Warnings: SLASH. You don't know
what it is? Then I seriously doubt that you want to be here.
A/N: For Moriavis.
Spoilers: Philosopher's Stone
Disclaimer: Nothing here is mine except for the story. Nothing.
Running Scarlet
If Erised could be called a dream then Draco was a dreamer, and every day he was subsumed in reflected hallucinations. The clasp of his cloak would rub against the apple of his throat as it flexed and shivered, Draco's low murmurs and gasps disturbing dust and silence. Sometimes he would reach up and touch the mirror, tracing the thin shadows captured by lying glass.
Truthful glass.
Running his fingers over triumphant smiles and beaming face, the slow ripples of his cloak would rub against his skin and call him back to himself. Back to a different set of illusions and a different sort of self.
By day Draco went to classes, ate his meals and played ambitious games, vicious games, with Potter. Vitriol dripped off his tongue like honey, the poisoned beads spattering over Potter and his pets, the latter victims of war. They were never more than side-casualties in the exchange of friendly fire. Friendly fire. A dangerous activity that is never half so friendly as it sounds.
He walked along stone paths to and from classes, heels clacking out reminders and accusations from previous nights. His steps echoed differently in Erised: more resoundingly, less forgivingly. Erised allowed for no excuses, no blindfolds or soothing balms. Draco preferred the way his feet fell in Erised. He preferred the pain, even how it changed every day.
On Monday Draco saw himself parade into the Great Hall, fingers tight and white around a Snitch as the banners waved green and silver. Potter's blood stained the Snitch copper.
On Tuesday Lucius' hand was heavy on Draco's shoulder, clawed and painful as Potter screamed before him.
On Wednesday Potter coughed up blood, red spattering his lips as his hands twitched around a glass vial. Draco's cauldron bubbled a perfect green.
On Thursday Draco watched ripples in the school lake smooth and still.
On Friday Potter's flesh was grey and cold under Draco's wand. Ten inches, Mahogany, Dragon's Heartstring.
On Saturday Potter chased away breath and air as he toppled from the Astronomy Tower.
On Sunday Potter's smell lingered berry-like and bitter, the juice of their union running scarlet on metal. The pads of Draco's fingers tingled and burned.
Draco burned; the daily attacks on him hot, wet, and cruel. The sensation of overlapping flesh and entwining tongues even now bubbled under his skin. Pain. Did Potter pant out rejection with every inch he took?
Did he?
Did you, Potter?
On Monday Erised was gone.