Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.
A/N: Something a little more experimental. Written for newyearcntdown (prompt: skating) and slythindor100 (early bird prompt: skating rink).
On Thin Ice
Drifting in the sea of slumber, he heard the sound of blades gliding on ice, carving symbols that only the individual in question would understand. There was a sense of lyric and rhythm in the movements; every sound was a part of a song, fluid and devoid of hesitation. The blades whistled and sang, a most beautiful sound that could break one's heart. He had heard the sound before, though when or where or how he could not recall.
Struggling with the weight of sleep, he forced his eyes open. A hazy white world spread before his eyes, and in the midst was a black shadow moving restlessly about like a ghost. Everything was a blur, as though a film of frost had obscured his sight. A cloud of fog filled his head; he only knew that he needed to get closer to the shadow, to reach the burning darkness in this frozen white world.
As he floated ever closer towards the shadow, he came upon a translucent wall of ice. He tried to lift his arms, to push away the barrier separating him from the shadow, but his body refused to obey his command. Deep in his unconscious, something began to crack. He was chilled to the bone, so cold and empty and lonely and hungry.
Why was he here? He tried to open his mouth, to call for help, but his mouth would not move, as if it was sewn shut by an invisible thread. A soundless cry was ripped out of his frozen lips, and no one heard him. He tried to move his body to no avail; it was as though his body was no longer his own, as though this body was never his to begin with. His mind blanked out; confusion and fear ate their way into his frozen heart.
How long had he been here, drifting and dreaming? (For a long time.) How long had he been this way, hollowed out and silenced and frozen to the core? (For a long, long time.) How did he end up here like this? (You chose not to remember.)
Sharp blades swished; ice creaked and cracked; a shadow loomed before him and blocked out the light. His thoughts ground to a halt. He could only watch as the shadow hovered and changed shape. A moment later, a part of his world opened up and came into sharp relief. He saw a man—ice-blond hair, pale face, black clothes—kneeling on the ice and gazing down at him with a pensive look.
Draco.
Something deep inside of him jolted awake and struggled to break free. He tried to move, to cry out, to reach for Draco, but it was all for naught. Only his eyes could move, and on the cusp between desperation and disorientation, he let his eyes roam over Draco, whose expression did not change in the least.
When Draco rested a gloved hand on the ice, he wanted nothing more than to reach out and place his hand over Draco's hand, even if it meant ripping apart the skin he was trapped in, even if it meant casting off his flesh until he was nothing but bones.
(To tell Draco he is still alive, to tell Draco he wants to get out of here, to tell Draco he loves him and he needs him and he wants him, to tell Draco he wants to be with him, to tell Draco he wants him down here with him—beneath the ice, just the two of them.)
For a long time he stared at Draco with a hunger he could not assuage, and Draco, staying so still as though he too were frozen, looked at him and made no attempt to remove the ice barrier between them. A sense of dread lurked at the fringes of his psyche, and a shiver ran down his spine.
Draco had no intention of letting him out.
There was a flicker in Draco's eyes, though it might have been a trick of the light and nothing more. As if seeing the fear and anguish and hurt in his eyes, Draco stroked the ice as if meaning to offer him some consolation, and his lips moved as though in speech.
"It's all right, Harry," Draco seemed to say. "I will take care of everything. Sleep well."
Those words pierced through the fog in his head, and for one lucid moment, he remembered the plunge through the ice and into the cold darkness. He remembered the blood dripping down a scarred body. He remembered the scream tapering off to mere whimpers. He remembered those nights when his hunger and his lust could not be quenched. And he remembered Draco skating on the frozen lake, graceful and free.
In the next moment, everything was gone. The shackles of sleep weighed him under; he felt so heavy and weary, and his eyes could remain open no more. After burning Draco's face and figure into his retinas, he let himself go and sank into the deep of oblivion, drifting and dreaming until it was time to wake up once more.
His expression hidden in the shadow of his long forelocks, Draco rose up and gazed at what lay beneath the ice: the thing that used to be Harry, the thing that Harry had become. Green eyes that were closed to a mere slit seemed to be watching him still. Draco felt goose-flesh forming on his skin and scars throbbing with a life of their own on his body. At length, he withdrew his gaze, turned away from the thing beneath the ice, and went back the way he came.
Finis.
A/N: There are times when horror goes both ways. Thank you for reading.