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.
Disclaimer: Everything is the property of J.K. Rowling. I'm just a humble dog not even worthy of dusting her shoes.
January
No central heating in your house again. I walked up the same row of endless narrow stairs, dazzled your muggle landlady with a smile, just to sneak into your grim little flat once more. And you, lying across the bed, mouth open like the rest of you, all panting pink lips and sweat.
The frost that burns the room tonight keeps me awake, but not you. I spend these hours of darkness diving deeper and deeper under the covers, nearly blue with cold, keeping watch while you sleep.
The digital clock on the bedside table flashes 5.19. Winter morning, as I pick my robes from their frozen rest on the chair and pull them over my head. You shift in sleep while I dress, and struggle to wrap yourself more tightly with the covers, building a cocoon with the pillows and the duvet. For you, the night does not allow the sun to rise yet and blind your eyes with acid beams. For you, the wind that whistles outside does not allow the window shutter to creak. Nothing should disturb your sleep, as you lie, uncoupled now, on this single bed.
I bend over and snatch the sheets away from your hands, just to take another look before I leave, photographic image in my head, memory for the next long day, until the evening brings my footsteps to your front door again. Back to where I belong.
The scar is still there on your forehead and these ropy veins make strange diagrams on your arms. You breathe quietly; the lungs, trapped inside the ribcage expanding with oxygen. The chest, rising and falling. That same place where my head likes to rest. Your skin, smudged with my fingerprints all over, the work of my pale hands on your body. Sometimes I think my palms were made to fit perfectly in the small of your back.
I pull the covers up to your chin and before your eyelashes begin to flutter I have to go, slam the door behind and step into the silent street. This time is my time, each day, walking away from you, yesterday's lover, while your scent still clings to my robes. Before the world listens to my footsteps, before the sun begins to burn the outline of the buildings into shape. These moments between having you and needing you are the only ones when I can define myself, during our ten years of January frost. But sometimes I think I'm still carrying you with me, away from that cold empty room.
The streetlamps drip light into the empty road, lined with these stumps of useless metal that muggles call cars. The sky is black and perfect like heaven and the morning mists swirl over the ground, enveloping me into their chill silk.
You don't have to miss me when I'm away. But Harry, please. When you wake up, remember and take your time with that first cigarette. Leave me a memory of heat.
Disclaimer: Everything is the property of J.K. Rowling. I'm just a humble dog not even worthy of dusting her shoes.
January
No central heating in your house again. I walked up the same row of endless narrow stairs, dazzled your muggle landlady with a smile, just to sneak into your grim little flat once more. And you, lying across the bed, mouth open like the rest of you, all panting pink lips and sweat.
The frost that burns the room tonight keeps me awake, but not you. I spend these hours of darkness diving deeper and deeper under the covers, nearly blue with cold, keeping watch while you sleep.
The digital clock on the bedside table flashes 5.19. Winter morning, as I pick my robes from their frozen rest on the chair and pull them over my head. You shift in sleep while I dress, and struggle to wrap yourself more tightly with the covers, building a cocoon with the pillows and the duvet. For you, the night does not allow the sun to rise yet and blind your eyes with acid beams. For you, the wind that whistles outside does not allow the window shutter to creak. Nothing should disturb your sleep, as you lie, uncoupled now, on this single bed.
I bend over and snatch the sheets away from your hands, just to take another look before I leave, photographic image in my head, memory for the next long day, until the evening brings my footsteps to your front door again. Back to where I belong.
The scar is still there on your forehead and these ropy veins make strange diagrams on your arms. You breathe quietly; the lungs, trapped inside the ribcage expanding with oxygen. The chest, rising and falling. That same place where my head likes to rest. Your skin, smudged with my fingerprints all over, the work of my pale hands on your body. Sometimes I think my palms were made to fit perfectly in the small of your back.
I pull the covers up to your chin and before your eyelashes begin to flutter I have to go, slam the door behind and step into the silent street. This time is my time, each day, walking away from you, yesterday's lover, while your scent still clings to my robes. Before the world listens to my footsteps, before the sun begins to burn the outline of the buildings into shape. These moments between having you and needing you are the only ones when I can define myself, during our ten years of January frost. But sometimes I think I'm still carrying you with me, away from that cold empty room.
The streetlamps drip light into the empty road, lined with these stumps of useless metal that muggles call cars. The sky is black and perfect like heaven and the morning mists swirl over the ground, enveloping me into their chill silk.
You don't have to miss me when I'm away. But Harry, please. When you wake up, remember and take your time with that first cigarette. Leave me a memory of heat.