Disclaimer: I own nothing.
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VISIBLE
CH. 2
He is blind. His glasses are on the table, or under the bed, broken or smudged and he can't see. Without them the world is only a blur, with them it isn't much better.
He's learned his way around by color and vague shapes. Every hall in Hogwarts is grey stone and dimly lit, but that makes it easier. There are no distractions from the left at the blue thing, two flights up from the big red thing.
Ron is a tall orange blur with white in the middle, Hermione is a bushy brown halo, but he would never tell her that. He's not suicidal.
It's not so bad when things are quiet and not many people are around, but when rooms are crowded the shapes melt together, brown dizzily bleeding into blond, he has to find a focus.
At dinner, he stares at Malfoy. Or at least, he thinks it's Malfoy. No one else has hair that white, except for Dumbledore, and his doesn't shine in the candles.
So, he watches for Draco, in the halls when the grey stone fuzzes and he forgets to count paintings; in Potions, when he can't quite distinguish one ingredient from the next, as if it mattered because he can't read the board; to dinner, where the Great hall is a blur of browns, sounds melt together in a cacophony, and the smell of so much delicious food makes him sick.
Quidditch is the same. Colorful shapes dash over, under, and around him. If it weren't for the shout, "Harry, Bludger," he'd be dead six times over.
So, he watches for Malfoy, and for the Snitch. Two golden flashes in the sunlight. Two things a blind man can see.
Warned, he dodges a Bludger, behind him the crowd screams, "Snitch!" Draco has spotted it, flying after. Two stars streaking across the pitch.
Harry chases, gets closer. The Snitch is out of reach, but Malfoy's woolen cloak is dancing against the tips of his fingers.
And he doesn't mean to cheat, and he doesn't know what he's doing as he clenches his hand in the soft material and yanks back hard. His fingers close on the Snitch as cloth tears. The game is Griffindors as a body slips to the ground.
The golden Snitch is smothered in his shadow, Draco's hair flickers, skin catching the light as he falls softly, gently, and unstoppably. The drop ripples the grass.
Harry chases, Seeks, but is too slow. Landing outside the gathering crowd he puts his glasses on.
Passing Ron, his crooked smile, "Good job, Harry," Hermione's damp voice, "I know it's Malfoy, Harry, but--."
Dusty breeze whipping black robes and Professor Snape doesn't even spare Potter an obsidian stabbing glare.
Harry gets closer to the body. Pearly skin, white and pink, shines in the sun. Flesh rippled and scarred, a half-melted blush candle.
Snape douses the boy in his cloak, gathering him up in strong arms, he cradles him to the infirmary.
The crowd disperses slowly. Hufflepuffs weeping, comforting one another in chubby, dimpled arms. Ravenclaws look concerned, curious, a hungry expression.
Some of the Griffindor's were celebrating. No fan of Malfoy's, they lowered their heads in sympathy and smiled behind their hair.
Harry turned to the Slytherins. Masks firmly in place, not Death Eater masks, the mask of people who learned a secret they always knew. The last to leave, they walked away in silence, hands joined in a chain, so none would be lost. And Harry was alone.
The grass was warm. The sun, the body, and the memory of fire.
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Author's Note: I'll update as often as I can, but I got tagged again for going online at work, so I'm limited to what I can do at home, and our computer has been acting up, So if you don't hear from me soon, I'm sorry.
Please review, it's not like it's hard.