down, once again turned away on his side. "I really don't know what you're thinking, Ron, April Fools Day is months away, and I thought we'd agreed not to use the polyjuice potion so flippantly anymore... and it's really too early in the morning for this, anyway...."
The pseudo-Draco laughed. It wasn't really an unpleasant sound, Harry thought crossly, even if he didn't have a thing to laugh about. "See how funny you think it is when I wake you up with a nice cold bucket of water tomorrow," Harry said ominously.
"Out of luck, Potter," the other boy said lightly. "I'm the real thing, alright. I'll pinch you if you want, though."
"Huh? Real? Pinch? Huh? Oh, why are you doing this... are you still mad about the cream incident," Harry said, not even trying to hide the beginnings of a pout. "I think I need sleep," he continued, mostly talking to himself now.
There was a muffled sound coming from the other boy's direction, sounding suspiciously like a chuckle. "Have it your way. Just thought you should know, all things considered. I got my wish-- the Carnival is coming. Meet me by the Wheel, when it does, at midnight. Don't be late, Potter."
Harry's mind couldn't quite process this, especially seeing as he was barely awake, if at all, but the bizarre nature of this pronouncement made him snap awake, staring blearily in the spot he imagined his unwelcome visitor occupied. Somewhat predictably, there was no one there, though he had the distinct impression he heard what sounded like someone disapparating, just moments before. Of course, he could've imagined it. In fact, he probably imagined the whole bloody encounter. In his only vaguely cognizant state, Harry found himself easily convinced. Yes, it was just a very strange and vaguely disturbing dream. Just like a white rose, though probably this had slightly more to do with him, and his perverse imagination than that fiasco, which pretty much didn't happen in any way, shape or form, of that Harry was almost entirely convinced.
And besides, -what- bloody carnival could the idiot have possibly been going on about? There were no carnivals anywhere near Hogwarts, and there haven't been, and there never would be. Unless Voldemort decided to stage a sneak attack using treacherous fortune-tellers and insane clowns, that is, Harry thought darkly. Harry flopped onto his back, his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling, once again caught in his unwillingness to start yet another day in a procession of days, all dedicated to fighting the impending threat, and learning all there was to learn in Defense Against the Dark Arts class, and not failing Potions too badly this term. He realized he shouldn't condense all his dissatisfactions and bitterness and just plain morose glumness into these few moments before he bounded out of bed, as cheerfully as he could manage, but it was better than doing it right before he fell asleep. His dreams were already dark enough as it was, Harry thought, his mouth curving easily in a frown. He had to allow himself some time to not be optimistic and hopeful and brave, he knew, or he'd simply go mad. And apparently, it wasn't helping -enough- in that department, anyway, this latest Malfoy incident just a case in point, he thought sourly. On that note, he bolted up once again, and painted his usual half-smile on his face. Nothing to be done about it. After all, just like always, this was a day just like any other. And this was something he knew how to deal with, at least.
A half an hour later, while sharing other assorted pieces of gossip over sausage and eggs, Hermione said, talking and chewing carefully all at once, "Oh and I almost forgot. The Carnival of Dreams is coming, in a week or so. Both Lavender and Parvati are positive, it's all over school, and Professor Trelawney has been going on about it since the day before yesterday."
"Huh," Harry said, blankly, not quite processing as of yet.
"Oh Harry. I forgot, you aren't taking Divination with us this term. The Carnival of Dreams. It's a legend that no one was quite sure was real, but apparently it is. It's a traveling carnival, that's supposed to signal the fulfillment of someone's wish, every time it passes by. There hasn't been one anywhere near Hogwarts for ages now."
"The... Carnival... of... Dreams?" he said, slowly, refusing to hear what he was saying, still.
"Yeah. Someone got their wish, it seems," Hermione said with a strange little smile.
"What a load of nonsense," Harry snapped, not thinking about how he sounded, and stood up, away from the table, suddenly. "I've got some homework to do, I just remembered. Sorry, everyone, see you later," he said, and tried to keep himself to a walk, as he made his way frantically out of the Great Hall. His heart was pounding, and his hands were shaking, and he didn't even know why, exactly. Against his will, the scent of spring rain and green things and a faint brush of something, soft and sensual and silky against his cheek, came back to haunt him. His scowl deepened. What nonsense, indeed. He walked faster, not thinking of where he was going, not bothering to wonder at his sudden, inexplicable anger. Therefore, he didn't see it coming, but the next thing he knew, he was colliding with something soft and warm and most definitedly quite as annoyed as he was.
"Potter, you clumsy oaf, watch where you're going!"
"Malfoy," Harry said, his anger intensifying automatically. He couldn't deal with this, not now. One look at Malfoy's sneering face and he knew he'd do something he'd regret later, like punch his lights out. Not that he didn't deserve it. And not that an aching fist wouldn't be entirely worth it to see Malfoy satisfyingly sprawled on the floor. Still, he wouldn't give him the satisfaction. "Could say the same for you," he said, settling for putting as much venom into that statement as possible.
Draco glanced up, a bit surprised at the unusual level of vehemence. Of course, the usual smirk quickly reasserted itself. "Having a bad morning, Potter?" he said sweetly. "Want to tell me all about it?"
Harry almost laughed at that, it was so ludicrous. "Yeah, right. When roses grow out of my arse, maybe," Harry said, before he could think better of it. After he did, he groaned inwardly, quite belatedly. He really didn't need that mental image right then-- or the reference to roses for that matter.
A breathy, surprised sort of laugh escaped Draco's lips at that. "Ha. Well, well. Aren't you the unpredictable one," he drawled.
"Ergh. Whatever. Let me by, Malfoy. I have no patience for this right now," he said. And I'm starting to have one monster of a headache, on top of it all, too, he added to himself.
"Well, go on then, don't let me stop you Potter. I, for one, have important business to attend to, I don't know about you."
"Oh please. So do I-- I think I need to go and throw up. That will be much more satisfying-- and clean-- than any moment I spend talking to you," Harry said, over his shoulder, feeling an unsavory sort of satisfaction at getting the last word in before he strode away, quite aware he was in no way fit for company of any sort, even for the evil, arrogant bastard sort. It did nothing to help his mood to hear Malfoy's surprisedly soft, genuinely amused laughter following him down the corridor.
"Run all you like, Potter. No one escapes the Carnival for long," Draco said, mostly for his own benefit, after he was out of sight. "Not even me," he added, strangely wistful. He wished for change, he knew, but now that it was coming-- he wished he had the luxury of not anticipating the outcome, at the least. He wished he didn't know where that fallen star had landed. He wished he didn't have the most unnerving suspicion it was actually in his lap. He wished a lot of things, all of a sudden, but none of them counted, he knew. He'd made the one that counted, and even if he didn't feel very sure he knew what he wanted anymore, again, he realized that one way or the other, he was going to get it. And he realized it would be nothing like his dreams.
~~