Warning: I have rated the story an R because of an implied Harry/Draco
slash pairing. So please avoid this fic if you do not like the idea of a
same sex romantic pairing.
Oh, and slashers? There's some het in there too. Beware!
Disclaimer: Everything is the property of J.K. Rowling. I think we all know that by now.
Underneath
It is raining tonight, an old, tired and yellow rain. The raindrops are knocking on the window like unexpected and impatient visitors, who try to force their way into the house with bribery and threats.
Hush. My lover sleeps by my side on this sweat-soaked mattress, and nothing should disturb her dreams. Because I cannot stand it any more, her voice, her pathetic whispers, her breath hot and thick against my ear, the foreplay of words she likes to use before bending down to sink her teeth into my shoulder. I can only barely tolerate the way her arm is draped across my chest, the way our legs are tangled together on the bed. Perhaps it is unfair to say such things, because what's-her-name is quite a sweet girl after all, but your absence makes her presence even less tolerable.
But I remember that night, Harry, when we got drunk together at the Three Broomsticks, talking for hours. I forget the topic of our discussion and it's a shame, because it seemed so very interesting at the time, so very *enlightening.*
'I don't know what I'm doing here, but I want you.' you had said. My throat went dry and under the table I was hot and hard, my thumb rubbing against the rough denim of your trousers, my knee trapped between your thighs.
But then came the War, of course, and they took you away, hid you in some secret shelter behind Voldemort-proof glass, and taught you how to be a hero, walk on hot asphalt and snap curses with your teeth.
I wonder what acts of bravery you are committing tonight, what innocent souls you are saving, what ghastly demons with sweaty palms you are defeating. I wonder if it's my father you are murdering tonight Harry, while I struggle to fall asleep in some other lover's mouth.
These days go by, nameless, scentless, identical like the black beads of a rosary, divided only by the sound of the clock striking midnight. It rains tonight, an old, tired and yellow rain, the raindrops hammering indifferently against the ceiling and the walls. But if the raindrops were real nails, made of steel strong enough to break through cement then the ceiling would cave in, then the walls would collapse and I would be trapped underneath. Waiting seems much more easier if you don't have to remember how to breathe.
And after the War you would come and find me, hidden underneath dust and bricks, rusty swords and broken wands. You would have to dig with your hands, dig under layers of smashed lightbulbs and cigarette butts, under burnt parchment and rotten teeth, under rat corpses and stained sheets, under cities, castles, churches and lonely dusty roads, under all the people we've kissed and killed, Harry, under all the tricks we've ever played, but you would find me in the end. Because you said you wanted me, Harry, and we both know you always get what you want.
'When this War is over, we'll be together' you said that night, with your drunken hand on my knee, sweet like death. And I believed you.
But the War will not end, Harry. Because no war has ever ended. Ever.
Oh, and slashers? There's some het in there too. Beware!
Disclaimer: Everything is the property of J.K. Rowling. I think we all know that by now.
Underneath
It is raining tonight, an old, tired and yellow rain. The raindrops are knocking on the window like unexpected and impatient visitors, who try to force their way into the house with bribery and threats.
Hush. My lover sleeps by my side on this sweat-soaked mattress, and nothing should disturb her dreams. Because I cannot stand it any more, her voice, her pathetic whispers, her breath hot and thick against my ear, the foreplay of words she likes to use before bending down to sink her teeth into my shoulder. I can only barely tolerate the way her arm is draped across my chest, the way our legs are tangled together on the bed. Perhaps it is unfair to say such things, because what's-her-name is quite a sweet girl after all, but your absence makes her presence even less tolerable.
But I remember that night, Harry, when we got drunk together at the Three Broomsticks, talking for hours. I forget the topic of our discussion and it's a shame, because it seemed so very interesting at the time, so very *enlightening.*
'I don't know what I'm doing here, but I want you.' you had said. My throat went dry and under the table I was hot and hard, my thumb rubbing against the rough denim of your trousers, my knee trapped between your thighs.
But then came the War, of course, and they took you away, hid you in some secret shelter behind Voldemort-proof glass, and taught you how to be a hero, walk on hot asphalt and snap curses with your teeth.
I wonder what acts of bravery you are committing tonight, what innocent souls you are saving, what ghastly demons with sweaty palms you are defeating. I wonder if it's my father you are murdering tonight Harry, while I struggle to fall asleep in some other lover's mouth.
These days go by, nameless, scentless, identical like the black beads of a rosary, divided only by the sound of the clock striking midnight. It rains tonight, an old, tired and yellow rain, the raindrops hammering indifferently against the ceiling and the walls. But if the raindrops were real nails, made of steel strong enough to break through cement then the ceiling would cave in, then the walls would collapse and I would be trapped underneath. Waiting seems much more easier if you don't have to remember how to breathe.
And after the War you would come and find me, hidden underneath dust and bricks, rusty swords and broken wands. You would have to dig with your hands, dig under layers of smashed lightbulbs and cigarette butts, under burnt parchment and rotten teeth, under rat corpses and stained sheets, under cities, castles, churches and lonely dusty roads, under all the people we've kissed and killed, Harry, under all the tricks we've ever played, but you would find me in the end. Because you said you wanted me, Harry, and we both know you always get what you want.
'When this War is over, we'll be together' you said that night, with your drunken hand on my knee, sweet like death. And I believed you.
But the War will not end, Harry. Because no war has ever ended. Ever.