Title: English Summer Rain
Genre: Harry Potter
Rating: PG
Pairings: HarryxZacharias, or ZachariasxHarry, whichever.
Note: Written for a friend who needed some Zarry on a late night, and inspired by Placebo's "English Summer Rain."
-- -- -- -- --
He normally didn't find himself out in the rain, but it was a late summer night and dinner wasn't quite over and nobody would be out anyways and it shouldn't matter because it wasn't like anyone was following him or would know he was out here or care.
Exams almost over, and then he'd be home again.
But now he was caught in stasis, somewhere between the definition of a kobold and the Goblin Revolution of 1469 and how to make a proper bowl of cold fire and the rain pecking his cheeks and sliding warmly down his cheeks to form a water-beard on his chin. He closed his eyes and imagined he was a water god. His waterlogged robes formed the wings of a snow angel (only upright and without the snow) when he lifted his hands over his head, and his hair was painted onto his skull in dark blond curls. God of the Rhine. The Danube. The Downpour.
He barely registered his cold hands being tugged down and forward across the Quidditch field, felt the mud seeping into his shoes with the sort of annoyed detachment that only a god can afford to express. The face swimming into view through grey veils of misty haze was starkly pale, with eyes that were lost behind foggy glasses. "Where are we going," he mumbled, trying to make it a question through his cold lips.
"Hagrid's," came the short reply, short from lack of breath and maybe indecisiveness.
Hagrid's, a fire, something warm and probably hard like those awful rock biscuits he'd made last Christmas, his mind flipped that statement (minus the rock biscuits) and he grinned to himself at his own unspoken innuendo.
"Don't worry," his grey and pale and black-haired leader continued, "you'll be fine, though I don't know if anyone can fix insanity like yours. You're nuts, Zacharias."
Sure, whatever Potter, Harry, Harryimean. I'm nuts compared to the guy who sees death and has an ego the size of the giant squid and seems to think we all worship him--
He didn't say it, though, not this time.
He just moved closer and they were both soaked in the summer rain and he was wonderfully, gloriously in love, like the clouds that loved the sky and the mud that loved his shoes and the robes that loved his skin.
"I know," he said, instead, and he knew what he really meant.
Genre: Harry Potter
Rating: PG
Pairings: HarryxZacharias, or ZachariasxHarry, whichever.
Note: Written for a friend who needed some Zarry on a late night, and inspired by Placebo's "English Summer Rain."
-- -- -- -- --
He normally didn't find himself out in the rain, but it was a late summer night and dinner wasn't quite over and nobody would be out anyways and it shouldn't matter because it wasn't like anyone was following him or would know he was out here or care.
Exams almost over, and then he'd be home again.
But now he was caught in stasis, somewhere between the definition of a kobold and the Goblin Revolution of 1469 and how to make a proper bowl of cold fire and the rain pecking his cheeks and sliding warmly down his cheeks to form a water-beard on his chin. He closed his eyes and imagined he was a water god. His waterlogged robes formed the wings of a snow angel (only upright and without the snow) when he lifted his hands over his head, and his hair was painted onto his skull in dark blond curls. God of the Rhine. The Danube. The Downpour.
He barely registered his cold hands being tugged down and forward across the Quidditch field, felt the mud seeping into his shoes with the sort of annoyed detachment that only a god can afford to express. The face swimming into view through grey veils of misty haze was starkly pale, with eyes that were lost behind foggy glasses. "Where are we going," he mumbled, trying to make it a question through his cold lips.
"Hagrid's," came the short reply, short from lack of breath and maybe indecisiveness.
Hagrid's, a fire, something warm and probably hard like those awful rock biscuits he'd made last Christmas, his mind flipped that statement (minus the rock biscuits) and he grinned to himself at his own unspoken innuendo.
"Don't worry," his grey and pale and black-haired leader continued, "you'll be fine, though I don't know if anyone can fix insanity like yours. You're nuts, Zacharias."
Sure, whatever Potter, Harry, Harryimean. I'm nuts compared to the guy who sees death and has an ego the size of the giant squid and seems to think we all worship him--
He didn't say it, though, not this time.
He just moved closer and they were both soaked in the summer rain and he was wonderfully, gloriously in love, like the clouds that loved the sky and the mud that loved his shoes and the robes that loved his skin.
"I know," he said, instead, and he knew what he really meant.