Disclaimer: Not mine!
NOTE: Alright, so, here you go, folks. This is one that, while perhaps not a tear-jerker, is still going to make you all sad. So, now, please enjoy while I write about plums as I sit in my ivory tower. Also, I just got my best friend to scream "I LIVE IN AN IVORY TOWER!" While she sits in the library. Okay, so that no one can say I didn't warn them . . . THIS IS SLASH! Male-male relationship, homosexuality, etcetera. But, hey, no worries, it's not explicit. (sadly) Also, this was based on the song 'Memory' by Sugarcult.
R&R!
..............................................
This may never start.
We could fall apart.
And I'd be your memory.
Lost your sense of fear.
Feelings insincere.
Can I be your memory?
..............................................
Draco felt Harry's lips cover his own, and it felt right. He felt Harry's body press his own into the ungiving stone wall, and that, too, felt right. How could anyone give them the looks they did? How could his mother threaten to disown him? This couldn't possibly be the cause of anything distasteful. Even as Draco grabbed Harry by the shoulders and took charge, controlling the snogging as much possible, it still felt right.
And as Harry whimpered into his mouth, was it still right? As he asked Draco If he loved him later on while they watched the sun bleed into the sky, was it still right? And when Draco said he did with a sick feeling in his stomach, was it still right? As Harry kissed him so that he couldn't ask if he loved him too, was it still so right and perfect? Was it still the cause of nothing distasteful?
It didn't matter; they'd done it a million mornings before.
He and Harry got up that day and did what they always did. They snogged each other senseless and then left, walking into the Great Hall side by side. Had it really only been a few months since the Dark Lord had been vanquished and the papers had started reporting the captures of Death Eaters? Wealth had not saved his father, and he was currently serving life in Azkaban. Draco didn't care. Everyone stared when the entered, and Draco cared. There was no surprise there, but his stomach crawled. They each went to their respective tables. The Slytherins scooted away from Draco as though he had the plague, and, with the exception of a pale Hermione Granger and a vaguely green Ronald Weasely, as did the Gryffindors from Harry.
Was he supposed to live like this? Harry . . . Harry was gorgeous. Pouting, pink lips; vibrantly green eyes; wild, inky hair; smooth, tanned flesh . . . What more could he have asked for? But Harry didn't get it. Harry wasn't afraid of anything. He'd faced Voldermort seven times – two in this year alone – so why would he be afraid of what everyone thought? Harry was the strong, brave one. Draco was the one that recoiled every time he thought about Harry and himself together. But, then again, if Harry was so strong, why didn't he ever let Draco ask if he loved him? Surely a hero with battle-scars to prove it was tough enough to tell a weak, unearthly boy that he was loved.
Draco stared dismally at his plate and then looked up to see that there was a basket of fresh fruit in front of him. He took a plum. This love was like this plum. The first bite was sweet and juicy, and so was the second, but eventually you ate the top layer and had nothing but the unsavory meat that was pungent with the taste of the pit, which was absolutely inedible. You simply had to throw it away after that, even though it left you unsatisfied with sticky fingers. You just knew when you took the first bite, though, how it was going to be. There was . . . nothing left.
It was dreadful . . . how could this be happening? As foolish as it was, Draco had loved Harry. And Draco had always felt that Harry loved him, even though he'd never said it. Harry couldn't kiss him the way he did unless he loved him. He couldn't have held him the way he did unless he loved him. The savior of the wizarding world wouldn't talk to someone the way he did to Draco unless he was in love. Why would he suffer through the way everyone was acting towards him and the disgruntled looks on his friends' faces if he didn't love Draco? So why did he feel so empty when he thought of Harry's hands on him . . . Why did he feel squeamish when he thought of Harry's lips brushing against his own? Why did he suddenly feel like he was drowning when he looked over at Harry's sleeping form at night?
He knew, but Merlin how he wished he didn't.
He wondered how Harry would think of him after today – because, surely, it had to be today – or if he even would. Would Harry remember his lover that would sometimes wake up while he stroked his pale hair? Would he remember the unsure boy that had kissed him spontaneously for the first time in the Owlery? Would he remember the quiet troubled young man that Draco had become of late? Or maybe all he'd be able to remember was the broken, fallen angel that told him they were stupid to think it would have ever worked. Yes, in all likelihood he would hear the name 'Draco Malfoy' and think of how the strands of hair had fallen carelessly, and of how Draco's voice had had absolutely no emotion. All he would be able to think of Draco's eyes would be how hollow they'd been just then.
He'd wonder why Draco had broken it off. He'd wonder why he'd stood there not saying anything. He'd wonder if he should have done something to prevent it. He'd wonder if he should have asked why, or seen it coming. He'd wonder what Draco had been trying so desperately to say with his eyes – because Draco was sure he couldn't tell. He'd wonder why a single tear had hung at the inner corner of Draco's eye, since he was the one ending it. He'd wonder if Draco had even wanted to break it off. Yes, Draco knew exactly what Harry would think as soon as he got over the shock. And this he had no emotion for.
And Draco did it.
Draco pulled Harry aside after breakfast. He had watched like a shell as Harry smiled warmly and told his friends he'd catch up with them. He'd listened as Harry made a lewd joke and then listened to himself cut right to the chase, as though he wasn't controlling his body at all. Everything was hazy and Draco thought he was going to pass out, but he didn't. He had looked at Harry as his face became a perfect, adorable mask of surprise. Even the best of artists would have like to be able to display such emotion. Draco had no emotion to display. He could feel his throat rumbling out the words he knew he'd say. He felt his stomach churn and a tear form in one eye. But his face was like a pristine porcelain mask, and it didn't change. The wheels in his head were jammed.
"Draco . . ." Harry half-whispered, half-choked.
"Draco isn't here for you anymore. I'm Malfoy to you, and you're Potter to me."
Draco turned and walked slowly away. As soon as he turned the corner he ran to the nearest loo and was violently ill.
That had gone well.
.......................................
NOTE: No, this was not a one shot. This isn't going to get any dirtier than it was just now so no worries. If you were offended or displeased then, by all means, flame me. It's been way too long since I got a flame!
This is not my first slash fic, but it is the first one I've posted here. It's the first one that's not explicit (not saying much because I've only done one). I like reading Draco/Harry and I hope you have enjoyed reading this. The next chapter will be from Harry's POV, so we'll get his side of the story.
Harry: The sex was so good!
Draco: I'm so unloved!
Harry: I always loved you, Draco!
Draco: I'm Malfoy, not Draco to you!
:: Simultaneous sobbing ::
Yeah, I'm a freak. Deal.
NOTE: Alright, so, here you go, folks. This is one that, while perhaps not a tear-jerker, is still going to make you all sad. So, now, please enjoy while I write about plums as I sit in my ivory tower. Also, I just got my best friend to scream "I LIVE IN AN IVORY TOWER!" While she sits in the library. Okay, so that no one can say I didn't warn them . . . THIS IS SLASH! Male-male relationship, homosexuality, etcetera. But, hey, no worries, it's not explicit. (sadly) Also, this was based on the song 'Memory' by Sugarcult.
R&R!
..............................................
This may never start.
We could fall apart.
And I'd be your memory.
Lost your sense of fear.
Feelings insincere.
Can I be your memory?
..............................................
Draco felt Harry's lips cover his own, and it felt right. He felt Harry's body press his own into the ungiving stone wall, and that, too, felt right. How could anyone give them the looks they did? How could his mother threaten to disown him? This couldn't possibly be the cause of anything distasteful. Even as Draco grabbed Harry by the shoulders and took charge, controlling the snogging as much possible, it still felt right.
And as Harry whimpered into his mouth, was it still right? As he asked Draco If he loved him later on while they watched the sun bleed into the sky, was it still right? And when Draco said he did with a sick feeling in his stomach, was it still right? As Harry kissed him so that he couldn't ask if he loved him too, was it still so right and perfect? Was it still the cause of nothing distasteful?
It didn't matter; they'd done it a million mornings before.
He and Harry got up that day and did what they always did. They snogged each other senseless and then left, walking into the Great Hall side by side. Had it really only been a few months since the Dark Lord had been vanquished and the papers had started reporting the captures of Death Eaters? Wealth had not saved his father, and he was currently serving life in Azkaban. Draco didn't care. Everyone stared when the entered, and Draco cared. There was no surprise there, but his stomach crawled. They each went to their respective tables. The Slytherins scooted away from Draco as though he had the plague, and, with the exception of a pale Hermione Granger and a vaguely green Ronald Weasely, as did the Gryffindors from Harry.
Was he supposed to live like this? Harry . . . Harry was gorgeous. Pouting, pink lips; vibrantly green eyes; wild, inky hair; smooth, tanned flesh . . . What more could he have asked for? But Harry didn't get it. Harry wasn't afraid of anything. He'd faced Voldermort seven times – two in this year alone – so why would he be afraid of what everyone thought? Harry was the strong, brave one. Draco was the one that recoiled every time he thought about Harry and himself together. But, then again, if Harry was so strong, why didn't he ever let Draco ask if he loved him? Surely a hero with battle-scars to prove it was tough enough to tell a weak, unearthly boy that he was loved.
Draco stared dismally at his plate and then looked up to see that there was a basket of fresh fruit in front of him. He took a plum. This love was like this plum. The first bite was sweet and juicy, and so was the second, but eventually you ate the top layer and had nothing but the unsavory meat that was pungent with the taste of the pit, which was absolutely inedible. You simply had to throw it away after that, even though it left you unsatisfied with sticky fingers. You just knew when you took the first bite, though, how it was going to be. There was . . . nothing left.
It was dreadful . . . how could this be happening? As foolish as it was, Draco had loved Harry. And Draco had always felt that Harry loved him, even though he'd never said it. Harry couldn't kiss him the way he did unless he loved him. He couldn't have held him the way he did unless he loved him. The savior of the wizarding world wouldn't talk to someone the way he did to Draco unless he was in love. Why would he suffer through the way everyone was acting towards him and the disgruntled looks on his friends' faces if he didn't love Draco? So why did he feel so empty when he thought of Harry's hands on him . . . Why did he feel squeamish when he thought of Harry's lips brushing against his own? Why did he suddenly feel like he was drowning when he looked over at Harry's sleeping form at night?
He knew, but Merlin how he wished he didn't.
He wondered how Harry would think of him after today – because, surely, it had to be today – or if he even would. Would Harry remember his lover that would sometimes wake up while he stroked his pale hair? Would he remember the unsure boy that had kissed him spontaneously for the first time in the Owlery? Would he remember the quiet troubled young man that Draco had become of late? Or maybe all he'd be able to remember was the broken, fallen angel that told him they were stupid to think it would have ever worked. Yes, in all likelihood he would hear the name 'Draco Malfoy' and think of how the strands of hair had fallen carelessly, and of how Draco's voice had had absolutely no emotion. All he would be able to think of Draco's eyes would be how hollow they'd been just then.
He'd wonder why Draco had broken it off. He'd wonder why he'd stood there not saying anything. He'd wonder if he should have done something to prevent it. He'd wonder if he should have asked why, or seen it coming. He'd wonder what Draco had been trying so desperately to say with his eyes – because Draco was sure he couldn't tell. He'd wonder why a single tear had hung at the inner corner of Draco's eye, since he was the one ending it. He'd wonder if Draco had even wanted to break it off. Yes, Draco knew exactly what Harry would think as soon as he got over the shock. And this he had no emotion for.
And Draco did it.
Draco pulled Harry aside after breakfast. He had watched like a shell as Harry smiled warmly and told his friends he'd catch up with them. He'd listened as Harry made a lewd joke and then listened to himself cut right to the chase, as though he wasn't controlling his body at all. Everything was hazy and Draco thought he was going to pass out, but he didn't. He had looked at Harry as his face became a perfect, adorable mask of surprise. Even the best of artists would have like to be able to display such emotion. Draco had no emotion to display. He could feel his throat rumbling out the words he knew he'd say. He felt his stomach churn and a tear form in one eye. But his face was like a pristine porcelain mask, and it didn't change. The wheels in his head were jammed.
"Draco . . ." Harry half-whispered, half-choked.
"Draco isn't here for you anymore. I'm Malfoy to you, and you're Potter to me."
Draco turned and walked slowly away. As soon as he turned the corner he ran to the nearest loo and was violently ill.
That had gone well.
.......................................
NOTE: No, this was not a one shot. This isn't going to get any dirtier than it was just now so no worries. If you were offended or displeased then, by all means, flame me. It's been way too long since I got a flame!
This is not my first slash fic, but it is the first one I've posted here. It's the first one that's not explicit (not saying much because I've only done one). I like reading Draco/Harry and I hope you have enjoyed reading this. The next chapter will be from Harry's POV, so we'll get his side of the story.
Harry: The sex was so good!
Draco: I'm so unloved!
Harry: I always loved you, Draco!
Draco: I'm Malfoy, not Draco to you!
:: Simultaneous sobbing ::
Yeah, I'm a freak. Deal.