~~Burnt Orange
Something wicked this way comes. It's not Draco Malfoy, everyone has pretty much figured that out. It's not, and he knows that as well. It sits, hard and immovable, a stone in his throat, a knot in his stomach. He cannot swallow it. He cannot face growing older, and some days he cannot face his own reflection. It is autumn, and he is thinking of everyone's death but his own. The leaves are falling, gold and orange and sienna and plain, dying brown, rustling and disintegrating, dust beneath his feet. He smiles, because he is breathing, and because tomorrow is another day, and he can try again.
His breath burns his throat, and he has to take care, he has to make them last. He is bleeding from the side, and there is a steady stream dripping off his fingers. But he will leave-- he will leave the grounds, and he will be free. He isn't dying, after all. It is just a scratch, and he will make it. He has to make it. His own life is all that's left to him.
He sits on a rotting log, by sparkling bright running water, closes his eyes. He dips his fingers into the icy stream, and then his arm, and then he's leaning down, both arms touching the silty bottom, restless with moving water, slick and dangerous with the tumbling river-rocks. He closes his eyes, breathing in crisp fall air, the image of the setting sun, low in the sky, gold burned down to orange, blazing at the back of his eyelids. His throat is smooth, and free of obstruction as he swallows gratefully. Tomorrow he will walk on, but today it is enough to feel, not so much numb as transparent. Crystalline. Burned down to the center. In the harsh orange light at his very center, the sun may be setting but the stars are waiting to come out.
Something wicked this way comes. It's not Draco Malfoy, everyone has pretty much figured that out. It's not, and he knows that as well. It sits, hard and immovable, a stone in his throat, a knot in his stomach. He cannot swallow it. He cannot face growing older, and some days he cannot face his own reflection. It is autumn, and he is thinking of everyone's death but his own. The leaves are falling, gold and orange and sienna and plain, dying brown, rustling and disintegrating, dust beneath his feet. He smiles, because he is breathing, and because tomorrow is another day, and he can try again.
His breath burns his throat, and he has to take care, he has to make them last. He is bleeding from the side, and there is a steady stream dripping off his fingers. But he will leave-- he will leave the grounds, and he will be free. He isn't dying, after all. It is just a scratch, and he will make it. He has to make it. His own life is all that's left to him.
He sits on a rotting log, by sparkling bright running water, closes his eyes. He dips his fingers into the icy stream, and then his arm, and then he's leaning down, both arms touching the silty bottom, restless with moving water, slick and dangerous with the tumbling river-rocks. He closes his eyes, breathing in crisp fall air, the image of the setting sun, low in the sky, gold burned down to orange, blazing at the back of his eyelids. His throat is smooth, and free of obstruction as he swallows gratefully. Tomorrow he will walk on, but today it is enough to feel, not so much numb as transparent. Crystalline. Burned down to the center. In the harsh orange light at his very center, the sun may be setting but the stars are waiting to come out.