fic: snowflakes
[title] snowflakes
[author] deora_mystic
[pairings/character(s)] harry/draco
[summary] Harry has done what the world asked of him. Will no one remember him?
[ratings/warnings] pg-13 / mildly graphic slash, very AU, slightly angsty, post-war
[length] 1,000 words
[notes] it was snowing beautifully the day i wrote this.
[feedback] always appreciated.
[fanart available] novacaine_kick's heartbreaking piece.
[originally posted] on an lj community, january 2005.
[*]
The day has been cloudy and still, but the evening lives. It hasn’t snowed for ages and the fact that it does now, at this time of the day and of your lives, seems stolen from fairytales of gold and honey.
You’ve loved snow - white and fluffy and chaotic - since you were a kid - aren’t you a kid now? -, when you used to hide after school, trying to escape Dudley and his gang of bullies and when you were too tired to go back home, where Aunt Petunia awaited with a scowl. When you were just a kid - you’re not a kid anymore - lying on the duvet of white covering the frozen ground, staring through blurry lenses at a swirling sky. It always seemed surreal, fair and you imagined that snowflakes falling from above were magic. You still do, lying now on the bedding of white. They tried to teach you otherwise, telling you magic is learning spells by heart or managing to concoct difficult potions, or even saving their arses, when all they can do is crouch like animals in fear. Maybe the entire lie upon which they’ve built your life had a positive outcome. Because now, after learning all the spells by heart and succeeding in brewing difficult potions, and even after saving their lives, now, maybe, they’ll finally let you go.
[*]
So it’s late in the night - very late - but the sky's not dark, it’s grey. You’d expected winter nights to be murky and scary, because you’ve forgotten how they really were, but now you’re discovering them all over again - the feel of snowflakes on your cheeks and the taste of winter on your tongue and blissful light - not too bright, and not too dark, perfect for your nearsightedness - and him, standing still by the forest, watching, waiting. You, for you. Don’t look at him, pretend he’s not here, keep on spinning under the snow for just a little more. Don’t let go of this and now; magic is finally here, again, after so long. Don’t stop.
[*]
It’s funny, life is so funny. You spent years blindfolded, feeling pain or pleasure, joy or grief, and time flew by so fast, too quickly, and only after you’ve lost it all, you want to go back to the start. Only when you’re already blind and deaf you remember the magic of before, when sheer snowflakes dancing through the air or the never-ending possibilities of the sky above were all the magic in the world, all the magic you needed. Now it’s too late, keep saying that to yourself and maybe you’ll just die away, and get it over with already. This is starting to get on your nerves.
[*]
He’s still there and the snowflakes are whirling faster and even more delirious - the world around is full of mist. Safe. You drop your arms by your sides because one can pretend for so long. He straightens his back and moves through the mist, coming towards you. He’s poised as damn ever and the snowflakes form a halo around him. Just for a second, you wonder if he’d done differently, had he been in your place, had he been the hero of the Wizarding World and not its executioner. Just for a second, because the following one, he stops a couple of feet in front of you.
He hasn’t changed at all since last week - or was it three hours ago? - and your mind, racing for an already lost battle, knows, hopes this is a dream. Maybe - just maybe - you’ll wake up in Snape’ class, nudged by Hermione, and face another mind-blowing, heart-stopping question:
‘Mr Potter, what is another use of powdered monkshood mixed with tears of mandragora?’
You might just whisper ‘Please’, because time has stretched too far and it will for sure tear apart. And he might offer the solution to all, with a caress, or a simple stare. Or you might break into two for the snowflakes are growing heavy. Or is it just him?
“Please.”
There - you said it. Now turn around and leave, run, never come back. Make him stop looking like that, make him purse his lips, go away, don’t do this now. It’s over and so am I.
You might just fall - if you haven’t already - when he wraps his arms around your neck and pulls you into him. You start to take off your glasses, because they’ve fogged up and you want to count the snowflakes on his silver eyelashes. But you realize you’re not wearing them - you must have dropped them in the snow.
He parts his lips and exhales heavily, warmly against your cheek, and he rests his forehead against yours and they’re no more scars. You’re aching deep inside, you are just a red wound, the remains of someone else and he’s sifting salt on you. You’re bleeding inside for him, for you, for the snowflakes that will never cease falling, for the world that has fallen.
He presses his lips against the corner of your mouth, as if he’s kissing someone or you for the first time. But the wet warmth is good, and it’s spreading to your brain and through your shoulders and chest, and lower. Your hands reach for the robe around him and grasp clumsily, fingers pressing around his waist. Come closer, will you? It’s cold in here.
He feels you and tastes you and steals the melted snowflakes off your lips, the way he’s stolen everything, he’s stolen you. His fingers press against the back of your head, your wet hair, and you part your lips against his mouth. You’re fallen, oh, so fallen. He presses his body against yours and you’ve nowhere to go; you’re trapped in a desert of white. Through all the layers of thick material, you remember his touch, the way his skin was as soft as his hair - I wonder, is it still as silky?
His fingers draw circles against the back of your skull and the world grows whiter as he moans longingly, as desperately as only you could.
“God”, he sighs against you and you shudder because you’re both seventeen and this is what teenagers say when they’ve lost their way, when they love, when they kiss, when they remember and forget, when they die, when the snow doesn’t end.
[*]
[author] deora_mystic
[pairings/character(s)] harry/draco
[summary] Harry has done what the world asked of him. Will no one remember him?
[ratings/warnings] pg-13 / mildly graphic slash, very AU, slightly angsty, post-war
[length] 1,000 words
[notes] it was snowing beautifully the day i wrote this.
[feedback] always appreciated.
[fanart available] novacaine_kick's heartbreaking piece.
[originally posted] on an lj community, january 2005.
[*]
The day has been cloudy and still, but the evening lives. It hasn’t snowed for ages and the fact that it does now, at this time of the day and of your lives, seems stolen from fairytales of gold and honey.
You’ve loved snow - white and fluffy and chaotic - since you were a kid - aren’t you a kid now? -, when you used to hide after school, trying to escape Dudley and his gang of bullies and when you were too tired to go back home, where Aunt Petunia awaited with a scowl. When you were just a kid - you’re not a kid anymore - lying on the duvet of white covering the frozen ground, staring through blurry lenses at a swirling sky. It always seemed surreal, fair and you imagined that snowflakes falling from above were magic. You still do, lying now on the bedding of white. They tried to teach you otherwise, telling you magic is learning spells by heart or managing to concoct difficult potions, or even saving their arses, when all they can do is crouch like animals in fear. Maybe the entire lie upon which they’ve built your life had a positive outcome. Because now, after learning all the spells by heart and succeeding in brewing difficult potions, and even after saving their lives, now, maybe, they’ll finally let you go.
[*]
So it’s late in the night - very late - but the sky's not dark, it’s grey. You’d expected winter nights to be murky and scary, because you’ve forgotten how they really were, but now you’re discovering them all over again - the feel of snowflakes on your cheeks and the taste of winter on your tongue and blissful light - not too bright, and not too dark, perfect for your nearsightedness - and him, standing still by the forest, watching, waiting. You, for you. Don’t look at him, pretend he’s not here, keep on spinning under the snow for just a little more. Don’t let go of this and now; magic is finally here, again, after so long. Don’t stop.
[*]
It’s funny, life is so funny. You spent years blindfolded, feeling pain or pleasure, joy or grief, and time flew by so fast, too quickly, and only after you’ve lost it all, you want to go back to the start. Only when you’re already blind and deaf you remember the magic of before, when sheer snowflakes dancing through the air or the never-ending possibilities of the sky above were all the magic in the world, all the magic you needed. Now it’s too late, keep saying that to yourself and maybe you’ll just die away, and get it over with already. This is starting to get on your nerves.
[*]
He’s still there and the snowflakes are whirling faster and even more delirious - the world around is full of mist. Safe. You drop your arms by your sides because one can pretend for so long. He straightens his back and moves through the mist, coming towards you. He’s poised as damn ever and the snowflakes form a halo around him. Just for a second, you wonder if he’d done differently, had he been in your place, had he been the hero of the Wizarding World and not its executioner. Just for a second, because the following one, he stops a couple of feet in front of you.
He hasn’t changed at all since last week - or was it three hours ago? - and your mind, racing for an already lost battle, knows, hopes this is a dream. Maybe - just maybe - you’ll wake up in Snape’ class, nudged by Hermione, and face another mind-blowing, heart-stopping question:
‘Mr Potter, what is another use of powdered monkshood mixed with tears of mandragora?’
You might just whisper ‘Please’, because time has stretched too far and it will for sure tear apart. And he might offer the solution to all, with a caress, or a simple stare. Or you might break into two for the snowflakes are growing heavy. Or is it just him?
“Please.”
There - you said it. Now turn around and leave, run, never come back. Make him stop looking like that, make him purse his lips, go away, don’t do this now. It’s over and so am I.
You might just fall - if you haven’t already - when he wraps his arms around your neck and pulls you into him. You start to take off your glasses, because they’ve fogged up and you want to count the snowflakes on his silver eyelashes. But you realize you’re not wearing them - you must have dropped them in the snow.
He parts his lips and exhales heavily, warmly against your cheek, and he rests his forehead against yours and they’re no more scars. You’re aching deep inside, you are just a red wound, the remains of someone else and he’s sifting salt on you. You’re bleeding inside for him, for you, for the snowflakes that will never cease falling, for the world that has fallen.
He presses his lips against the corner of your mouth, as if he’s kissing someone or you for the first time. But the wet warmth is good, and it’s spreading to your brain and through your shoulders and chest, and lower. Your hands reach for the robe around him and grasp clumsily, fingers pressing around his waist. Come closer, will you? It’s cold in here.
He feels you and tastes you and steals the melted snowflakes off your lips, the way he’s stolen everything, he’s stolen you. His fingers press against the back of your head, your wet hair, and you part your lips against his mouth. You’re fallen, oh, so fallen. He presses his body against yours and you’ve nowhere to go; you’re trapped in a desert of white. Through all the layers of thick material, you remember his touch, the way his skin was as soft as his hair - I wonder, is it still as silky?
His fingers draw circles against the back of your skull and the world grows whiter as he moans longingly, as desperately as only you could.
“God”, he sighs against you and you shudder because you’re both seventeen and this is what teenagers say when they’ve lost their way, when they love, when they kiss, when they remember and forget, when they die, when the snow doesn’t end.
[*]