Warning: Slash. Flame if you like, I'm in the mood for smores.
Author's Note: I don't know how much sense this plot makes, but ah well. Erm, I'd like to take this time to tell everyone about my new website, S N I T C H. It's a selective slash archive, and if anyone would like their works placed on it, please contact me through either review, or email. (IAmADarkDreamer at )
Disclaimer: Yes, I own everything relating to Harry Potter and co. I have the brilliant mind that came up with the published ideas and plots, all at the age of fifteen, might I add, and here I am, instead of working on the sixth book, sitting and writing fanfiction. Yep, yep, yep. You just go on believing that.
Renaissance Angel
He propped himself up by his elbows and watched as his lover stood, lifting his arms above his head and stretching leisurely, his black pajama top clinging to his slender frame and lifting up with such a small movement, revealing a patch of pale skin. He smiled slightly, reaching out and grazing his finger's over the other boy's skin, startling him slightly.
The man turned, casting him a curious glare, "What?"
"Just making sure you're real," supplied the Gryffindor, his smile growing.
Draco arched an eyebrow, plopping rather gracefully on the bed beside the Gryffindor and mumbled, "Can you be any more cliché, Potter?"
Harry snorted, his arms immediately snaking around the Slytherin's shoulders.
He frowned slightly, unable to remove his eyes from the body laying before him. He dropped to the ground, his hands folding in his lap, around his broken wand, and he continued to stare. He could hear their screams behind him, as the battle continued to rage on, brilliant flashes of green highlighting the hillside.
His eyes began to water with unshed tears, obscuring his vision, and he tried his hardest to look away.
"You remind me of an angel," he said suddenly, stroking the pale hairs on his lover's stomach.
The Slytherin stifled a yawn, "What?"
"You remind me of an angel I saw in an old Muggle painting when I was younger."
"What sort of painting was it?" Asked Draco, his curiosity peaking. He always had an odd fascination with anything muggle.
"A.. Renaissance painting I think." He grinned, kissing the corner of Draco's mouth, "A Renaissance Angel. My Renaissance Angel."
Suddenly the body in front of him was shadowed, and a cold pressure developed against his temple. The looming shadow of another stood behind him, their wand pressed against his head. Through the smoke and the blood, something familiar reached his nostrils. He could smell it.
He could smell him.
He lowered his eyes, bowing his head slightly as a rough voice came from behind, "Make one more move, Potter, and I'll blow your bloody head off."
He swallowed, a single tear cascading down his dirt-ridden cheek and slicing through the filth. His voice was soft, but somehow spoke volumes above the blaring noise of the battle, as he said, "Why are you doing this?"
His movements were slow and gentle as he trailed kisses down Harry's jaw. He smiled slightly, his voice muffled as he buried his face in the crook of his neck and said, "You know, just because I remind you of an angel, doesn't mean we can't live in sin.."
Harry smirked, hugging Draco closer to his torso and said, "How very Slytherinish of you.."
"And how very Gryffindorish of you to point that out.."
The wit of his retort was lost as Harry tilted the Slytherin's faced up and pressed a soft kiss against Draco's lips, which soon became another battle for dominance.
No answer came as the sun was suddenly blocked from his view, the darkness brought by it entwining itself in his hair and seeping through his clothes. Subconsciously, he shivered, as he slowly raised his head, his eyes lingering only for a moment on the body laying before him, barely registering the fact that it was gone; having disappeared into his memory long ago.
Voldemort's face was twisted into a strange smile, and his wand was pointed directly at his heart, "Such a tragic end for someone who has given me such hell.. Are you ready to die, Potter?"
He sighed, falling back onto the bed, physically drained. He felt the movement in the mattress as the man beside him did the same. The Gryffindor turned slightly onto his side, and reached out a hand, running his fingers over the soft skin of his lover's back. A smile played on his lips and softly he said, "I love you. You know that, don't you?"
No reply was given, and the Slytherin ignored the rustle of blankets and sudden chill that embraced him as Harry rose.
He smiled softly, his smile taunting his enemy more than any words could. Tears continued to cascade down his cheeks, but they were different now-- tinted with the unwanted memories playing in his mind.
"Answer when you are spoken to, boy!"
And suddenly a cold, gloved, hand tightened itself around his neck, the pressure against his temple vanishing as his body was lifted slightly from the ground, Voldemort forcing him to respond. "Now-- Are you ready to die?"
He ignored the constant pressure around his throat, and calmly rasped, "You can't kill what's dead."
The fire played tricks with his mind, the light flickering throughout the room, obscuring the shadows and shifting the warmth. He turned, his vision wavering as he tried to ignore the tingling sensation forming in his eyes, and the sudden ache in his heart and lungs. Slowly, he swallowed, licking his lips.
A tense silence embraced him, rocking him to the beat of his own heart. He shook his head, dark locks falling and blocking his vision. Suddenly a warm body pressed against his, soft breathing playing with his hair. Strangely enough, the warmth given from the other body made him shiver even worse than any cold could.
He barely heard the Slytherin murmur softly in his ear, "I'm sorry."
And it was then, through the blast of electric green light, that he saw him.
His Renaissance Angel.