Ok. Right now it's shortly after midnight. I have an essay due later today that I've only got half a paragraph written of. And I'm writing fan fiction. What? I don't know why, or how, I got myself into the mood for writing. I just read some really good DracoxNeville stuff, one of which was added to my favorites. And that inspired me to write a fiction that is borderline fan fiction, but if I change about five words, it's totally non-fanfiction. So I don't know where to post it. Or if I want to post it at all. But this fiction was written for one line of that. It could be a companion piece or it can stand alone. I don't know. It depends on who the pairing is in the first fiction. In this one, it could technically be Draco and any non-Death Eater male, but it's worded for Harry. As said: I don't know.
DISCLAIMER: If I were a genius I would've created Harry Potter. I didn't. Leave that to the esteemed JKR to get filthy rich off some random wizards.
It's a very strange fiction. I don't know how the idea came into being. Perhaps the fact that Draco delights in tormenting others but practically sobs when he is tormented. Except this one deals with blood.
It hasn't been proofed by anyone but me. But I really wanted to post something. I hope you like it, and really want to know what you think as this was a very very very different type of fan writing than I'm used to. Normally its fluff. This one isn't exactly fluff, it's not even romantic in some senses! It takes place after the seventh book, scratching the existence of that failure of a chapter we all know as "Epilogue: Nineteen Years Later" which reads like a fluffly fanfiction. Ok, so not complete failure, because there were some killer-awesome lines, but all you non-conventional pairing-fans know what I mean. Don't worry, that's just the time frame. There are NO SPOILERS in this ficlet.
Basically, read and review. Not graphic or sexual, even though there is blood. Its all about blood. But its not gross, I don't think. Just a strange exploration. No spoilers. Enjoy.
--(my name is) Inconsequential.
ps: Most of the run on, seemingly unpuntuated/incorrectly punctuated sentences are purposeful, but of course there are mistakes. As I am human, and I did write this at midnight. While doing homework.
The line from the other writing: "He doesn't much like blood, not his. It makes him squirm unless its someone else's, some other, less fortunate urchin's."
The Veins to A Heart
The way blood feels is wrong.
He knows it. Doesn't know how he knows it, or why, but he knows it. Especially if its his. There is something about it that appeals when its not. When it gushes from someone else's veins, and coats them with a red really found nowhere but inside. Or out, if he so decides.
Except that was a long time ago.
But he still knows. Still hates his own blood. For numerous reasons.
Which is why when there's blood trickling down from his mouth and plopping onto his chest, dripping from his chin, he's disgusted. Perhaps by the fact that its a perfectly good waste of Pureblood, the drops are, slickly making their leave from his body. How he got to be in this state he can't remember. He knows it might have involved a survivor, someone who Lived, but he wants to deny it.
But he can't because what he does remember is that he enjoyed it. The blood wasn't purposeful, just a slight bit of rough-housing involving pent-up hatred and close-up passion. But it's just so red. And it's coming from his mouth. He doesn't want to touch it but he needs to clean it off, forget this whole escapade. A hesitant hand reaches up to wipe his mouth.
He notices how the mark on his arm has faded, though it will never quite go away.
He's lying on his back, he realizes, and it's different, because he doesn't remember ever lying down, but certainly remembers that his feet didn't touch the ground at some point, and maybe there was a tree? The saliva-mixed gobbet of dahlia sullies his fine finger and he pushes himself up, a bit dizzy. Without thinking, he licks his lips.
The strange, horrendous taste of blood sends him reeling and rubbing his mouth in a frenzy, dirtied finger and gross textures forgotten in even worse registrations of flavor.
Damn survivor, leaving a Pureblood here like this, bleeding.
Except that the Pureblood realizes he's not alone, as he finishes cleaning his mouth, and takes notice of the bespectacled boy watching him curiously from halfway around the tree. He's not hiding, just sitting, his hand haphazardly pulling at the grass, tying it into knots and ripping them apart. Two wands lie beside him, handles touching. He smiles after a moment, and tosses some of those green bits into the air toward the boy whose hand is covered in his own blood.
And that's when he remembers and can't deny it because he doesn't want to.
As he wipes the bittersweet liquid from his palm and fingers, the grass feels natural and welcoming to his touch. Almost meant to be noticed, sat upon, pulled and played with. Meant to cushion and cover, and keep from the dirt in which it grows.
The survivor speaks and the boy who hates his own blood replies. Smiling and cracking his lip more.
The exchange probably involves a cliché that everyone's heard but can't get enough of. Not that either of them mind. Perhaps it involves the weather. Or maybe it involves small, silly injuries. Apologies, maybe. Whose?
He realizes he doesn't want blood from anyone else, doesn't want to see it gush from another, just wants his blood to be different. Doesn't want it to have belonged to murderers, doesn't want it to be hot and wrong and opposing. And so it won't be, not if he doesn't want it to.
And he doesn't.
He thrusts a little grass back at the boy in front of him, who has crawled over to whisk the last taint of red away from a split lip. The boy's hand brushes over his forearm, over the mark, implying it's unimportance. And offering forgiveness.
There was a time when the Pureblood wanted nothing more than to see this one's blood stain the ground.
That was a long time ago.
Blood red is a color, he decides, that can't really be found anywhere but inside a body, pumping through veins to the heart. And that's fine. Just so long as a certain boy's heart—the heart of one Boy Who Lived, and grass-thrower extraordinaire—will always belong to that of the Pureblood who just kissed him, despite a bloodied lip and grass-strewn blond hair.
xFin.
Review, please. This is a new concept. Lemme know what you thought! Even if you hated it, let me know, and tell me why.
--moi :3