A small fic: 'Like Poetry' H/D; PG . . .
Title: Like Poetry
Author: Arachne002
Genre: Angst
Rating: PG?
Pairings: H/D (I promise)
Summary: Post Hogwarts, post dead Voldemort; Harry undone
Warnings: Almost spoilers for HBP
Disclaimer: J K Rowling owns the characters and stuff: I intend no offence and make no money.
It’s like poetry, thought Harry: that odd sad angry kind that no-one understands and everyone believes, when the rain dribbles down the shop windows and runs down the gutters and into the drains making little sucking sounds around a twist of plastic wrapper caught against the grill; and a lonely figure stands in the pool of light or knowledge on a street corner with his face hidden, and incongruent music judders into the night from the white painted pub that’s been turned into a new dance club for this week.
His life was like poetry; it was written in blood on the broken wall by the Leaky Cauldron and written in names on the polished granite obelisk in the Ministry where the statue of the Magical Brethren used to be - once upon a time. And it was pasted into scrapbooks in yellowing newsprint in attics where no-one would go until Grandma died and the house was up for sale with a red and white sign in front of it. And his life was a story about a boy who never had a choice.
* * *
His life was like a love letter tucked into the back of a picture frame and forgotten or a sentimental memory of a summer night and a pressed flower between the pages of an old Charms textbook in a crowded bookcase.
“It’s like poetry,” said Harry to the man leaning on the bar next to him; “Can I buy you a drink?”
“I like Blake and single malt,” said the man, “Are you a writer?”
“I’m a phrase,” said Harry, “it’s easier that way.”
The man drank his Scotch and then another and touched the back of Harry’s hand and stroked it with a gentle finger; “Are you coming home with me tonight?”
* * *
It’s like memory, thought Harry, sliding out of bed and gathering his clothes and listening to the quiet breathing behind him. He walked to the bridge when the dark was still about him and looked down at the grey water under the street lights.
Like the smell of freshly turned earth in Hagrid’s garden and tea; like rosemary and garlic in a suburban house and cut grass and his own sweat and dusty red and gold hangings and chocolate.
He sat on a bench under the trees when the morning was opening across the park and the birds were singing with their small throats distended and the traffic was hurrying and the joggers pounded around the lake and the voices in his head asked questions that he couldn’t answer.
This is tomorrow: there were ducks in the shallows but he didn’t have any bread and he went back to his flat down the alley where the railway ran past and he stood in the shower and watched the white tiles until the water turned cold. Then he lay on his bed until he slept and twitched and twisted his hands into the quilt and into memories and into grey eyes full of tears and anger.
* * *
“I loved him, you know,” the man at the bar dragged his sleeve across his eyes and knocked his wine into Harry’s lap like blood and it dripped onto the floor. “Sorry; you must think I’m pathetic.”
“No, but I’m . . . wet,” Harry smiled and the man smiled back at him and apologised again. “Maybe we could go back to your place?”
“Let me pay for the drinks; what did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t say. I don’t like names, they remind me of things.”
“I know what you mean; we can take a cab.”
Harry leant forward and touched the man’s face, “Let’s do that then.”
They waited under the light and Harry shifted uncomfortably where the wine had soaked through his jeans and he remembered the dungeons and Snape taking twenty points from Gryffindor when Neville’s potion boiled over and Seamus and Harry leapt away with bright red saturating their robes and dripping onto the stone floor like blood, and Ron opening his mouth to say something and shutting it again when Hermione glared at him.
“Memory fades like days,” said Harry later, and let eager hands unbutton him and strip him and press him into sheets that smelled like lemon balm in the greenhouses when he was still waiting to be.
“I’ll see you around,” there was a warm hand on his arm and warm lips on his neck; “I’d like to see you again . . .”
“I’m always around,” said Harry; “Obliviate . . .”
* * *
“Like a painting,” said Harry staring at the wet bitumen under his feet; “except no-one could paint that.”
“Are you all right?” The girl had copper hair under a blue knitted hat and a cotton satchel slung over one shoulder. “Let me help you.”
He couldn’t stop the laugh then where it bubbled out of his throat and the rainbow slick on the road danced against the tears in his eyes and he dropped to his knees and traced the pattern with his fingers in the rain. Like wings across the morning in the Great Hall and a blur of colour across the Quidditch pitch and that desperate lunge and a tiny golden ball with silver wings in his hand; like night over the lake and the stars looking down and grey eyes looking back at him.
There was a tapestry on the wall near the Charms classroom with threads unravelling and gold twist turned dark; there was light and laughter and lanterns at Halloween and red and silver at Christmas; there was cold laughter and a flash of green light and blood on his hands like thick paint squeezed out on a palette and spattered on a taut stretch of canvas.
“Let me help you,” said the girl kneeling down next to him. “You need to go to the hospital.”
White on white and small marks on the wall like brush strokes, and Madam Pomfrey in her white apron and a tray of coloured phials and a window and white on white against his eyes and a door that opened and closed while people came in and held his hand and went out again.
“No . . . thank you,” Harry spread his hands against the gritty wet pavement and closed his eyes against the pictures painted there - Cedric collapsing on the grass with a surprised exclamation on his lips; Sirius falling backwards through that whispering veil and its grey promise; Dumbledore arching against a blast of green light over the grey wall into earth . . . “Earth,” said Harry, “all the colours we need are there.” He stood up; “Thank you.”
The girl with the blue hat followed him for ten steps and turned away. He slumped into a doorway and watched her disappear into the crowds around the bus stop.
* * *
There was a church on the corner with a garish painted sign inviting sinners to repent. Harry passed it every day and curled his lip at it every day.
But then there was the singing, like angel voices where he sat in the porch on Tuesday nights and thought that Fawkes had come back to save him again.
It was Thursday night and Harry walked past the church and turned into the lane where the wrought iron fence ended; tables and lights and colours were there and slow guitar and a dusty neon blue on blue. Harry sat at one of the tables and tore the sugar packets and watched the white crystals spill onto the ground.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
Harry was watching the sugar and the music was rich and full and he didn’t look up; “If you like.”
“Do you remember me, Harry?”
“I remember everything.”
“I wasn’t sure.”
“When you left . . . I wondered; you didn’t want that . . . I couldn’t save you. I couldn’t save anyone . . .”
“Sometimes we have to save ourselves, Harry.”
The music was deep and dark and nothing like phoenix song and Harry crumpled another paper packet between his fingers and looked into silver-grey eyes; “I thought you died too when I did.”
“You didn’t die, Harry;” long fingers curled into his, “You just lost your way for a little while.”
Harry watched the wine in his glass and the paper scrunched on the table and white grains and a throaty contralto reminded him of nights by the lake and bright hair in the moonlight when Neville was snuggled close to Luna and Hermione was smacking Ron’s hand away when it wandered and he was waiting for Dumbledore to tell him what his life was meant to be.
“I never meant to curse you, Draco; I didn’t know what to do. And then everything went mad. I was mad and you were . . .”
“I know.”
“I’ve paid . . . I’ve . . . watched all my days since then.”
“I know - I paid too.”
* * *
They walked under the lights through the evening past the church and Harry thought he heard angel voices, and ‘Who made thee?’, and night was painted in bright chaotic colour against the grey under his feet and he remembered duelling in second year and a boy who was asked to do more than he could and cried in a bathroom and notes in the margins of a book. He opened his mouth under Draco’s hot kisses where he was pressed against the wall and understood that now was everything.
“Are you coming home with me tonight, Harry? I’ve missed you . . .”
There was a polished monument in the Ministry and empty places in the world where friends used to be and a warm hand pulling him into another kiss;
“Yes, Draco, I want to go home.”
Author: Arachne002
Genre: Angst
Rating: PG?
Pairings: H/D (I promise)
Summary: Post Hogwarts, post dead Voldemort; Harry undone
Warnings: Almost spoilers for HBP
Disclaimer: J K Rowling owns the characters and stuff: I intend no offence and make no money.
It’s like poetry, thought Harry: that odd sad angry kind that no-one understands and everyone believes, when the rain dribbles down the shop windows and runs down the gutters and into the drains making little sucking sounds around a twist of plastic wrapper caught against the grill; and a lonely figure stands in the pool of light or knowledge on a street corner with his face hidden, and incongruent music judders into the night from the white painted pub that’s been turned into a new dance club for this week.
His life was like poetry; it was written in blood on the broken wall by the Leaky Cauldron and written in names on the polished granite obelisk in the Ministry where the statue of the Magical Brethren used to be - once upon a time. And it was pasted into scrapbooks in yellowing newsprint in attics where no-one would go until Grandma died and the house was up for sale with a red and white sign in front of it. And his life was a story about a boy who never had a choice.
* * *
His life was like a love letter tucked into the back of a picture frame and forgotten or a sentimental memory of a summer night and a pressed flower between the pages of an old Charms textbook in a crowded bookcase.
“It’s like poetry,” said Harry to the man leaning on the bar next to him; “Can I buy you a drink?”
“I like Blake and single malt,” said the man, “Are you a writer?”
“I’m a phrase,” said Harry, “it’s easier that way.”
The man drank his Scotch and then another and touched the back of Harry’s hand and stroked it with a gentle finger; “Are you coming home with me tonight?”
* * *
It’s like memory, thought Harry, sliding out of bed and gathering his clothes and listening to the quiet breathing behind him. He walked to the bridge when the dark was still about him and looked down at the grey water under the street lights.
Like the smell of freshly turned earth in Hagrid’s garden and tea; like rosemary and garlic in a suburban house and cut grass and his own sweat and dusty red and gold hangings and chocolate.
He sat on a bench under the trees when the morning was opening across the park and the birds were singing with their small throats distended and the traffic was hurrying and the joggers pounded around the lake and the voices in his head asked questions that he couldn’t answer.
This is tomorrow: there were ducks in the shallows but he didn’t have any bread and he went back to his flat down the alley where the railway ran past and he stood in the shower and watched the white tiles until the water turned cold. Then he lay on his bed until he slept and twitched and twisted his hands into the quilt and into memories and into grey eyes full of tears and anger.
* * *
“I loved him, you know,” the man at the bar dragged his sleeve across his eyes and knocked his wine into Harry’s lap like blood and it dripped onto the floor. “Sorry; you must think I’m pathetic.”
“No, but I’m . . . wet,” Harry smiled and the man smiled back at him and apologised again. “Maybe we could go back to your place?”
“Let me pay for the drinks; what did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t say. I don’t like names, they remind me of things.”
“I know what you mean; we can take a cab.”
Harry leant forward and touched the man’s face, “Let’s do that then.”
They waited under the light and Harry shifted uncomfortably where the wine had soaked through his jeans and he remembered the dungeons and Snape taking twenty points from Gryffindor when Neville’s potion boiled over and Seamus and Harry leapt away with bright red saturating their robes and dripping onto the stone floor like blood, and Ron opening his mouth to say something and shutting it again when Hermione glared at him.
“Memory fades like days,” said Harry later, and let eager hands unbutton him and strip him and press him into sheets that smelled like lemon balm in the greenhouses when he was still waiting to be.
“I’ll see you around,” there was a warm hand on his arm and warm lips on his neck; “I’d like to see you again . . .”
“I’m always around,” said Harry; “Obliviate . . .”
* * *
“Like a painting,” said Harry staring at the wet bitumen under his feet; “except no-one could paint that.”
“Are you all right?” The girl had copper hair under a blue knitted hat and a cotton satchel slung over one shoulder. “Let me help you.”
He couldn’t stop the laugh then where it bubbled out of his throat and the rainbow slick on the road danced against the tears in his eyes and he dropped to his knees and traced the pattern with his fingers in the rain. Like wings across the morning in the Great Hall and a blur of colour across the Quidditch pitch and that desperate lunge and a tiny golden ball with silver wings in his hand; like night over the lake and the stars looking down and grey eyes looking back at him.
There was a tapestry on the wall near the Charms classroom with threads unravelling and gold twist turned dark; there was light and laughter and lanterns at Halloween and red and silver at Christmas; there was cold laughter and a flash of green light and blood on his hands like thick paint squeezed out on a palette and spattered on a taut stretch of canvas.
“Let me help you,” said the girl kneeling down next to him. “You need to go to the hospital.”
White on white and small marks on the wall like brush strokes, and Madam Pomfrey in her white apron and a tray of coloured phials and a window and white on white against his eyes and a door that opened and closed while people came in and held his hand and went out again.
“No . . . thank you,” Harry spread his hands against the gritty wet pavement and closed his eyes against the pictures painted there - Cedric collapsing on the grass with a surprised exclamation on his lips; Sirius falling backwards through that whispering veil and its grey promise; Dumbledore arching against a blast of green light over the grey wall into earth . . . “Earth,” said Harry, “all the colours we need are there.” He stood up; “Thank you.”
The girl with the blue hat followed him for ten steps and turned away. He slumped into a doorway and watched her disappear into the crowds around the bus stop.
* * *
There was a church on the corner with a garish painted sign inviting sinners to repent. Harry passed it every day and curled his lip at it every day.
But then there was the singing, like angel voices where he sat in the porch on Tuesday nights and thought that Fawkes had come back to save him again.
It was Thursday night and Harry walked past the church and turned into the lane where the wrought iron fence ended; tables and lights and colours were there and slow guitar and a dusty neon blue on blue. Harry sat at one of the tables and tore the sugar packets and watched the white crystals spill onto the ground.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
Harry was watching the sugar and the music was rich and full and he didn’t look up; “If you like.”
“Do you remember me, Harry?”
“I remember everything.”
“I wasn’t sure.”
“When you left . . . I wondered; you didn’t want that . . . I couldn’t save you. I couldn’t save anyone . . .”
“Sometimes we have to save ourselves, Harry.”
The music was deep and dark and nothing like phoenix song and Harry crumpled another paper packet between his fingers and looked into silver-grey eyes; “I thought you died too when I did.”
“You didn’t die, Harry;” long fingers curled into his, “You just lost your way for a little while.”
Harry watched the wine in his glass and the paper scrunched on the table and white grains and a throaty contralto reminded him of nights by the lake and bright hair in the moonlight when Neville was snuggled close to Luna and Hermione was smacking Ron’s hand away when it wandered and he was waiting for Dumbledore to tell him what his life was meant to be.
“I never meant to curse you, Draco; I didn’t know what to do. And then everything went mad. I was mad and you were . . .”
“I know.”
“I’ve paid . . . I’ve . . . watched all my days since then.”
“I know - I paid too.”
* * *
They walked under the lights through the evening past the church and Harry thought he heard angel voices, and ‘Who made thee?’, and night was painted in bright chaotic colour against the grey under his feet and he remembered duelling in second year and a boy who was asked to do more than he could and cried in a bathroom and notes in the margins of a book. He opened his mouth under Draco’s hot kisses where he was pressed against the wall and understood that now was everything.
“Are you coming home with me tonight, Harry? I’ve missed you . . .”
There was a polished monument in the Ministry and empty places in the world where friends used to be and a warm hand pulling him into another kiss;
“Yes, Draco, I want to go home.”