AN: This story, is something that has been driving me insane. It was kind of tucked away so i couldn't clearly understand it for quite a while. Please note that this does not reflect my personality in anyway. I'm actually rather sentimental. Comments are greatly appreciated. On top of all that; the story itself. It could relate to anyone. I wasn't sure who to make it for but decided upon Draco just because. If you feel that I have in any way copied your work, please tell me along with the story in question and I will gladly take this down. Enjoy.
Disclaimer: you know the drill. I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters. All I own is this story.
It has been lying there, on his bedside table for years. A sometimes happy, and yet heartrending reminder of what was. Over the years, it had been dulled and dirtied. It had somehow become a last memoir of something so distant that the details were blurred and fading when he himself had not aged half as much. And then, when he would sink onto the small bed that was propped against the dull, cracked wall and take the picture in his hands he would never be quite sure what the picture was. It showed what was there – but what was it that was there? And eventually, his thoughts would become so tangled that he would have to put aside the picture and try to forget about it. But he knows he can never forget. It is always there, never leaves forever. So one day, as he sits alone in his one bedroom apartment, he takes the picture off of the table one last time. He winces as a ripping sound fills the air and with trembling legs and shaking hands, he gets up to throw away the scraps of what he had been holding. And when he sits back down, he tries to think back. But in the end, when he stares down at his empty hands, he isn't sure if the picture ever existed at all.
That night, he dreams of a vivid scene that at once seems like a far off memory that has been faded and dirtied over the years and at the same time seems to be a cherished moment that tugs at his heart. The dream is still and all night, he wonders what it is he is looking at. It is all in sepia tones, as though someone long ago poured coffee all over it. There is a young boy there. He stands with his arms reached out as though beckoning to someone. Not the camera though, he seems to overlook it entirely. Or perhaps he is not even facing the camera and has just blindly reached a hand out to grab his friend. It's hard to tell. Through the coffee stain, the sky seems a dazzling blue and the hair of the boy seems luminescent silver. Perhaps he is facing him and perhaps he is not. Maybe the boy's hands are reaching and maybe they are holding. It is cut off at his wrist, so he can never really tell.
The next morning, as he sits on his bed, his shirt hanging limply off one shoulder he struggles to remember. Like most dreams, it is fading quickly but something lingers with the presence only something that once had meaning can. He tries to remember the boy who could have been looking at him and might have been facing away. The one who could have been reaching, or perhaps already holding. In the end, he cannot remember. The image is stored away in the deepest corner of his mind or perhaps his heart along with all the others. He blinks slowly. As he stares at his hands, he realizes that even as he exhales slowly and his clock ticks monotonously, his past is fading. And then, he closes his hand into a fist and it is gone. Slowly, he uncurls his fingers and rakes a hand through his hair. And then, as though nothing had happened, he stands up and decides he'd rather like a cup of coffee.
Owari
reviews greatly appreciated. Not to mention that blue button would feel very happy for being pressed.