Harry Potter - soul scream
because i had writer's block last night (read: terrified of chapterfics).
soul scream
*
The story begins with Harry on a balcony, leaning on the railing, hands dangling over the side. It is dark, past twilight but not yet the deep blue of night. His black hair ruffles slightly in the breeze. His eyes stare out over the lights of the marina. He is in a grey sweatshirt with no logos, no message. His jeans are faded, ripped in one knee. His bare feet blend into the white stone. The city lights are trapped in his eyeglasses. They turn his eyes into stars.
One would guess he is waiting for something.
Our story jumps to a blond man with aristocratic features and clothing to match. His name is Draco Malfoy. On the witness stand he speaks clearly and succinctly on the subject of murder, Marks, and mudbloods. About Harry Potter he will say nothing, but his eyes cloud briefly and the corners of his mouth twitch suspiciously.
The scene shifts to Malfoy alone in a stone cell devoid of cot or sink or drain. He stands proudly, but under his robe his knees are shaking. A figure drifts in, a dark, hooded specter in a tattered black robe. It stinks of death, despair, the desire to spread its disease of emptiness. The door shuts behind it. The heavy lock clangs against the iron bars. Through them are witnesses with the air of spectators at a blood sport. They are silent and smug. They are waiting for the inevitable.
Draco Malfoy squares his shoulders and reaches out. He does not like waiting for anything.
The story ends again with Harry. A tear slides down his cheek. He goes inside, checks the hotel clock. Collapses onto his bed, muffles his face in the pillow, and wails like a man who is screaming out his soul.
soul scream
*
The story begins with Harry on a balcony, leaning on the railing, hands dangling over the side. It is dark, past twilight but not yet the deep blue of night. His black hair ruffles slightly in the breeze. His eyes stare out over the lights of the marina. He is in a grey sweatshirt with no logos, no message. His jeans are faded, ripped in one knee. His bare feet blend into the white stone. The city lights are trapped in his eyeglasses. They turn his eyes into stars.
One would guess he is waiting for something.
Our story jumps to a blond man with aristocratic features and clothing to match. His name is Draco Malfoy. On the witness stand he speaks clearly and succinctly on the subject of murder, Marks, and mudbloods. About Harry Potter he will say nothing, but his eyes cloud briefly and the corners of his mouth twitch suspiciously.
The scene shifts to Malfoy alone in a stone cell devoid of cot or sink or drain. He stands proudly, but under his robe his knees are shaking. A figure drifts in, a dark, hooded specter in a tattered black robe. It stinks of death, despair, the desire to spread its disease of emptiness. The door shuts behind it. The heavy lock clangs against the iron bars. Through them are witnesses with the air of spectators at a blood sport. They are silent and smug. They are waiting for the inevitable.
Draco Malfoy squares his shoulders and reaches out. He does not like waiting for anything.
The story ends again with Harry. A tear slides down his cheek. He goes inside, checks the hotel clock. Collapses onto his bed, muffles his face in the pillow, and wails like a man who is screaming out his soul.