Cold-hearted by petulantgod (Harry/Draco - R)
Title: Cold-hearted
Author: petulantgod
Rating: R
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Warnings: Character death, dark thematic elements
A/N: Written for hp_literotica's Cold Weather Challenge.
The sudden sharp stab of razor-edged icicle splintered through Draco's narrow chest and into his black heart despite his desperate struggles, pinning him through the throes of death, the rattle of breath that shakily left his body and carried soul and spirit with it like a gypsy his pack. Soul and spirit moved on, up into the skirling wind, the cold north wind that never stopped blowing over the Scottish moor. Heather lay dead and awaiting spring, coming up in great knotted clots when the shovel pierced earth to make a new bed for their eternal sleep.
Soft words whispered in puffs of smoke, vanishing almost as soon as they were spoken because there was no one to hear them. Words mattered only should memory or pen record them, and with nothing but the crystalline mist of frigid January air and the muffled hum of voice in Harry's scarfed and hatted ears, it could never be certain what he had spoken, or if he had spoken, or if perhaps the smoke was only his breath, only nothing, only his own soul departing.
Tears dripped down his long black lashes, lachrymal sculpture, saline works of art. He lay there silently on the freshly turned earth, letting his warmth seep out and into the ground, letting the soil steal his quintessence. Slowly, he unfastened his trousers, his gloved hands still covered in grave dirt and leaving streaks of damp earth clinging to his belly as he pushed his hand inside the wool and against his skin. The chill shook him to the bone as he gripped himself mercilessly, looking over at the sightless gaze just beside him in the shallow hole. Still, pale, seeping blood into the earth the way he once bled sweat into their blankets.
This is the way he touched me, he thought as he stroked himself, This is the way he did it. This is what he did to the others, to Zabini and Nott and Snape...
Friction warmed his cock, the leather glove pulling and tugging at delicate skin, painful because he deserved it. Slowly the world spun away leaving only the remembered grey of Draco's eyes. The clouds above were grey. The stalks of last summer's heather were grey, the skeletons of shrubs and scrub trees, all grey. All the world was grey, and he watched the light fade from the canopy of the sky as he had watched it fade from Draco's eyes. His nostrils burned with the chill of the air, with the desperation of the moments before he came, the great inhalations of sharp ragged breaths that drew the subzero air deep inside his body, as though Heaven itself penetrated him, and then he stilled.
Simple thoughts so close to the edge of death and life and death, from a simple mind made complex more by destiny than design. It was simple to think that the Boy Who Lived should become the Boy Who Killed, because he'd survived only to slay Voldemort. What had he been but a glorified and exonerated assassin? Did it not make perfect sense that when offered the choice between the cup of Life and the chalice of Death, he would, like all creatures in pain, cling to the familiar?
He betrayed me. They will find us together, a hole through both our hearts, though his is only physical.
The shard of pure ice through Draco's heart would remain until spring's thaw, and when their bodies were uncovered at last, there could be no doubt that the cycle was finished, the internal made external, the hidden revealed by Death, the chastiser and absolver of foolish young men. Harry stared into the sky as the snowflakes drifted down, glittering jewels like the tears frozen to his cheeks. It seemed he felt the cold hole through his own heart, but his energy was gone and nothing mattered now. Saliva iced over his lips as his breath lagged, sealing them shut, holding back any bitter words or pleas for help or frantic wandless magic. Covered in a quilt of ice crystals, under layers of downy snow, they were left to their nothingness.
Author: petulantgod
Rating: R
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Warnings: Character death, dark thematic elements
A/N: Written for hp_literotica's Cold Weather Challenge.
The sudden sharp stab of razor-edged icicle splintered through Draco's narrow chest and into his black heart despite his desperate struggles, pinning him through the throes of death, the rattle of breath that shakily left his body and carried soul and spirit with it like a gypsy his pack. Soul and spirit moved on, up into the skirling wind, the cold north wind that never stopped blowing over the Scottish moor. Heather lay dead and awaiting spring, coming up in great knotted clots when the shovel pierced earth to make a new bed for their eternal sleep.
Soft words whispered in puffs of smoke, vanishing almost as soon as they were spoken because there was no one to hear them. Words mattered only should memory or pen record them, and with nothing but the crystalline mist of frigid January air and the muffled hum of voice in Harry's scarfed and hatted ears, it could never be certain what he had spoken, or if he had spoken, or if perhaps the smoke was only his breath, only nothing, only his own soul departing.
Tears dripped down his long black lashes, lachrymal sculpture, saline works of art. He lay there silently on the freshly turned earth, letting his warmth seep out and into the ground, letting the soil steal his quintessence. Slowly, he unfastened his trousers, his gloved hands still covered in grave dirt and leaving streaks of damp earth clinging to his belly as he pushed his hand inside the wool and against his skin. The chill shook him to the bone as he gripped himself mercilessly, looking over at the sightless gaze just beside him in the shallow hole. Still, pale, seeping blood into the earth the way he once bled sweat into their blankets.
This is the way he touched me, he thought as he stroked himself, This is the way he did it. This is what he did to the others, to Zabini and Nott and Snape...
Friction warmed his cock, the leather glove pulling and tugging at delicate skin, painful because he deserved it. Slowly the world spun away leaving only the remembered grey of Draco's eyes. The clouds above were grey. The stalks of last summer's heather were grey, the skeletons of shrubs and scrub trees, all grey. All the world was grey, and he watched the light fade from the canopy of the sky as he had watched it fade from Draco's eyes. His nostrils burned with the chill of the air, with the desperation of the moments before he came, the great inhalations of sharp ragged breaths that drew the subzero air deep inside his body, as though Heaven itself penetrated him, and then he stilled.
Simple thoughts so close to the edge of death and life and death, from a simple mind made complex more by destiny than design. It was simple to think that the Boy Who Lived should become the Boy Who Killed, because he'd survived only to slay Voldemort. What had he been but a glorified and exonerated assassin? Did it not make perfect sense that when offered the choice between the cup of Life and the chalice of Death, he would, like all creatures in pain, cling to the familiar?
He betrayed me. They will find us together, a hole through both our hearts, though his is only physical.
The shard of pure ice through Draco's heart would remain until spring's thaw, and when their bodies were uncovered at last, there could be no doubt that the cycle was finished, the internal made external, the hidden revealed by Death, the chastiser and absolver of foolish young men. Harry stared into the sky as the snowflakes drifted down, glittering jewels like the tears frozen to his cheeks. It seemed he felt the cold hole through his own heart, but his energy was gone and nothing mattered now. Saliva iced over his lips as his breath lagged, sealing them shut, holding back any bitter words or pleas for help or frantic wandless magic. Covered in a quilt of ice crystals, under layers of downy snow, they were left to their nothingness.