Title: Purple Rain
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: PG
Words: 1650
Genre: Flangst/Strange
Summary: Harry is in a coma.
Warnings: Some slight self harm.
Beta: The über-wonderful Kibethan.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Notes: Written for Kala's b-day. This was inspried by Purple Rain by the artist formerly known as Prince, a scene in the Never Ending Story by Michael Ende, and a story that I wrote when I was an ickle girl and did not have the capacity to put good words to my ideas :P
G.G.G.
The strange thing about comas Harry thinks, is that some people say that you're dead while some claim that you are alive. Harry doesn't believe that it is either.
What he can remember from those five months that the people visiting him at St Mungo's say that he's been lying unresponsive in his bed, are rooms with doors. Every time he'd step through one he'd find himself in another room with a dozen doors, all differing in size, shape, colour and pattern. Endlessly he'd gone from room to room, knowing that he was searching for something—but not knowing what.
Sometimes he would sense that there was somebody nearby, and he would rush through door after door, trying to catch up with whoever it was, but always fruitlessly. The warm prickling of a presence would disappear after a while and Harry would sit down next to a wall, panting, forgetting even more of himself for every moment. Had he ever known? Were these doors all he had ever experienced in his existence? Looking down on the scars on his body he didn't know where he'd gotten them. Had he run into some doors and hurt himself? But he couldn't remember.
At times he would tear through the skin on his arms and legs with his nails, but he never bled.
If he'd ever know his name he'd forgotten it. He didn't know what he looked like other than the strand of dark hair that fell into his face when he'd ran so fast that his throat scorched and his chest ached.
Once he came to a room of brilliant white. It was clear and light, the air in it seemed somehow fresher than the others he'd been in, inviting and warm. Peaceful. He was just about to step in and close the door befind him when he felt that presence behind him, and as he turned he saw a flash of blond hair vanish through another door. Without hesitating he bolted after the person, but when he opened the emerald green door they'd disappeared through, there was nobody there. Only walls decorated with golden lion like shapes on a red background were there. There were three doors in the room, a number which surprised him as he had to his knowledge never before encountered a room where the number of doors didn't make his head spin. Although... he had not seen any other doors in the white room.
Thinking about the white insubstantial air of the room he had deserted only moments before, he suddenly felt cold and scared. His heart sped up and his breathing felt constricted. Even though it had seemed so peaceful, and he had been content with the thought of walking in there and closing the door behind him, he somehow knew that if he did do that he would never find what he was searching for.
Inspecting the doors in the room he saw that they were made of solid oak, aged and worn, the middle one of them with an elaborate metal handle, the one to the right had a strange spot on it, as though something blue had been poured on it and not wiped away, but the one to the left, the last door, seemed warm and welcoming. He opened it and peeked through, finding five red and gold beds inside, all made neatly with red bedspreads stretched over comfortable looking mattresses.
He frowned and backed out of the room. There had never been furniture in any room before. Closing the door he turned to look at the other two doors, but they seemed intimidating so he went through the emerald door once again, expecting to see the now frightening white door on the opposite wall of the blue room he found himself in, but it was gone. Drawing a breath of relief he went on through door after door again, worry soon whisked away by the vibrant colours around him.
He never felt the presence anymore. He knew something was changing, but what? His questions bounced off the walls in incoherent sentences, but the echo brought no answers, only questions he did not even know that he had asked.
It started to feel empty and alone. There had always been a promise of finding the hidden treasure, finding that secret person which urged him to pass through door after door, but that seemed to have been lost along with his hope and belief.
His forehead prickled when he got closer to some doors. One time he opened a door to find a pair of menacing slitted red eyes staring back at him evilly through complete darkness. He slammed the door shut quickly and stood breathing heavily for a moment before hastily running through another door.
Soon after wherever he walked he could see traces of other people. Scattered and torn pieces of parchment with notes on them in neat handwriting, some with small messages scribbled on them in an uneven and hasty scrawl. Harry, one said, written over an essay about ancient runes, we miss you.
He found a broom with a broken handle on the floor of one room, where the walls were decorated with painted twigs of willow, so close together it looked like a wind-screen. When he opened the next door he thought he saw them rustle.
The walls started to dance with pictures, snakes, children on playgrounds, a puffy red-faced man with a scrawny woman at his side huffed at a small boy with black hair, a pudgy boy ran after the same boy with a stick held high in his hand, dark damp corridors with chatting teenagers in black robes, a room once again decorated in red and gold where a red-headed boy and a girl with bushy brown hair were sleeping together on a couch. All silent, all vivid.
Next came walls filled with pain and suffering, soundless killings, green lights sprouting from wands, dark-clad beings with hoods and masks made anger coil in his belly, but the further he walked the more they enraged him, making him want to tear them off the walls, trying to pet the screaming children, their silent agony burning his eyes. He found tears on his hands, but they were his own.
He walked through a green door with a curling silver D on the middle. Inside it was a room with soothing green walls and the light in there was almost like a warm caress to his skin. Most enthralling of all though was the blond young man on the wall, sitting at a desk, writing. He looked up at him and smiled a brilliant smile before quickly standing up from his seat and gesturing towards the only other door in the room, a door that seemed to shimmer along the edges, as though a bright golden day waited on the other side.
He opened it and walked into sizzling glittering shining light.
Harry wakes up to find Draco gone.
G.G.G.
It's raining. Harry shivers a little and wraps his coat tighter around himself. It's three am and the sun won't rise in another few hours. He is standing outside the entrance to the bar where he has found out Draco works, but he guesses the other man has thought of it as a temporary occupation until something better comes along. Draco has never been one to settle. Lose hope, yes, but never settle.
The purple neon light above which announces the name of the bar to the still night is casting a lilac sheen over the street beneath it, reflecting in the raindrops on Harry's glasses.
A few minutes later somebody emerges from the bar, and while they lock the door Harry watches the purple light play over the light blond hair.
The seconds are drawn out to long moments as Harry steps up to stand right below the neon sign, and when Draco finally finally turns he stops and stares at Harry in a startled manner, a purple tinge to the grey eyes.
"Harry." It's a whisper, and is almost drowned by the sound of rain pattering down on the windowpanes nearby. Harry counts the emotions he can see fluttering over Draco's rain-wet face. Surprise, hope, fear, longing, and love all cloud over to swivel in his eyes right before Harry finds himself enveloped by strong arms, cradled against Draco's chest.
"Hey." He says lowly, drawing in the scent of Draco beneath the cold rain and heavy smell of bar; spilled alcohol, smoke and sweat.
He hears Draco's gasping breaths right next to his ear, and the sobbed "Oh God, Harry..." makes him press the warm body closer.
"You left, I—I didn't know where..."
"I'm so sorry, I thought—I don't know what I thought—" he leans back to look into Harry's face, "you were just lying there for months, and after every time I'd been there you ended up with bleeding scratch marks. They forbade me to visit you." Draco's voice shakes, the water cascading down his face glimmers in the purple light, rain or tears Harry doesn't know, but he suspects both. "They made it sound like I, like I," he breaks off, closing his eyes, swallowing thickly.
"Shh, it's alright."
Draco opens his eyes then, sad gaze softening as Harry kisses him lightly, tasting salt and water on his lips. Harry's hand drifts into the now wet blond hair, seeming purple in the shine of the neon light. Draco's mouth opens, and cold wet hands sneak beneath Harry's shirt to rest on his lower back as he slowly slips his tongue into Draco's mouth, his mouth that tastes of mint chewing-gum and tears.
They kiss, soaked to the bone, heavy drops falling on their necks and faces, surrounded by the night and the purple rain.
G.G.G.
A/N: Yes, so, on LJ I made the text purple, and I had a quote from the song at the end as an afterthought... a kind of summary, but not. Anyway, there is a much cooler version on LJ :P
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