Harry Potter and Next Gen characters © J.K. Rowling.
OCs © me
I'm proud of this one.
You hold his hand. You've asked for more, but a hand is all you get for now. One hand, glowing gold against your silver, fingers long, rough, slender and cut along the sides. The sort of hands that should be holding an axe, chopping up wood, sweeping sun-kissed blond hair from sky blue eyes. But instead they are grafted to a broken boy, held against a tearstained canvas, clenched together in prayers that are never heard.
Tonight there are stars. Sometimes there aren't because of the lights, but there are tonight, smiling sadly down from the infinity. However, there are no stars in his eyes. You look for the constellations of your face in them, but they are a flat green and they are sad. You wanted to close them with a silken touch and touch your lips to the frail lavender eyelids, but a hand is all you get for now.
He doesn't speak, and you're fine with it. The silence isn't awkward, but comforting, like a thumb stroking your face – it didn't need words.
His chapped lips open slightly, letting out a breath that ghosts into the air. Goosebumps erupt over his arms, and you want to give him your jacket to protect that liquid gold.
Moonlight coats your hair with a metallic sheen. He called it platinum once, showers it with titles that give it value but it is merely polished nickel.
You called his hair jet.
He called it nothingness, in a poetic way that doesn't suit him.
The silence is interrupted by his hand tearing away from yours like material ripping. He takes out a cigarette, puts it into his mouth and lights it.
"You need to stop that," you muttered, voice cracking from not being used.
He grins, but it's fake. The cloud of air he puffs out now isn't angelic and white but dangerous and grey and choking. You can picture his tobacco lungs spluttering under the pressure of the tar. You can imagine the nicotine dyeing his wax the colour of decay.
Smoking will fade the stars in the sky, but his eyes glisten and tell you otherwise.
You stroke his palm. You want to continue your finger's course up his arm to his collarbones, but a hand is all you get for now.
"So, is my future bright and breezy?" he chuckles.
You flick through the Divination book, eyes scanning over the explanations on palm reading.
"Your heart line is pretty long, meaning you are a passionate lover," you explain.
He smirks.
"Your head line…"
Abusive, brutal, sadistic.
"You're very creative and intelligent," you lie.
Somehow, you think he knows.
"Fate line…"
Insecurity.
"You control your own fate."
"Damn right I do," he laughs.
"Now, your lifeline…"
Tracing your finger down his rough hand – you took more time than you needed to, there, sweetheart – you seek out his lifeline. It is short, forked, faint…
"You should have died six months ago," you mutter.
Looking into your eyes so that you could see right into the forest depths in his, he says, "I did."
Lying like a silhouette against your bed, you want more than anything to grab him and kiss every part of his body you could reach, but a hand is all you get for now.
"Do you think I should have been Gryffindor, Ocean Boy?" he asks.
"No," you reply. You mean it.
"I'm not green, like you," he protests.
"I'm not green."
"No, you're not. You're blue. Blue as blue as blue," he whispers, smiling.
You can't help but gaze into his unfathomable eyes, counting the gems inside them and playing dot to dot with them. "You're gold."
"I'm Fool's Gold."
"You're not."
"Prove it." He looks right at you.
You almost cry. Almost. But instead, you stop the tap-dancing of your fingers on his hand and walk them up his arm, slowly, waiting for a reaction.
Once again, you glance up.
He nods.
That's all you need.
Sweaty, panting, dripping with liquid silver, skin studded with diamonds, you curl up together, blocked from light by the curtains on the bed. Your heart thuds heavily on his bare abdomen. Your hair is splayed like threads of moonlight over his stomach, your eyelids shine with violet and your arms are wound around his waist like a shield. Gazing down lovingly, he caresses your face with his hand, tracing the shadows of your high cheekbones, rubbing softly against the sensitive skin at the corner of your mouth. When you begin to wake up and see his affectionate eyes, filled with stars, on you, you don't even bother to listen for the sound of the other Slytherin boys in the dormitory. You'll protect him.
You hope he knows it.
"Let's make a compromise," you say.
He pouts, and although it's supposed to be a scowl, you find it adorable; you get the impulse to nip at him gently, but a hand is all you get for now.
"Let me finish! So, you don't want to come out about our relationship-"
He shakes his head.
"But I do."
He nods.
"So why don't we just tell a few people."
"What, like my family? Have you heard them talk about queers? They'll kill me."
"No, I mean like Aeron Zabini and Matthew Finnigan."
He bites his chapped lip, his starry eyes wary.
"Please?"
"What, I have to decide now?"
"No."
He grimaces. "Just Aeron. Aeron first."
In response, you do lean over and nibble at his neck. Your teeth don't break, and he is soft and sweet like sugar, vanilla and cinnamon against your lips.
Maybe he is gold.
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