Fic: Chimerical Perfection (HP)
Title: Chimerical Perfection
Pairing: H/D, of course
Rating: R? Maybe? Gna! I just don't get your ratings....
Spoilers/Warnings: Post-War Fic
Disclaimer: *sigh* Draco and Harry are *not* mine.
N.B: *clap, clap, clap* Everyone stands up and thanks
nephitegirl for her great beta work.... :p
Sparks of lightning streaking the air, tearing the black veil of the sky, setting the room on white fire for a minute.
Lust.
Red.
Sweat.
Pain.
Kiss.
Blue.
Desperation.
Pleasure.
Bruises.
Screams.
Silver.
Bites.
Moans.
Hatred.
Darkness.
Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, hero of the Wizarding World. Harry Potter, Gryffindor’s symbol, brave, honest, fair. Harry Potter, kind neighbour, faithful friend, tender husband.
Harry Bloody Potter. Perfect.
(Perfect.)
(Perfect?)
No.
He knows. Knows that’s a lie. A masquerade.
He knows the part of shadow in Harry, has always known, and maybe that’s why. Why things have always been so complicated between the two of them, why there has always been so much hatred. Because he knew.
He knew something Harry refused to acknowledge. Something frightening that woke Harry in the darkest hours of the night and left him shaking and sweaty and scared.
Anger. Violence. Power. Pleasure.
*
Months have passed since the death, pain, torture, and fear are over. Months and he wonders sometimes. Wonders about Harry, about all that darkness in him. He imagines clouded green abysses burning fire in the night, fisted hands and carmine blood fleeing with the wind.
So when they run into each other that rainy day of November and he sees relief in those deep green eyes as harsh words and rage pour from Harry, he can’t really tell he’s surprised.
He waits three days, wrapped in the blanket of his loneliness, and when, at the darkest hour of the night, Harry knocks on the door, he can’t help smirking at the shadows before getting up.
*
It’s always the same. He would wake up some nights, after weeks of greyish silence, with a dark figure at the threshold of his room. He would smirk and then there would be lips crashing on his own, teeth biting soft pale skin, hands fisting platinum hair, nails digging in his back .
There would be violence, and pain, and maybe tears.
Because this isn’t about love, about tenderness. There are no soft curves, no flaming red hair, no firm breasts, no sweet cheery red lips on the dark silky sheets. There are sharp angles, strong body, lean muscles and stubbled cheeks.
So there would be Harry, not the Golden boy, not the hero, just Harry. Harry, kissing him hard, biting his neck, his lip, breaking the skin, licking the blood. Harry, spreading his legs, slamming in him, leaving dark finger-shaped marks on his hips.
Silence, ragged breaths, sweaty bodies, rustle of clothes and then Harry would be leaving. Without a word. Go back to soft curves, flaming red hair, firm breasts and sweet cherry red lips.
Until next time.
Because he’s Harry’s little secret. Because he’s Harry’s piece of darkness.
Fin.