Fic: we are floating in space [Harry/Draco; PG-13]
Title: we are floating in space
Author: Scela Letifer
Rating: T/PG-13
Pairing: Harry/Draco (more like one-sided Draco POV)
Author Notes: For man_cannot_be's ficlet request.
Words: 400-500
"You're so stupid," Harry says as his hands fist the material of your robes.
Your mouth wrenches open to snarl something -- those somethings that don't matter but are all you're allowed to -- all you can -- get out around Harry Potter, but he slams you hard (but not as hard as he can, because you can't live through as hard as he can) into the wall before you can utter a single syllable.
Stars dance in front of your head, prickling reality with silent light. You're not sure, but there might have been a crack. You think it might be your head. Before black sweeps in, you think: hate me, hate me -- just don't let go.
The black has thankfully consumed before he does, and you can hold onto dreams.
*
You wake up in an infirmary bed.
In the bed next to you, Ginny Weasley is looking at where she once had an arm. You know what it is like to have a piece of yourself and know how it feels and moves and breathes -- and then to find that it is not there. Where is the transition between yours and theirs -- is it when you aren't touching?
You must be staring, because she throws a grimace at you in that indignant way she’s so fond of. You are probably smiling at her loss, because you never liked being alone.
“He’s going to kill you one of these days,” she says, and it rings of prophecy.
*
The Dark Lord isn’t beautiful. He isn’t loving. He isn’t God. He isn’t a replacement for the father of yours he left to rot.
But as you feel the mark burn, as you scream and cry, you think: he will hate me for this - so much that he won’t be able to let go.
So much that I might matter.
*
And you pray most of all that he will kill you. You can imagine losing your body, imagine the severance with such clarity: it’s like losing an arm or your heart or your sanity. Mine. Everyones. Flickers, and it's pretty in the natural breakdown.
Or maybe it’s like gaining the acceptance to the next stage, and like transcending, like floating in space.
You can imagine that he will float in the same space.
You can imagine taking his hand, and never letting go.
Never is an awfully long time, but he’s never bored you yet.
*
The hand will reach out again, and it will always be empty. But it can never stop reaching.
Author: Scela Letifer
Rating: T/PG-13
Pairing: Harry/Draco (more like one-sided Draco POV)
Author Notes: For man_cannot_be's ficlet request.
Words: 400-500
"You're so stupid," Harry says as his hands fist the material of your robes.
Your mouth wrenches open to snarl something -- those somethings that don't matter but are all you're allowed to -- all you can -- get out around Harry Potter, but he slams you hard (but not as hard as he can, because you can't live through as hard as he can) into the wall before you can utter a single syllable.
Stars dance in front of your head, prickling reality with silent light. You're not sure, but there might have been a crack. You think it might be your head. Before black sweeps in, you think: hate me, hate me -- just don't let go.
The black has thankfully consumed before he does, and you can hold onto dreams.
*
You wake up in an infirmary bed.
In the bed next to you, Ginny Weasley is looking at where she once had an arm. You know what it is like to have a piece of yourself and know how it feels and moves and breathes -- and then to find that it is not there. Where is the transition between yours and theirs -- is it when you aren't touching?
You must be staring, because she throws a grimace at you in that indignant way she’s so fond of. You are probably smiling at her loss, because you never liked being alone.
“He’s going to kill you one of these days,” she says, and it rings of prophecy.
*
The Dark Lord isn’t beautiful. He isn’t loving. He isn’t God. He isn’t a replacement for the father of yours he left to rot.
But as you feel the mark burn, as you scream and cry, you think: he will hate me for this - so much that he won’t be able to let go.
So much that I might matter.
*
And you pray most of all that he will kill you. You can imagine losing your body, imagine the severance with such clarity: it’s like losing an arm or your heart or your sanity. Mine. Everyones. Flickers, and it's pretty in the natural breakdown.
Or maybe it’s like gaining the acceptance to the next stage, and like transcending, like floating in space.
You can imagine that he will float in the same space.
You can imagine taking his hand, and never letting go.
Never is an awfully long time, but he’s never bored you yet.
*
The hand will reach out again, and it will always be empty. But it can never stop reaching.