Title: Pale
Rating: PG-13
Realm: Harry Potter
Pairing: HarryxDraco
Genre: angst, general
Warnings: slash mentioned, violence mentioned, some major angst
Word-count: 494
Summary: The years have gone by yet nothing has really changed. Hidden deep underneath the coils of restriction lies the passion, waiting to once more to be awakened.
Notes: Another short fanfic (sorry). I sat and listened to Within Temptation's "Pale" while I was visiting my grandmother… this came to my mind. I'm sorry if it's a bit diffuse and unclear of from whose perspective this comes from… it's Draco's.
The years have gone by. Seasons have changed, the faces of the people I used to know have grown older, marked by the events that occurred and that the wheel of time has slowly turned on its axis. Streets and stores have been rebuilt, the broken shards have been removed.
Yet I know that nothing has changed.
The hatred is still there – and hidden deep underneath the coils of restriction lies the passion, waiting to once more to be awakened. It never really rests, just bides its time some inches underneath the skin – ready to strike at the first opportunity.
That burning fire that nearly consumed us both completely, drove us to forget all that was around us and just feel, everything narrowing down to become skin, lips, hands, tongues… you in me; melting into a single unity.
How could one night lead to such consequences?
Brief images of people screaming, flashes of red and green, the scarlet red flowing, pass by quickly on my retina – the end finally revealed to the world.
The wind blows stronger and colder upon the hill as no trees grow to give shelter. Aside from the slowly growing grass, still wet with dew and frost from the night's chill, there is no life up here except for me. Or is there?
A lone crocus defies the weather, the yellow petals tinged purple at the core, fading softly towards the dominating yellow. In the shade of the stone it stands against it's a sharp contrast, and without knowing why I reach out and brush a fingertip against the underside of it, feeling the frailty but at the same time the strength in it.
Looking out over the slowly awakening city down below and the rising sun over by the horizon I understand why I never came here before. For although I've known that it was up here for years – coming here makes it all more real, giving me a sense of closure.
I don't want to forget, don't want to make it all become just a memory. Anytime someone has mentioned it a small part of me has accepted that its over, and I start to forget. For now all that has bound me to him has been the pain – the hatred; because I do hate him. Hate him for doing what he had to do, hate him for walking out that door.
I hate him because he died and left me here alone.
But at the same time the pain in my heart is all that binds me to him, so I cherish it.
Rising up I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my robes, walking down the hill and never once looking back at the gray slab of stone, the sunlight illuminating it and making the name and date that are carved into it more visible – more real. And somewhere by its base rests a sole crocus, though small; defiant and strong. Just like him.