Title: Vale
Author: Cynic ( QueenDrgn06@aol.com)
Disclaimer: See Draco? Not mine. See money? Not mine.
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Anything! Constructive Crit is greatly appreciated.
Archive: Yes Please! E-mail me a link.
Warning: Slash and Suicide.
Summary: I studied you, Harry. I know you, but you will never know me.
Notes: Is anyone else getting the feeling that this is going to be longer than "three or four vignettes"? 'Cause I sure am. Hope none of y'all mind. Speaking of which. GAH! *gapes and points to reviewers* You actually like this? Woh. I just wanted to say that I loved you all. Going back to the length point. Heh. This is really short, just about a page. I just love the last line and think it felt complete there. Never fear though, these short angsty things are what I am best at, or at least I think so. So there will be lots of them. And this update is a two for one special! Many of these vignettes, I will say now, are going to be in different viewpoints and in different styles. Be forewarned, not all of what you read will be precisely what it seems. I am sort of planning on making this my experimental fic, where I play with language. My favorite toy. ^^
Someone was trying to take Harry. He clung to the prone and cold form in front of him, with the dead weight of Harry's arm resting on his shoulder.
He sunk his fingers deep into the fabric of Harry's soggy robe, grasping with a sort of desperation that only the dead would understand. He felt a thousand questing fingers and countless little touches wondering and worrying with every brush against his skin. A sharp tug, but still Draco held. The touching ceased and he opened his eyes to see the empty face of his companion.
The bright green eyes were open, but they were only mirrors now, nothing of Harry behind them. His eyes clashed horribly with the purple satin his head was rested on. With a queer sort of indifference, Draco noted that the cushion was stiff and lumpy and not at all comfortable. He had the strange feeling of being confined and knowing he could not move even if he wanted to. He floated on winds of apathy, numbness taking and consuming. A cold hard barrier pressed against his back, seeming to leech all the warmth out of him.
The light was dying. He glanced upward and watched the padded board lowered down upon them. He did not panic until it was dark. He felt Harry smiling at him. He was smiling at him, he was dead. He was smiling, it was alright, he was dead. The whine and creak of leather straps, they were dead. The soft smell of newly disturbed dirt, he was dead. He was dead! The gentle sounds of skin and satin. He was dead! The darkness, inky black, but comforting. He was dead! The lurch as they reached the bottom of the pit. He was dead! The thud of dirt landing on their coffins lid. They were dead!
And suddenly there was light. White burst unto his eyes, as their lids slowly opened to meet the cold stark of the Hospital Wing. He was in pain, but he relished in it. He cherished it, he lusted for it. He felt every breath of air that Harry took, he felt every of his own. His heart beat painfully loud in his chest, and the muted, dull tick of Harry's, like a watch covered in cotton. He felt the lines of scar tissue tracing up and down his arms, felt the hair on the back of his neck. He felt pain, sharp and fiery, in his wrists as if they were punishing him and reminding him that he failed.
He did not move for a long time, lying completely still, studying Harry as he never had the chance to before. His dark, leathery skin with its sprinkling of freckles, pores making small pits in the perfection of it. The crook in his nose giving him an endearing, clueless look. The unfairly long lashes, black and curved upward. Full lips, not red, but pale and dark, parted slightly as he breathed in his needed sleep. A graceful neck, chest bones protruding more then was normal but the lines graceful as always. His cheekbones were clear and high , and if not as emancipated as Draco's, they still were too prominent. But the scar. A sweltering puckered red, the line no longer white and quiet but alive, tormenting and harassing him with eternal reminders. He was not a normal child. He was not just a seventh year. He was Harry Potter.
As Draco thought his name, his eyes snapped open to meet Draco's own. Time seemed to slow, and then stop, every beat of their near hearts taking eons between each beat. They were discordant, not making harmony but clanging dissonance that was the history of their partnering. He knew that Harry was going to push him away, disgusted. He knew that Harry saved him only to save himself from the guilt. He knew that blackmail was worthless if he was dead.
He knew that Harry had just smiled.
