Not a real fic post
Weird day already so far; saw a car crash (lucky escape for several), bought a coat like a pirate's coat (which is lush) and we're having Chinese food tonight. To add to the weirdness, I'm posting H/D. I'll really try and post something proper (well, Sirius/James) tomorrow, despite the hangover I'll have. And the football. And the parading around in my pirate coat.
wildestranger made me do this. :P
I Don't Have the Map
You're on an island, and I'm on an island.
Malfoy had let himself go; so pale now that the circles beneath his tired eyes and the twists of blue and purple at his wrists were the brightest things about him. The untidy curtains of his neglected, uncut hair hung in his water-grey eyes (the colour of sea on the plainest of days) and he looked like he'd had all the colour bleached out of him, as if Voldemort had sucked the soul and the life from him, Dementor-like, leaving behind a vague, ghostly changeling to do his bidding.
He'd let go in more ways than one.
It felt to Harry, often, like it was a ghost he was trying to pin down; his ethereal Malfoy dissolving through his fingers like so much thin air when he got close. Soon he was searching for blond hair in every crowd, feeling dizzy with the strange burn inside his chest every time he was near, turning suddenly at every flash of white or pale silver-yellow.
"You're staring again, Potter," Malfoy would hiss, in his barely-there whisper of a voice, dropping the words (like feathers onto the surface of a pond) into Harry's ear as he passed by him in Potions. Harry would turn to watch Malfoy attempting that familiar smirk, though it didn't have the same effect etched so half-heartedly on such pallid, colourless lips.
"Do you find it intimidating?" Harry liked to ask in reply, and Malfoy's smile would melt into something more convincing, not happy, but softer, and for a second more real, until Slughorn raised his voice to the class and Malfoy would be gone, the grey and white and nothing of him blending seamlessly into the background again.
#
Harry would find himself running sometimes, to find him, to catch him, as if Malfoy really was drifting through the stone walls, because Harry was never able to keep up, always turning that final corner to find him gone.
He was determined, this time, that Malfoy wouldn't escape him; running, oxygen-starved and heart pumping agonisingly, skidding around that last bend in the path only to find Malfoy had stopped, was waiting, calm and still, so insubstantial that he was more like a Malfoy-shaped hole cut out of the universe, a hurried escape in a bad cartoon.
Paper-pale as always, Malfoy stood against the dark, wood-panelled wall, black robes merging with the brown varnish, while his skin glowed against the darkness, showing himself more clearly than Harry had seen him since Malfoy had used the last of his passion to beat Harry into submission.
"What to do with me now you've caught me, hm?"
Harry advanced on him, to check if Malfoy was real, or if it was just the illusion created by the background. He reached out-
Draco's spiderweb hair was too thin and silken, it fell through Harry's fingers like ice-cold water, was unconvincing. He let his hand fall instead to Draco's shoulder, and was almost surprised to find it solid, unyielding.
"I owe you a beating, don't I?" Harry said, wondering if Draco would bruise at all, and if his blood would run red, or white, or clear.
He stood, touching, massaging, exploring the hard curve of his enemy's shoulder, the firm, real bone, feeling such relief, somehow, that Draco still existed, still was.
When he looked up, even better, those two sharp points of redness had flowed into Draco's cheeks, the ones that only appeared when he was angry. Harry smiled, almost laughed, to find there was still blood in the boy, still life. Anger, even, and to receive a punch would be the biggest relief there was. But Draco, still retaining that tempting hint of otherworldly quality, just smiled.
Harry's hands slid up to cup cheeks, cheeks that were warm, hot, and he leaned in to taste breath that was also hot and wet. "I should hurt you," he found himself murmuring, cradling his enemy's cheeks in his own palms.
"You won't," Draco whispered, not a threat, and he twisted-
Harry clenched his nails in, scared that Draco would escape, evaporate into the air, into dust, into nothing, but instead he'd pushed forward, their faces meeting, and Draco's porcelain-white lips touched Harry's.
"I won't break," he added with a laugh, as if it were true.
And then it was Draco's hands, on Harry's waist and pulling him closer, and they gripped tight and warm, so very real, and Draco's mouth was open and so hot it could have burned. He wasn't going to break, because he had teeth, and a strong tongue that lashed eagerly at Harry's tongue and lips. Harry melted into it, bodies tangling together until they both blended into the wall.
wildestranger made me do this. :P
I Don't Have the Map
You're on an island, and I'm on an island.
Malfoy had let himself go; so pale now that the circles beneath his tired eyes and the twists of blue and purple at his wrists were the brightest things about him. The untidy curtains of his neglected, uncut hair hung in his water-grey eyes (the colour of sea on the plainest of days) and he looked like he'd had all the colour bleached out of him, as if Voldemort had sucked the soul and the life from him, Dementor-like, leaving behind a vague, ghostly changeling to do his bidding.
He'd let go in more ways than one.
It felt to Harry, often, like it was a ghost he was trying to pin down; his ethereal Malfoy dissolving through his fingers like so much thin air when he got close. Soon he was searching for blond hair in every crowd, feeling dizzy with the strange burn inside his chest every time he was near, turning suddenly at every flash of white or pale silver-yellow.
"You're staring again, Potter," Malfoy would hiss, in his barely-there whisper of a voice, dropping the words (like feathers onto the surface of a pond) into Harry's ear as he passed by him in Potions. Harry would turn to watch Malfoy attempting that familiar smirk, though it didn't have the same effect etched so half-heartedly on such pallid, colourless lips.
"Do you find it intimidating?" Harry liked to ask in reply, and Malfoy's smile would melt into something more convincing, not happy, but softer, and for a second more real, until Slughorn raised his voice to the class and Malfoy would be gone, the grey and white and nothing of him blending seamlessly into the background again.
#
Harry would find himself running sometimes, to find him, to catch him, as if Malfoy really was drifting through the stone walls, because Harry was never able to keep up, always turning that final corner to find him gone.
He was determined, this time, that Malfoy wouldn't escape him; running, oxygen-starved and heart pumping agonisingly, skidding around that last bend in the path only to find Malfoy had stopped, was waiting, calm and still, so insubstantial that he was more like a Malfoy-shaped hole cut out of the universe, a hurried escape in a bad cartoon.
Paper-pale as always, Malfoy stood against the dark, wood-panelled wall, black robes merging with the brown varnish, while his skin glowed against the darkness, showing himself more clearly than Harry had seen him since Malfoy had used the last of his passion to beat Harry into submission.
"What to do with me now you've caught me, hm?"
Harry advanced on him, to check if Malfoy was real, or if it was just the illusion created by the background. He reached out-
Draco's spiderweb hair was too thin and silken, it fell through Harry's fingers like ice-cold water, was unconvincing. He let his hand fall instead to Draco's shoulder, and was almost surprised to find it solid, unyielding.
"I owe you a beating, don't I?" Harry said, wondering if Draco would bruise at all, and if his blood would run red, or white, or clear.
He stood, touching, massaging, exploring the hard curve of his enemy's shoulder, the firm, real bone, feeling such relief, somehow, that Draco still existed, still was.
When he looked up, even better, those two sharp points of redness had flowed into Draco's cheeks, the ones that only appeared when he was angry. Harry smiled, almost laughed, to find there was still blood in the boy, still life. Anger, even, and to receive a punch would be the biggest relief there was. But Draco, still retaining that tempting hint of otherworldly quality, just smiled.
Harry's hands slid up to cup cheeks, cheeks that were warm, hot, and he leaned in to taste breath that was also hot and wet. "I should hurt you," he found himself murmuring, cradling his enemy's cheeks in his own palms.
"You won't," Draco whispered, not a threat, and he twisted-
Harry clenched his nails in, scared that Draco would escape, evaporate into the air, into dust, into nothing, but instead he'd pushed forward, their faces meeting, and Draco's porcelain-white lips touched Harry's.
"I won't break," he added with a laugh, as if it were true.
And then it was Draco's hands, on Harry's waist and pulling him closer, and they gripped tight and warm, so very real, and Draco's mouth was open and so hot it could have burned. He wasn't going to break, because he had teeth, and a strong tongue that lashed eagerly at Harry's tongue and lips. Harry melted into it, bodies tangling together until they both blended into the wall.