Fiction: Unsaid
Title: Unsaid
Author/Artist: Jenni, aka theubaz
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Warning: Deathfic, drama, angst. Suggested yaoi. Adult themes.
Summary/Note: It all seems so very pointless when you reach the end. Especially when the end you are faced with is not your own, and that you want so very much to say things you never managed to say. But what can you do when the one you love is lost and you never told them you loved them?
This is a X-post.
It was originally posted in the_dark_garden for the following challenge:
Challenge #24
"Looking back, I have this to regret; that too often when I loved, I did not say so."
David Grayson
It all seems so very pointless when you reach the end.
Everybody always makes such a point of taking the journey and enjoying all that you can grasp and hold until you have squeezed every last moment you can manage out of it - but nobody ever makes it their responsibility to discuss the end. Perhaps this is because once you've reached the end, it's easy to see how pointless the rest of it all was. So disappointing, all of it. The bitterness, the emotion, the silence. And it was grating on Draco's nerves.
Even though he could hear a surprising amount of choked sobs and muttered grievances around him, none of it fully registered. They were mere annoyances to be brushed off. What Draco considered most important at the moment was the silence inside his head. The silence was a burning fire creeping along his skin in stealthy licking flames that didn't bring pain, only icy emotionless hatred. Hatred for what had caused this, what had brought this end, what had led to the dull lifeless green eyes he had loved to stare into just to try and figure out how many layers of emotion could be seen in one color. Now all of that stunning life, the type of fire that was completely opposite to the flames dancing invisibly against his skin, was missing from those green eyes. And he wanted it back.
"Harry, oh Harry..."
"Why did he have to do this?"
"It's all that man's fault, I hope he pays."
Such trivial commentary, such an annoying presence - he wants to be alone, he wants to scream and pound on the walls until he has what he wants back, he just wants to be able to cry instead of maintaining the perfect emotionless face of the perfect politician. Instead he smiles, stepping past the crowds of people lining the ministry hallways, nodding to those who recognize him and ignoring the sniveling snobs who don't deserve to be here. To all those weaklings, Harry was only their hero. He was only a useless status symbol they had used to keep their hope alive as an excuse to hide away from the real terrors of their war-filled war. They had never seen Harry's bright smile, the real one - not the one he gave to those with cameras during interviews. They had never felt the strength of his mind during a heated argument or felt the strength of his will under smooth dark skin that was salty with sheens of sweat. They hadn't held his hand, held his shoulders in encouragement, held his body as tears wracked him into unbearable shaking agony because his friends were dying and it all seemed so hopeless when the end was past the horizon somewhere unseen. They knew nothing. And that made them nothing.
He wants to scream.
Somebody is attempting to shake his hand, but he feels no remorse at pulling his hand away with a cold glare. Ah, Cornelius Fudge. A man who feels he deserves respect, when in all actuality he deserves none. This is all his fault. The world knows it. With all of his pushing for Harry to do more and give more to the war. "They need you, Harry. You can't just walk away now, can you?" he would say, those simpering puppy dog eyes making Harry roll his eyes and agree once more to face his own death just to save a hundred more. Oh, the stupid stupid git.
"Yes, a tragedy this one. It will be hard to carry on after this, won't it? But we shall manage, we will have to. Yes, yes. We will have to." He's talking, gibbering on and on. Oh, what trash. What filth. The sneer is habitual, Harry would've grinned and called it his trademark. Instantly, the stupid git isn't gibbering anymore. Draco can't see the cold ice brimming over in his eyes, or the icy fire of hatred lighting them into twin sparks of intimidation. But everyone else can see it, especially the idiotic Cornelius Fudge, and it's terribly frightening to be suddenly facing a very very angry dragon instead of a very very calm politician. Draco always looks the part, whether dragon or politician, with his clothing of dark greys and black silks tailored to trace hard lines of sculpted marble. Harry would've called him a fashion whore, before removing the tempting clothing in such ways that Draco would forget who he was.
"Tragedy?" His voice is dripping with malice and a few heads turn in their direction at hearing Malfoy speak so coldly. More than a few show curiosity at who is being faced with the famous Malfoy wrath, and even more than that are surprised to see that it's the famous Mr. Fudge who's the current victim. All of them, however, are happy enough that they aren't involved whatsoever.
"Yes, I guess we could call this a tradgedy. The loss of a hero, the status symbol, the Ministry's only chance. My my, whatever will you do now that your precious glowing savior?" Draco is looking over Fudge's head, tapping his long fingers against the air in his vicious musings. But then he redirects his awful stare back at the bumbling idiot and an inner part of him thrills at the fear he sees reflected there. "Especially when they find that this is all your fucking fault." He says the last line slowly, letting the full brunt of his emotions twist the words until they are so deformed with his current hatred, his current pain, his current malice, that they no longer make an accusation.. but a death sentence. Fudge backs away, stumbling slightly as his shoulder brushes along some other mourner who quickly steps away from the one who has so foolishly brought out the infamous Malfoy wrath. But by then Draco has walked away, content to go outside. To be alone. To be away from all this stupidity.
He sits quietly on a bench outside, draped in a crouched over pose with his head in his hands and his feet lifted off the ground to bend artfully in front of him so that there isn't any room for anyone else to sit by him. And that's just the way he wants it. Few touched Draco before Harry, and none would touch him now. Why was it like this? Why hadn't he seen this coming? Harry wasn't immortal - he knew that. But still. Harry had always been there, had never gone missing than more than a few days at a time (and then the meeting up again was so frenzied and full of kisses that it was hard to believe he had ever left) that Draco had grown used to him and never fully considered the effect of his being gone forever. Of his being dead.
"Don't worry, Draco. It's only for a few days."
"Yes, yes. I know."
"Then why are you pacing instead of helping me get ready?"
"Get ready? For what? You don't need anything but your wand."
A kiss on the cheek. "You know what I mean. I'm going to miss you and you know it."
"Of course I know it. Who wouldn't miss me? My presence demands you to want me."
A laugh and another kiss. On the edge of the mouth, demanding more in return.
"Hmm, you and that ego. It's your trademark."
Another kiss, softer and fully on the lips.
"I thought you said my smirk was my trademark."
"They both are. You'll miss me?"
"Of course."
"You love me?"
Another kiss, that leads to another.
"Don't stay away for too long."
"Promise. Now, fuck me already, won't you?"
That's all that's needed.
A rush of air across his skin as he's pushed against the bed.
Panting breath against his collarbone as hands push themselves down his sides.
They're such a dark contrast against his pale skin, and he stops them to taste their rich flavor.
And then he's swept into a kiss, so fierce and full of the fear that he may never get to experience this again.
It wrenches something deep inside of him. That's when he hears what it is Harry's panting against the skin.
Draco Draco Draco I love you Oh I love you Draco Draco Draco I love you I love you My Draco Draco Draco love
He grabs at clothes, delivering searing nips that he soothes away his tongue.
Drowning out the sound so he doesn't have to answer, but drunk on the whispers all the same.
Draco shakes himself from the memories, not realizing he's choking back sobs. His throat is so tight that he can't breathe, he fears he may just die. It's not very Malfoy-like to die on a park bench, but right now he can't bring himself to care. He had never told Harry he loved him. He had shown him and known it in the very deep fibrous part of his being.. but he had never said it. Saying you loved someone.. it was a weakness. And he had not been ready. Now it was too late. Harry had been struck off a mirror with an Unforgivable curse, and even the Boy Who Had Lived can sometimes skip out on a repeat performance if it hits him in the back. Draco could only imagine how it had played out, Harry's fiery green eyes going wide with surprise as he falls forward - always messy hair flying with the movement before he comes crashing down against the cold, had floor. No blood, no screams. Just a muffled gasp of being caught off guard and then nothing at all. He's moaning, rocking back and forth with his arms clasped tightly around his legs. THe pain has spread wildly from his heart and lungs to the rest of his body. No longer a dull throb, but more of a raging wildfire of emotion that anybody would go mad to experience. He thinks he's going mad, no - he knows it. He's his one love, his one true love.. and never even got to claim it out loud.
He wants to scream. He's content to laugh.
"Malfoy?"
He looks up at the voice to see a straight faced Hermione Granger with a tear streaked face hand in hand with a very solemn Ron Weasley. His laughter is suddenly gone, leaving him feeling strangely hollow. They're both so pale they could pass for wraiths. He unfolds himself enough to manage a composed nod of politeness, not caring that his face is just as tear streaked as the mudblood's.
"Are you alright?" she asks, voice shaky but firm in her resolve to carry on Harry's mission to be good to everyone. He'd always thought it so silly, but when Harry tried it - he couldn't help but shake his head and smile while going along with it. His answer is to give her as pointed a look as he can manage, with his tailored clothes rumpled and his hair a mess. She smiles ruefully in return, understanding the stupidity of the question before trying again.
"Ron's mum is throwing a sort of memorial. At the burrow. You know, to celebrate Harry."
"Instead of sniveling like the idiots who didn't know him at all in there." mutters Ron, and Draco can't stop a small twitch of a smile at his same sentiments being expressed from the git he's called Weasel for over 13 years. Hermione doesn't miss the smile even though Ron does and gives a small twitch in return. Draco doesn't respond to the subtle invite, but Hermione doesn't let it go. Apparently, she's picked up some of the good 'ol Weasly charm of being blunt and stubborn.
"Well, you coming? We'd actually like you to be there, believe it or not."
Draco gives it a second before answering, already knowing that it will be a yes. Harry would have wanted him to. Harry would have dressed him up and lectured him on what to say and what not to say. Harry would've snogged him senseless right before to get rid of his nerves and dragged him into that house of common sense people his father considered 'a bunch of nobodies'. But Harry wasn't here, and Draco was going to have to manage that all on his own. The thought started to bring back the madness again, but he somehow managed to choke it back with a small hiccup and a nod. "I-I'll be there."
He's not proud of the stutter, but it's worth it to see the surprise in Ron's gaze. Past the surprise and grief, he seems somewhat happy at Draco's acceptance - which surprises Draco a bit in return. Hermione seems just as happy, although it's barely recognizable through the grief that's etched heavy lines along her face. Not being able to stand the morning atmosphere any longer, Draco finds himself walking away with his hands in his pockets. They make no move to stop him, understanding completely the need to be alone.
That's when it hits him - he doesn't want to be alone. He wants to be with Harry. But he is alone. Harry is gone forever now. And that brings him swirling right back into that dark madness of such soul wrenching sorrow that he finds himself swaying, crashing and crumpling to a ground too hard to make it an easy fall. He thinks he hears someone call out a warning, or some other exclamation of surprise, but he's too gone to make sense of it now. That pain is back, all over and he can't breathe and he can barely see and he can only feel. At the last moment before he's completely encompassed, he swears there's the feeling of strong arms embracing him from behind. They're filled with that strength and he imagines they're covered with that smooth dark skin he so loves to taste. He feels the warm breath on his neck that he's loved for the last 3 years. He even hears the small whispered words he hadn't been able to respond to yet, the three words that terrified him for so long: "I love you." And so he finally takes his chance and answers before succumbing completely to the darkness.
"I love you too, Harry."
[note]:
This is my first Harry Potter fanfic. Actually, it's my first fanfic period. I just wanted to try something new and see if I could answer a challenge. So, tell me what you think and please be nice? Lol.
Author/Artist: Jenni, aka theubaz
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Warning: Deathfic, drama, angst. Suggested yaoi. Adult themes.
Summary/Note: It all seems so very pointless when you reach the end. Especially when the end you are faced with is not your own, and that you want so very much to say things you never managed to say. But what can you do when the one you love is lost and you never told them you loved them?
This is a X-post.
It was originally posted in the_dark_garden for the following challenge:
Challenge #24
"Looking back, I have this to regret; that too often when I loved, I did not say so."
David Grayson
It all seems so very pointless when you reach the end.
Everybody always makes such a point of taking the journey and enjoying all that you can grasp and hold until you have squeezed every last moment you can manage out of it - but nobody ever makes it their responsibility to discuss the end. Perhaps this is because once you've reached the end, it's easy to see how pointless the rest of it all was. So disappointing, all of it. The bitterness, the emotion, the silence. And it was grating on Draco's nerves.
Even though he could hear a surprising amount of choked sobs and muttered grievances around him, none of it fully registered. They were mere annoyances to be brushed off. What Draco considered most important at the moment was the silence inside his head. The silence was a burning fire creeping along his skin in stealthy licking flames that didn't bring pain, only icy emotionless hatred. Hatred for what had caused this, what had brought this end, what had led to the dull lifeless green eyes he had loved to stare into just to try and figure out how many layers of emotion could be seen in one color. Now all of that stunning life, the type of fire that was completely opposite to the flames dancing invisibly against his skin, was missing from those green eyes. And he wanted it back.
"Harry, oh Harry..."
"Why did he have to do this?"
"It's all that man's fault, I hope he pays."
Such trivial commentary, such an annoying presence - he wants to be alone, he wants to scream and pound on the walls until he has what he wants back, he just wants to be able to cry instead of maintaining the perfect emotionless face of the perfect politician. Instead he smiles, stepping past the crowds of people lining the ministry hallways, nodding to those who recognize him and ignoring the sniveling snobs who don't deserve to be here. To all those weaklings, Harry was only their hero. He was only a useless status symbol they had used to keep their hope alive as an excuse to hide away from the real terrors of their war-filled war. They had never seen Harry's bright smile, the real one - not the one he gave to those with cameras during interviews. They had never felt the strength of his mind during a heated argument or felt the strength of his will under smooth dark skin that was salty with sheens of sweat. They hadn't held his hand, held his shoulders in encouragement, held his body as tears wracked him into unbearable shaking agony because his friends were dying and it all seemed so hopeless when the end was past the horizon somewhere unseen. They knew nothing. And that made them nothing.
He wants to scream.
Somebody is attempting to shake his hand, but he feels no remorse at pulling his hand away with a cold glare. Ah, Cornelius Fudge. A man who feels he deserves respect, when in all actuality he deserves none. This is all his fault. The world knows it. With all of his pushing for Harry to do more and give more to the war. "They need you, Harry. You can't just walk away now, can you?" he would say, those simpering puppy dog eyes making Harry roll his eyes and agree once more to face his own death just to save a hundred more. Oh, the stupid stupid git.
"Yes, a tragedy this one. It will be hard to carry on after this, won't it? But we shall manage, we will have to. Yes, yes. We will have to." He's talking, gibbering on and on. Oh, what trash. What filth. The sneer is habitual, Harry would've grinned and called it his trademark. Instantly, the stupid git isn't gibbering anymore. Draco can't see the cold ice brimming over in his eyes, or the icy fire of hatred lighting them into twin sparks of intimidation. But everyone else can see it, especially the idiotic Cornelius Fudge, and it's terribly frightening to be suddenly facing a very very angry dragon instead of a very very calm politician. Draco always looks the part, whether dragon or politician, with his clothing of dark greys and black silks tailored to trace hard lines of sculpted marble. Harry would've called him a fashion whore, before removing the tempting clothing in such ways that Draco would forget who he was.
"Tragedy?" His voice is dripping with malice and a few heads turn in their direction at hearing Malfoy speak so coldly. More than a few show curiosity at who is being faced with the famous Malfoy wrath, and even more than that are surprised to see that it's the famous Mr. Fudge who's the current victim. All of them, however, are happy enough that they aren't involved whatsoever.
"Yes, I guess we could call this a tradgedy. The loss of a hero, the status symbol, the Ministry's only chance. My my, whatever will you do now that your precious glowing savior?" Draco is looking over Fudge's head, tapping his long fingers against the air in his vicious musings. But then he redirects his awful stare back at the bumbling idiot and an inner part of him thrills at the fear he sees reflected there. "Especially when they find that this is all your fucking fault." He says the last line slowly, letting the full brunt of his emotions twist the words until they are so deformed with his current hatred, his current pain, his current malice, that they no longer make an accusation.. but a death sentence. Fudge backs away, stumbling slightly as his shoulder brushes along some other mourner who quickly steps away from the one who has so foolishly brought out the infamous Malfoy wrath. But by then Draco has walked away, content to go outside. To be alone. To be away from all this stupidity.
He sits quietly on a bench outside, draped in a crouched over pose with his head in his hands and his feet lifted off the ground to bend artfully in front of him so that there isn't any room for anyone else to sit by him. And that's just the way he wants it. Few touched Draco before Harry, and none would touch him now. Why was it like this? Why hadn't he seen this coming? Harry wasn't immortal - he knew that. But still. Harry had always been there, had never gone missing than more than a few days at a time (and then the meeting up again was so frenzied and full of kisses that it was hard to believe he had ever left) that Draco had grown used to him and never fully considered the effect of his being gone forever. Of his being dead.
"Don't worry, Draco. It's only for a few days."
"Yes, yes. I know."
"Then why are you pacing instead of helping me get ready?"
"Get ready? For what? You don't need anything but your wand."
A kiss on the cheek. "You know what I mean. I'm going to miss you and you know it."
"Of course I know it. Who wouldn't miss me? My presence demands you to want me."
A laugh and another kiss. On the edge of the mouth, demanding more in return.
"Hmm, you and that ego. It's your trademark."
Another kiss, softer and fully on the lips.
"I thought you said my smirk was my trademark."
"They both are. You'll miss me?"
"Of course."
"You love me?"
Another kiss, that leads to another.
"Don't stay away for too long."
"Promise. Now, fuck me already, won't you?"
That's all that's needed.
A rush of air across his skin as he's pushed against the bed.
Panting breath against his collarbone as hands push themselves down his sides.
They're such a dark contrast against his pale skin, and he stops them to taste their rich flavor.
And then he's swept into a kiss, so fierce and full of the fear that he may never get to experience this again.
It wrenches something deep inside of him. That's when he hears what it is Harry's panting against the skin.
Draco Draco Draco I love you Oh I love you Draco Draco Draco I love you I love you My Draco Draco Draco love
He grabs at clothes, delivering searing nips that he soothes away his tongue.
Drowning out the sound so he doesn't have to answer, but drunk on the whispers all the same.
Draco shakes himself from the memories, not realizing he's choking back sobs. His throat is so tight that he can't breathe, he fears he may just die. It's not very Malfoy-like to die on a park bench, but right now he can't bring himself to care. He had never told Harry he loved him. He had shown him and known it in the very deep fibrous part of his being.. but he had never said it. Saying you loved someone.. it was a weakness. And he had not been ready. Now it was too late. Harry had been struck off a mirror with an Unforgivable curse, and even the Boy Who Had Lived can sometimes skip out on a repeat performance if it hits him in the back. Draco could only imagine how it had played out, Harry's fiery green eyes going wide with surprise as he falls forward - always messy hair flying with the movement before he comes crashing down against the cold, had floor. No blood, no screams. Just a muffled gasp of being caught off guard and then nothing at all. He's moaning, rocking back and forth with his arms clasped tightly around his legs. THe pain has spread wildly from his heart and lungs to the rest of his body. No longer a dull throb, but more of a raging wildfire of emotion that anybody would go mad to experience. He thinks he's going mad, no - he knows it. He's his one love, his one true love.. and never even got to claim it out loud.
He wants to scream. He's content to laugh.
"Malfoy?"
He looks up at the voice to see a straight faced Hermione Granger with a tear streaked face hand in hand with a very solemn Ron Weasley. His laughter is suddenly gone, leaving him feeling strangely hollow. They're both so pale they could pass for wraiths. He unfolds himself enough to manage a composed nod of politeness, not caring that his face is just as tear streaked as the mudblood's.
"Are you alright?" she asks, voice shaky but firm in her resolve to carry on Harry's mission to be good to everyone. He'd always thought it so silly, but when Harry tried it - he couldn't help but shake his head and smile while going along with it. His answer is to give her as pointed a look as he can manage, with his tailored clothes rumpled and his hair a mess. She smiles ruefully in return, understanding the stupidity of the question before trying again.
"Ron's mum is throwing a sort of memorial. At the burrow. You know, to celebrate Harry."
"Instead of sniveling like the idiots who didn't know him at all in there." mutters Ron, and Draco can't stop a small twitch of a smile at his same sentiments being expressed from the git he's called Weasel for over 13 years. Hermione doesn't miss the smile even though Ron does and gives a small twitch in return. Draco doesn't respond to the subtle invite, but Hermione doesn't let it go. Apparently, she's picked up some of the good 'ol Weasly charm of being blunt and stubborn.
"Well, you coming? We'd actually like you to be there, believe it or not."
Draco gives it a second before answering, already knowing that it will be a yes. Harry would have wanted him to. Harry would have dressed him up and lectured him on what to say and what not to say. Harry would've snogged him senseless right before to get rid of his nerves and dragged him into that house of common sense people his father considered 'a bunch of nobodies'. But Harry wasn't here, and Draco was going to have to manage that all on his own. The thought started to bring back the madness again, but he somehow managed to choke it back with a small hiccup and a nod. "I-I'll be there."
He's not proud of the stutter, but it's worth it to see the surprise in Ron's gaze. Past the surprise and grief, he seems somewhat happy at Draco's acceptance - which surprises Draco a bit in return. Hermione seems just as happy, although it's barely recognizable through the grief that's etched heavy lines along her face. Not being able to stand the morning atmosphere any longer, Draco finds himself walking away with his hands in his pockets. They make no move to stop him, understanding completely the need to be alone.
That's when it hits him - he doesn't want to be alone. He wants to be with Harry. But he is alone. Harry is gone forever now. And that brings him swirling right back into that dark madness of such soul wrenching sorrow that he finds himself swaying, crashing and crumpling to a ground too hard to make it an easy fall. He thinks he hears someone call out a warning, or some other exclamation of surprise, but he's too gone to make sense of it now. That pain is back, all over and he can't breathe and he can barely see and he can only feel. At the last moment before he's completely encompassed, he swears there's the feeling of strong arms embracing him from behind. They're filled with that strength and he imagines they're covered with that smooth dark skin he so loves to taste. He feels the warm breath on his neck that he's loved for the last 3 years. He even hears the small whispered words he hadn't been able to respond to yet, the three words that terrified him for so long: "I love you." And so he finally takes his chance and answers before succumbing completely to the darkness.
"I love you too, Harry."
[note]:
This is my first Harry Potter fanfic. Actually, it's my first fanfic period. I just wanted to try something new and see if I could answer a challenge. So, tell me what you think and please be nice? Lol.