FIC: but the mermaids are gone ; Luna/Draco ; PG
[title] but the mermaids are gone (Luna/Draco; implied Harry/Luna, Harry/Draco, Blaise/Draco)
[author] deora_mystic
[summary] during the war, some fall easier than others.
[ratings/warnings] PG / violence, angst, slightly AU.
[length] ~800 words
[notes] manymany cookies&smooches to jazzyjello for a terrific beta; any remaining mistakes are stubbornly mine.
[feedback] is greatly appreciated :) ; i haven't written in... too long and i feel a bit rusted?
She stares dreamily at the expanse of blue skies punctured by foamy clouds, blinding sunshine filtered through myriads of fresh green leaves. Green tendrils intertwine tenderly with locks of light hair, soothing cooling scalp, carrying mellow chirrups closer, binding her loosely to the damp soil of yesterday. Feathery vines mapped out on pale stretched cheeks and necks and hips.
And everything is still like a still sea.
And she can see the moon mirroring in the silver spines of some leaves.
Darkness trickling up the bark of the tree, washing the sun away. Can she stay a bit longer?
Her eyes are shut.
[*]
Unexpectedly, she had outlived most of the toughest prisoners. Draco snorted dryly from behind rusty bars. The sheer sound of that, combined with the sheer force of sharp corrosion intensified the sheer silence in the dungeon.
Draco took a burdened step back.
“Loony Lovegood.”
Draco started slightly and resumed his Malfoy stance, nodding to Blaise, avoiding eye-contact.
“Who would have thought?” The dark-toned young man muttered almost to himself and then smirked up at Draco, danger blazing behind his murky eyes. “Why don’t we finish her off, Malfoy?”
Draco’s eyes bore deep into Luna’s flesh, through torn robs and bruised skin, piercing broken bones and flaming red streams. He shook his head slowly, as if just suddenly discovering a flying Snitch, a shamrock leaf behind her purple eyelids. The former Slytherin felt as if he was seeing her for the first time, through neon lenses. He could almost see his fingerprints on her elbows, his spit in the corner of her mouth.
Zabini’s smooth hand on his arm sent needles of ice through his eyes. Draco glanced at his ex-classmate.
“Draco?”
Ice was bleeding out of his eyes, cool down his back, as he inhaled shrilly and turned his back on the mermaids tattooed on the walls of the cell. He stepped closer to Blaise and drew in his scent with a hungry sniff.
“Not yet.”
[*]
Every night her body basks quietly in bright, bright sunlight slicing through bricks in the wall.
Every night he comes to her for answers to his questions, watches her breathe in and out like a dying rag doll (rocking back and forth to the shallow cry of one prisoner or another).
Why him? Why you?
Answers to all of his questions: because of the scar; because I was closest to pale blonde.
He smiles bitterly, the taste of black skin on his lips still. He enjoys her quiet companionship (until she breaks the spell with hollow yelps, cringes back into the wall, scratches mermaids with sharp nails and winding tails).
“Loony. Where’s Potter?” Draco sometimes finds himself asking, out of habit.
She always answers, excitedly, getting on her knees and clapping, a flash of young eyes and butterbeer-cap necklace.
“Ohh, he went into the garden, after the apple thief! Into the garden, to find the apples!” She nods to herself repeatedly and then glances around the cell, (at all the grim stick figures dancing on the walls,) and draws nearer, pulls Draco closer to whisper in his ear, “I told him it was you, I did, but he, he shook his head and said, no, I’ll save him, he said he’ll save you…”
She stops as if she’s said too much, revealed secrets of the universe to a robin (look what you did; now you’ll take spring away!) and then stares dreamily into his eyes.
Draco’s heart clenches and he exhales around an eroding core of drowned yesterdays when he sees swirling in her eyes never-ending plains of green, green grass and frothy clouds racing across rained-on blue.
“Did he save you?”
The mermaids on the walls pull closer with barely-veiled interest and he cups her concave cheeks, like he must have, and Draco leans lower, into her empty eyes, like he must have, too. Draco can almost feel a ghost of his breath on her lips, like a stale memory, barely brushing his and his whisper is faintly sick against her ashen parted mouth.
“Where is Harry?” The words snake underneath his robes and cut his chest into two all over again.
He leaves behind violent red marks on her neck.
[*]
Draco’s heart stopped beating way before Harry found him crying in the bathroom. The upside down image of Luna clasping Potter's arm burns muffled on his retina, and, every time he enters her cell, he could tear his eyes out.
Sometimes it’s a bit unbearable (I told him it was you but he said, no, I’ll save him, he said he’ll save you, he never came back, did he lose his way, help him come back with the apples, help him come back to) and he screams his throat raw, “Where is Potter?”, until he drops, desperate, next to her. He clings to her throat, in a monochrome reconstruction of sinners and saints, and she prays to everlasting sun-bathed fields, choking on “He’s coming back, don’t worry, he’ll come back with the apples, come back to -”.
“Let go of her!”
Draco glances back at Blaise in slow motion, and, when she drops on the damp floor, emanating a sick shade of green, he vaguely remembers he forgot to ask her about Harry.
Her eyes are wide open in bright dungeon light.
[author] deora_mystic
[summary] during the war, some fall easier than others.
[ratings/warnings] PG / violence, angst, slightly AU.
[length] ~800 words
[notes] manymany cookies&smooches to jazzyjello for a terrific beta; any remaining mistakes are stubbornly mine.
[feedback] is greatly appreciated :) ; i haven't written in... too long and i feel a bit rusted?
She stares dreamily at the expanse of blue skies punctured by foamy clouds, blinding sunshine filtered through myriads of fresh green leaves. Green tendrils intertwine tenderly with locks of light hair, soothing cooling scalp, carrying mellow chirrups closer, binding her loosely to the damp soil of yesterday. Feathery vines mapped out on pale stretched cheeks and necks and hips.
And everything is still like a still sea.
And she can see the moon mirroring in the silver spines of some leaves.
Darkness trickling up the bark of the tree, washing the sun away. Can she stay a bit longer?
Her eyes are shut.
[*]
Unexpectedly, she had outlived most of the toughest prisoners. Draco snorted dryly from behind rusty bars. The sheer sound of that, combined with the sheer force of sharp corrosion intensified the sheer silence in the dungeon.
Draco took a burdened step back.
“Loony Lovegood.”
Draco started slightly and resumed his Malfoy stance, nodding to Blaise, avoiding eye-contact.
“Who would have thought?” The dark-toned young man muttered almost to himself and then smirked up at Draco, danger blazing behind his murky eyes. “Why don’t we finish her off, Malfoy?”
Draco’s eyes bore deep into Luna’s flesh, through torn robs and bruised skin, piercing broken bones and flaming red streams. He shook his head slowly, as if just suddenly discovering a flying Snitch, a shamrock leaf behind her purple eyelids. The former Slytherin felt as if he was seeing her for the first time, through neon lenses. He could almost see his fingerprints on her elbows, his spit in the corner of her mouth.
Zabini’s smooth hand on his arm sent needles of ice through his eyes. Draco glanced at his ex-classmate.
“Draco?”
Ice was bleeding out of his eyes, cool down his back, as he inhaled shrilly and turned his back on the mermaids tattooed on the walls of the cell. He stepped closer to Blaise and drew in his scent with a hungry sniff.
“Not yet.”
[*]
Every night her body basks quietly in bright, bright sunlight slicing through bricks in the wall.
Every night he comes to her for answers to his questions, watches her breathe in and out like a dying rag doll (rocking back and forth to the shallow cry of one prisoner or another).
Why him? Why you?
Answers to all of his questions: because of the scar; because I was closest to pale blonde.
He smiles bitterly, the taste of black skin on his lips still. He enjoys her quiet companionship (until she breaks the spell with hollow yelps, cringes back into the wall, scratches mermaids with sharp nails and winding tails).
“Loony. Where’s Potter?” Draco sometimes finds himself asking, out of habit.
She always answers, excitedly, getting on her knees and clapping, a flash of young eyes and butterbeer-cap necklace.
“Ohh, he went into the garden, after the apple thief! Into the garden, to find the apples!” She nods to herself repeatedly and then glances around the cell, (at all the grim stick figures dancing on the walls,) and draws nearer, pulls Draco closer to whisper in his ear, “I told him it was you, I did, but he, he shook his head and said, no, I’ll save him, he said he’ll save you…”
She stops as if she’s said too much, revealed secrets of the universe to a robin (look what you did; now you’ll take spring away!) and then stares dreamily into his eyes.
Draco’s heart clenches and he exhales around an eroding core of drowned yesterdays when he sees swirling in her eyes never-ending plains of green, green grass and frothy clouds racing across rained-on blue.
“Did he save you?”
The mermaids on the walls pull closer with barely-veiled interest and he cups her concave cheeks, like he must have, and Draco leans lower, into her empty eyes, like he must have, too. Draco can almost feel a ghost of his breath on her lips, like a stale memory, barely brushing his and his whisper is faintly sick against her ashen parted mouth.
“Where is Harry?” The words snake underneath his robes and cut his chest into two all over again.
He leaves behind violent red marks on her neck.
[*]
Draco’s heart stopped beating way before Harry found him crying in the bathroom. The upside down image of Luna clasping Potter's arm burns muffled on his retina, and, every time he enters her cell, he could tear his eyes out.
Sometimes it’s a bit unbearable (I told him it was you but he said, no, I’ll save him, he said he’ll save you, he never came back, did he lose his way, help him come back with the apples, help him come back to) and he screams his throat raw, “Where is Potter?”, until he drops, desperate, next to her. He clings to her throat, in a monochrome reconstruction of sinners and saints, and she prays to everlasting sun-bathed fields, choking on “He’s coming back, don’t worry, he’ll come back with the apples, come back to -”.
“Let go of her!”
Draco glances back at Blaise in slow motion, and, when she drops on the damp floor, emanating a sick shade of green, he vaguely remembers he forgot to ask her about Harry.
Her eyes are wide open in bright dungeon light.