Cante Jondo, or,
Lorca, You Bastard.
By: Licorice-Sama
I don't understand it anymore. I suppose hell has frozen over. Even the grass doesn't seem the right shade of green anymore. The dungeons, usually cold and mirthless, seem warm and incensed like a tired old Catholic church. The Great Hall seems frigid; like reality has ostracized me.
Damn you, Harry Potter.
You are everything I hate. You are moral, you are dedicated, and you even attempt to be humble. You are my exact opposite. You are everything I could never be, and by being repulsed by you, I realize I, with all my imperfections, repulse myself.
I see you standing there with your friends. Real friends, not like the people I keep at my disposal. You smile with them, you laugh with them, and you share your pain with them. How lucky is that? How many people would give everything to have friends with that much loyalty? I would. I've always suffered alone... and now, I don't think I could ever do anything else. I don't think I would be able to share my pain with anyone, even if they asked me to, even if I tried. I'm too jaded... now.
It doesn't explain everything, though. It doesn't explain why every time I'm around you I feel like my body is frozen, but from within I am being eaten alive by searing flame. It doesn't explain why I sigh every time I inhale your scent. My hatred of you doesn't explain how I can tell where you've been, because your scent- so sweet, so tangy; do I smell cologne on you?-your scent lingers on the air of every one of these ill- ventilated classroom and halls of this godforsaken school. It doesn't explain why, when I look into your eyes to make a challenge, (your eyes...so emerald and defiant!) that when I look into them I want to lose myself completely, want to push you against the wall or ground and explore your mouth with mine.
Damn you.
Suicide.
(Maybe It was because you hadn't
mastered your geometry)
He awoke with a start. The moon, a silver sliver surrounded by her attendants, danced far overhead. His gray eyes were almost completely blacked out by his dilated pupils, and the Milky Way reflected in them with the same chill as the air around him. He had slept through Gryffindor Quidditch practice, and slept through what was to be his "planned" encounter with Harry Potter. Grumbling to himself, the lithe, slender Slytherin slipped effortlessly to his feet, his black robes falling to cover his shiny black boots.
Looking down, he noticed his book lying on the frosted grass next to where he had been lying. He sighed, rolling his eyes, and bending down, snatched it up. He brushed some melting frost off the cover with his bare hand. The pale appendage was already so cold, and the frost sliding off the cover, sliding off his hand, was only a numb tickle.
"Damn you again, Potter," he muttered under his breath, the words freezing into fog in the early November night's air. A stray, white-blond lock of hair fell into his gray eyes as he looked up at Hogwarts. He absentmindedly wiped his hand on his robe, the dampness of the melted frost starting to annoy him. Watching the orange lights of the windows flicker and die into blackness, one by one, Draco Malfoy became aware he must return to the fortress-like school. It was too late, and even a prefect would be reprimanded for prowling about in these hours.
Slowly moving one foot in front of the other, Draco walked in a straight line; a path that would lead him straight up the steps and into the Great Hall. He listened to the grass crunch underfoot, and clutched the white, soft-covered book to his chest. He wished he had worn gloves... it felt like the veins in his hands were flowing with ice.
Grabbing hold of the handle of one of the vast, oak doors, Draco pulled it open and was greeted with a surge of warm air. Smiling faintly to himself, the young prefect walked into the warmth of the castle; into the dying firelight casting his shadow, giant and distorted, over the stone walls.
The lad was going blank.
It was ten in the morning.
His heart was growing full
of broken wings and rag flowers.
His footfalls echoed hollowly across the empty hall, as he made his way towards the corridor that would take him down to the dungeons, and inevitably, his common room. His dark robes swished around his moving legs, filling some of the spaces the curt 'clop' of his boots on stone left.
The corridor was two steps away when Draco turned. He hadn't had the original intention of it, but it wasn't his brain that was guiding him anymore. The turn was so abrupt that the fabric of his robes seemed to snap in disdain as they made to follow their wearer. Draco shook his head and entered the corridor that lead to the staircase that would take him up to the Astronomy Tower.
He noticed there remained
just one word on his lips.
The scent was what had led him down here. To his now overly-sensitive nose, the air was permeated with the smell of dried sweat, of some plain, fresh soap, and of a tangy, yet dark, musky scent. A cologne or aftershave, Draco guessed. He closed his eyes momentarily, reveling in the intensely human odor as his feet guided his body to the stairs.
Gray eyes flashed open, fathomless pupils dilating just barely in the low torchlight as Draco Malfoy grabbed the handrail and mounted the stairs. He started up them slowly, then gained speed, leaning forward slightly to gain momentum. The heels of his shiny, black boots clicked on every staccato step up the white-haired Slytherin boy took.
"This is ludicrous," muttered Draco Malfoy, his eyes narrow now, the stark white book clutched firmly to his chest, the veins in his hands bulging slightly under the resulting pressure. Like a hound on the scent of a fox, Draco let his sense of smell guide him upwards, around the corner, and up again. He let his body guide him towards the source of the human drenched in sweat, rinsed-away soap, and cologne.
And when he took off his gloves
a soft ash fell from his hands.
A tower showed through the balcony door.
He felt he was balcony and tower.
Draco Malfoy grinned, the would-be warm action frozen by the cold glitter of torch-light in his frigid eyes. The Astronomy Tower was within a stone's throw from where he now was, and was growing ever closer. His black- clad body was almost consumed by the shadow of the nearly-full darkness, but his eyes were filled with the harsh yellow stars outside of the open door. The door that led to the balcony of the Astronomy Tower.
The scent was unbearably thick. It was choking the slender youth. He raised his free wrist as if to check the time, then dropped it, his other hand still clasped firmly on the book. His robes stirred the darkness, and his loudly hollow footfalls breathed life into the stone walls and floor. So close to the balcony, so close to the intoxicating smell.
No doubt he saw how the clock,
stopped in its case, surveyed him.
"You're a bastard, Lorca," the pale, blond boy said breathily at the threshold of the doorway, "you knew me too well."
He saw his shadow quiet and prone
on the white silk divan.
Draco Malfoy took a deep breath, inhaling all he could of the tangy, sweet musk, and stepped out into the chill on the balcony. The boy, standing to left, at the banister, turned to look at him, his green eyes magnified behind round glasses. His mouth was half-open, and his pale-pink lips were wet. His cheeks were rosy from the cold. He wore black robes like Draco's, although unlike the Slytherin prefect, he didn't wear his winter cloak over them.
"Malfoy...?" the dark-haired boy trailed off, dumbstruck by the cold starlight in Draco's gray eyes.
"Damn you, Potter," Draco muttered huskily, moving closer to the other youth, breathing in the sweat and the cologne.
"I don't understand," Harry Potter began quietly, his emerald eyes scanning Draco's face, ever nearer, for some explanation. Their robes were swishing together in the slight night breeze; Harry's face was shadowed and Draco's illuminated by the sliver of silver moon behind the Boy Who Lived.
"I never understood," Draco admitted gruffly, lips pulled into an angry pout. With his free hand he reached up and grabbed the other boy's chin, pulling him closer. The paler boy's frigid grip made Harry Potter shiver. As Draco firmly pressed his cold lips to the Potter boy's parted ones, smothering the last protest of "Draco," he let the starkly white, soft-covered book fall. The name on the cover, "Federico García Lorca," burned black underneath the frozen sky.
And the stiff, geometrical youth
smashed the mirror with a hatchet.
When it broke, a great burst of shadow
flooded the illusory room.
***
12.55 AM
le premier d'aôut
Bonsoir, mes chèrs.
Author's Note: Alliteration is fun. ^.^ It was meant to stand on its own. I built it around Lorca's poem "Suicide," as if that wasn't apparent enough already. Willie Nelson, Lorca, and caffeine make for strange writing companions.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and related characters are sole property of J.K. Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Bros. and those big execs and lawyers up there. The poem suicide is the sole property of Federico García Lorca, and the various publishers who have published his work. Translation of the poem "Suicide" is credited to Alan S. Trueblood. No copyright infringement intended, just having a little fun before getting back to writing my "original" pieces and such. Kind of a tribute to Lorca, who has become one of the main inspirations for my writing.
Dedicated to: Ms. Blonde. Thanks for the wonderful birthday present! This isn't much, but then again, I don't think I could ever fully repay you! Merci Beaucoup!
Nota Bene: I reposted this after I put the main category as angst and the subcategory as romance. It was the other way around! It was ten o'clock in the morning, and I didn't have enough caffeine. Erg.
"The emotions of those who are thought to be beautiful are always full of sorrow." ~Treize Khushrenada
Lorca, You Bastard.
By: Licorice-Sama
I don't understand it anymore. I suppose hell has frozen over. Even the grass doesn't seem the right shade of green anymore. The dungeons, usually cold and mirthless, seem warm and incensed like a tired old Catholic church. The Great Hall seems frigid; like reality has ostracized me.
Damn you, Harry Potter.
You are everything I hate. You are moral, you are dedicated, and you even attempt to be humble. You are my exact opposite. You are everything I could never be, and by being repulsed by you, I realize I, with all my imperfections, repulse myself.
I see you standing there with your friends. Real friends, not like the people I keep at my disposal. You smile with them, you laugh with them, and you share your pain with them. How lucky is that? How many people would give everything to have friends with that much loyalty? I would. I've always suffered alone... and now, I don't think I could ever do anything else. I don't think I would be able to share my pain with anyone, even if they asked me to, even if I tried. I'm too jaded... now.
It doesn't explain everything, though. It doesn't explain why every time I'm around you I feel like my body is frozen, but from within I am being eaten alive by searing flame. It doesn't explain why I sigh every time I inhale your scent. My hatred of you doesn't explain how I can tell where you've been, because your scent- so sweet, so tangy; do I smell cologne on you?-your scent lingers on the air of every one of these ill- ventilated classroom and halls of this godforsaken school. It doesn't explain why, when I look into your eyes to make a challenge, (your eyes...so emerald and defiant!) that when I look into them I want to lose myself completely, want to push you against the wall or ground and explore your mouth with mine.
Damn you.
Suicide.
(Maybe It was because you hadn't
mastered your geometry)
He awoke with a start. The moon, a silver sliver surrounded by her attendants, danced far overhead. His gray eyes were almost completely blacked out by his dilated pupils, and the Milky Way reflected in them with the same chill as the air around him. He had slept through Gryffindor Quidditch practice, and slept through what was to be his "planned" encounter with Harry Potter. Grumbling to himself, the lithe, slender Slytherin slipped effortlessly to his feet, his black robes falling to cover his shiny black boots.
Looking down, he noticed his book lying on the frosted grass next to where he had been lying. He sighed, rolling his eyes, and bending down, snatched it up. He brushed some melting frost off the cover with his bare hand. The pale appendage was already so cold, and the frost sliding off the cover, sliding off his hand, was only a numb tickle.
"Damn you again, Potter," he muttered under his breath, the words freezing into fog in the early November night's air. A stray, white-blond lock of hair fell into his gray eyes as he looked up at Hogwarts. He absentmindedly wiped his hand on his robe, the dampness of the melted frost starting to annoy him. Watching the orange lights of the windows flicker and die into blackness, one by one, Draco Malfoy became aware he must return to the fortress-like school. It was too late, and even a prefect would be reprimanded for prowling about in these hours.
Slowly moving one foot in front of the other, Draco walked in a straight line; a path that would lead him straight up the steps and into the Great Hall. He listened to the grass crunch underfoot, and clutched the white, soft-covered book to his chest. He wished he had worn gloves... it felt like the veins in his hands were flowing with ice.
Grabbing hold of the handle of one of the vast, oak doors, Draco pulled it open and was greeted with a surge of warm air. Smiling faintly to himself, the young prefect walked into the warmth of the castle; into the dying firelight casting his shadow, giant and distorted, over the stone walls.
The lad was going blank.
It was ten in the morning.
His heart was growing full
of broken wings and rag flowers.
His footfalls echoed hollowly across the empty hall, as he made his way towards the corridor that would take him down to the dungeons, and inevitably, his common room. His dark robes swished around his moving legs, filling some of the spaces the curt 'clop' of his boots on stone left.
The corridor was two steps away when Draco turned. He hadn't had the original intention of it, but it wasn't his brain that was guiding him anymore. The turn was so abrupt that the fabric of his robes seemed to snap in disdain as they made to follow their wearer. Draco shook his head and entered the corridor that lead to the staircase that would take him up to the Astronomy Tower.
He noticed there remained
just one word on his lips.
The scent was what had led him down here. To his now overly-sensitive nose, the air was permeated with the smell of dried sweat, of some plain, fresh soap, and of a tangy, yet dark, musky scent. A cologne or aftershave, Draco guessed. He closed his eyes momentarily, reveling in the intensely human odor as his feet guided his body to the stairs.
Gray eyes flashed open, fathomless pupils dilating just barely in the low torchlight as Draco Malfoy grabbed the handrail and mounted the stairs. He started up them slowly, then gained speed, leaning forward slightly to gain momentum. The heels of his shiny, black boots clicked on every staccato step up the white-haired Slytherin boy took.
"This is ludicrous," muttered Draco Malfoy, his eyes narrow now, the stark white book clutched firmly to his chest, the veins in his hands bulging slightly under the resulting pressure. Like a hound on the scent of a fox, Draco let his sense of smell guide him upwards, around the corner, and up again. He let his body guide him towards the source of the human drenched in sweat, rinsed-away soap, and cologne.
And when he took off his gloves
a soft ash fell from his hands.
A tower showed through the balcony door.
He felt he was balcony and tower.
Draco Malfoy grinned, the would-be warm action frozen by the cold glitter of torch-light in his frigid eyes. The Astronomy Tower was within a stone's throw from where he now was, and was growing ever closer. His black- clad body was almost consumed by the shadow of the nearly-full darkness, but his eyes were filled with the harsh yellow stars outside of the open door. The door that led to the balcony of the Astronomy Tower.
The scent was unbearably thick. It was choking the slender youth. He raised his free wrist as if to check the time, then dropped it, his other hand still clasped firmly on the book. His robes stirred the darkness, and his loudly hollow footfalls breathed life into the stone walls and floor. So close to the balcony, so close to the intoxicating smell.
No doubt he saw how the clock,
stopped in its case, surveyed him.
"You're a bastard, Lorca," the pale, blond boy said breathily at the threshold of the doorway, "you knew me too well."
He saw his shadow quiet and prone
on the white silk divan.
Draco Malfoy took a deep breath, inhaling all he could of the tangy, sweet musk, and stepped out into the chill on the balcony. The boy, standing to left, at the banister, turned to look at him, his green eyes magnified behind round glasses. His mouth was half-open, and his pale-pink lips were wet. His cheeks were rosy from the cold. He wore black robes like Draco's, although unlike the Slytherin prefect, he didn't wear his winter cloak over them.
"Malfoy...?" the dark-haired boy trailed off, dumbstruck by the cold starlight in Draco's gray eyes.
"Damn you, Potter," Draco muttered huskily, moving closer to the other youth, breathing in the sweat and the cologne.
"I don't understand," Harry Potter began quietly, his emerald eyes scanning Draco's face, ever nearer, for some explanation. Their robes were swishing together in the slight night breeze; Harry's face was shadowed and Draco's illuminated by the sliver of silver moon behind the Boy Who Lived.
"I never understood," Draco admitted gruffly, lips pulled into an angry pout. With his free hand he reached up and grabbed the other boy's chin, pulling him closer. The paler boy's frigid grip made Harry Potter shiver. As Draco firmly pressed his cold lips to the Potter boy's parted ones, smothering the last protest of "Draco," he let the starkly white, soft-covered book fall. The name on the cover, "Federico García Lorca," burned black underneath the frozen sky.
And the stiff, geometrical youth
smashed the mirror with a hatchet.
When it broke, a great burst of shadow
flooded the illusory room.
***
12.55 AM
le premier d'aôut
Bonsoir, mes chèrs.
Author's Note: Alliteration is fun. ^.^ It was meant to stand on its own. I built it around Lorca's poem "Suicide," as if that wasn't apparent enough already. Willie Nelson, Lorca, and caffeine make for strange writing companions.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and related characters are sole property of J.K. Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Bros. and those big execs and lawyers up there. The poem suicide is the sole property of Federico García Lorca, and the various publishers who have published his work. Translation of the poem "Suicide" is credited to Alan S. Trueblood. No copyright infringement intended, just having a little fun before getting back to writing my "original" pieces and such. Kind of a tribute to Lorca, who has become one of the main inspirations for my writing.
Dedicated to: Ms. Blonde. Thanks for the wonderful birthday present! This isn't much, but then again, I don't think I could ever fully repay you! Merci Beaucoup!
Nota Bene: I reposted this after I put the main category as angst and the subcategory as romance. It was the other way around! It was ten o'clock in the morning, and I didn't have enough caffeine. Erg.
"The emotions of those who are thought to be beautiful are always full of sorrow." ~Treize Khushrenada