Mushrooms and madness
In a nostalgic mood for sun-dappled afternoons and white duvets, hazy comfort and the pure and wonderful joy that is H/D fic..
Hence, the little drabble.
Draco's hands were narrow, and slender. His nails rose like half-moons, pale and rose-pink, from the curves and valleys of his fingertips.
They were hands made for playing the piano - crafting harmony from monochrome keys, arching and falling like the play of shadows against moonlight.
They were made for the delicate stems of wineglasses, brittle and beautiful and cold.
Like a fan, each movement of Draco's hands was calculated to reveal, or conceal. A brief flutter of the fingers - denial; a closed fist - hurt.
A raised forefinger - anger, and pain.
A slow upturning of the palm - I miss you.
Harry felt those fingers on his wrist now, feathering against his pulse. A finger was trailing lightly over his palm, over his heart line, disingeniously causing goosebumps and the fine hairs to rise in its wake.
Harry turned his head, dark forelock falling into dark eyes; Draco's face was shuttered, his eyes lidded into inscrutable slits.
Against the shadows in the doorway, Draco's hair was a maelstorm of pale fire, but it was the only part of him that was unsubtle, and unleashed.
During the course of their relationship, Harry had become familiar with Draco's manipulations - his evasions into catacombs of truth. But his hands did not lie.
Whatever that cruel, lush mouth of Draco's might be spouting, whatever unending argument they might be playing out today, Harry knew - from Draco's persistent, nervous flickering of his fingers against Harry's own - that what he was really saying was Don't leave me.
Stay.
Please.
Slowly, Harry linked Draco's fingers through his own.