sassy_cissa (sassy_cissa) wrote in slythindor100, @ 2006-05-18 18:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | non-challenge |
Non-Challenge, The Anatomy of War
Original poster: faith1922
Title: The Anatomy of War
Words: 603
Warnings: The usual depression and language, some Hr/R and some mention of H/Hr/R, but nothing real. And there’s that itty bitty bit that you might interpret as voyeurism, though that’s not what I intended.
A/N: Silverlake always makes me feel like this. I should stop going there. Also, I guess this is for the talented physixxx, for doing so much more around this comm. than I do these days. I’ll try to do better again, promise. As soon as I find my way out of this funk I’ve been in.
Sometimes, standing in the middle of the graveyard, Harry thinks he can smell the bodies rotting. He can almost taste the sickly sweet and heavy waves of death that crash against his magic like the ocean against cliffs.
He sits down in the high grass, closing his eyes and just listening to the soft sounds of the dead. Sometimes he wishes he were one of them.
It’s usually Ron and Hermione who find him. It’s like they can only exist as one, these days. They are never apart. When they come for him, Ron sits behind him on the ground, one leg on either side of him and Hermione climbs into Harry’s lap. They just sit like that, close, together, warm, safe, alive.
Most of the time it’s enough. The two of them wait for Harry to work his way out of his funk and then they lead him back to the house. Hermione kisses him on the cheek and Ron pats his back and then they slink up the stairs to their room and sometimes Harry watches them though the doorway as they crawl into each others’ skin, heart beats becoming one. They breathe the same air, they have the same blood running though their veins and the same horrors in their hearts.
It’s those nights that Harry leaves the house again, long after dark, in search for comfort. He knows that neither of his friends would mind if he joined them, because they love him and everyday it becomes clearer that they live for him. He’s their heart.
But those nights, when he still tastes the dead and their whispers still cling to his skin, Harry doesn’t need to be a part. He doesn’t need to be whole.
Those nights, Harry Potter needs to be in pieces. He needs to feel pain, just to remind him that he doesn’t live in the graveyard yet, that his heart still beats and that there is more to this world than the silence acceptance Ron and Hermione display these days.
And every single time he flees the house that way, he ends up at the same door. He knocks and he waits, because time means nothing anymore. It’s only ‘sometimes’ and ‘before’ now. ‘Later’, ‘always’, ‘soon’, they are the words he measures his life by now, and there is no hurry.
Because at the end there’s only Voldemort and Harry isn’t quite that desperate yet. Yet.
The door always opens, without fail and a slim, white hand always grabs his wrist and pulls him inside. And then Draco Malfoy presses Harry Potter’s back into the door and he kisses and touches and gropes and suddenly there are minutes again, in Harry’s world and seconds and he breathes and he lives and Draco erases the lingering taste of decay with his tongue and chases the whispers away with his harsh pants in the dark.
They fuck and they fuck and they never talk. Malfoy breaks Harry into pieces and then puts him back together, wrong and not quite fitting, but Harry doesn’t mind, because corpses are right and proper and he isn’t dead yet. Not quite. Not quite.
And in the morning Harry goes home, passing the graveyard without a glance, takes a shower and puts on some clothes that don’t smell like sex and desperation and he makes coffee for Hermione and scrambled eggs for Ron and he smiles when they come down the stairs. Their hands are linked and their hair is wet and they still breathe.
“You look happy, Harry”, Hermione says.
Harry smiles and puts her coffee down in front of her.