Author's Note: It's been ages since I've written in the HP fandom—I stopped after developing a H/D fetish. I usually drop writing in certain fandoms after finding a fic (in that fandom) so beautifully written that I couldn't have any hopes of ever even coming close, that I just adore and worship and obsess over, and that also satisfies all my needs for pretty slashy boys that I don't need to write something to satisfy my personal needs. (Underwater Light by Maya is a good example of why I haven't written H/D in forever.) But in fandoms where I lack a fic to obsess over and satisfy my demands for slash, I write my own stuff (see Fruits Basket or Demon Diary, the latter which I've shamefully neglected lately…).
So here's my first HP attempt after a long hiatus… Actually, Vertigo was H/D (first slash by me, ever, I think) but that was more of an experiment than an obsession. Now, however… XD
This was supposed to be a drabble (definition: 500 words or less) but I suck at drabbles, lolz. (This is around 664 words, not counting the title or notes.) Maybe I'll try again someday for a different fandom.
Warnings: Slash. Boy love. Darkness. Randomness. Me being weird. X3
Disclaimer: If I owned it, I'd give it to Maya. But I don't own it and neither does Maya. T-T
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Heaven Bred
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Painted wings of a million shades
All black and blue and pale and gray
The tears that shimmer but never fall
Breathe hopes and sins that shatter all
ooo
A sketch of a beautiful boy with painted wings and a broken halo.
Harry touched it gently with reverent fingers.
He tried not to think of the war, the black looks of death and horror, as life stole away and left only empty shells.
He tried not to think of the reedy screams that petered out into the greedy night sky, wrenched from anguished souls.
…or the coldness or the fear or the fact that there were never any tears anymore because hate had eroded away any human compassion.
You couldn't cry when you couldn't feel.
There was a subtle light around the boy, not an ethereal golden glow, but a shadowy blue-gray.
Harry leaned against the cold stone wall, his back bare and stinging, red with welts and blood that he pretended he couldn't feel anymore.
There was an emptiness, loud in its silence, pervading around him. Green-black water dripped down rusted iron and gray stone, pooling on the ground.
Harry looked again at the boy who didn't as much emit light as give off a less dark darkness.
He had painted wings of a million shades, all black and blue and gray. His skin was so pale and translucent Harry almost doubted he was real—but the slashes of crimson told only too painfully of his reality.
Harry wondered what that skin would taste like if he ran his tongue along its silky planes. Cool and smooth and the slightest tinge of salt, he imagined, like marble left too long out in the extremities.
A halo of glass, cracked but not shattered, spider-spun web lining its surface, hung from his hand.
It would do him no good.
Harry felt a brief pang of regret, his sharpest emotion in days, for all the dreams he'd had, all the promises he'd made, and all his youthful foolish ambitions he'd had when he'd wallowed still in naiveté.
Life was not so easy now. Dreams so far gone, torn to infinite shreds by a relentless war.
The boy had pale hair—pale as moonlight and just as bright.
Harry was enraptured by the shimmer, like gleam of fresh, untainted snow under the sun, pure as glimmers of joy in a young girl's eyes.
He wanted that. Wanted to run his hands through that shimmering hair, undoubtedly soft, and let it bring him back to places he'd almost forgotten, places he sometimes wanted not to remember.
He wished he could save them. Wished that he had.
Instead, there was a boy with bright eyes and brighter hair, and a mouth so tender it made Harry ache, who was cold and bitter and passionate with hate—brimming with more emotions that could ever be suppressed, more emotions than Harry had ever had or would ever experience.
It was better to be stoic about things you couldn't change, Harry thought, numbed fingers stroking his chains.
The angel moved forward and his wings stayed behind. They were only painted, after all, beautiful and strong and protecting, remaining attached to the mural on the wall.
Harry almost wished he could cry now as that hair ruffled from the movement and those preciously cool eyes focused on him.
There was nothing Harry wanted as much as this and all the world could go hang.
Death was inevitable.
And now his angel was leaning down between his legs. He lowered his face to stare at Harry.
The silence shattered when Draco dropped his halo—a slender thing of glass that would've saved Harry—a Portkey out of this dungeon.
Harry stared at the shards remaining.
"You can't save everyone, Potter," came Draco's harsh whisper, ragged with emotions and too close to Harry's ear.
Harry opened his mouth and Draco's was on his.
And the only thought in the mind of the Boy Who Lived as he died, as his obsession slid a sharp blade the color of his wings and eyes and hope across his throat, was that Draco had been heaven bred.
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fini
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Notes: Bwa. Short and pointless and very much strange… Heh. But reviews will always be appreciated! Just for a quick update, I'm currently working on A Little Stress Relief's next chapter, and also a Demon Diary EAR5 one-shot called Juggling Blackbirds. I like it…if only I'd finish it… Wah. But, in the meantime, review! XD