Drarry Drabble
Warnings: Angst/Romance. Set during OotP, no particular scene.
Harry Potter is warmth and sacred hands, the liar says.
(Harry doesn't remind him that he is cold and carries something within him that is anything but sacred.)
He is glittering fingertips and beautiful lips, the liar says.
(Harry doesn't remind him that the fingertips are destined to be griping a wand and the lips for uttering fatal words, becoming a killer of the killer.)
He is booming laughter, the liar says.
(Harry doesn't remind him that he is also dry tears and nerve-racking sobs.)
He is life and hope, and full of light, the liar says.
(Harry doesn't tell him that sometimes he recognizes more of himself in the red eyes of a murderer than he does in the mirror.)
But Harry never used to be this way, hesitant to tell the truth, to remind. Not until The Liar. Not until he started believing in lies.
(For that's all it can be, right?)
The one thing he does believe though, when looking at the liar, is that Harry loves him.
(Harry curses his fickle heart for falling, when all that is in his future is blood and death and green light)
And the liar loves him.
(Harry's heart is black and broken and used and battered but it still fucking beats, and while he can, while the liar loves him back, he will love the liar, god dammit!)
