We're never gonna get this far again
Title: We're never gonna get this far again
Author:
felixfvlicis
Pairing: Harry / Draco
Rating: PG
Word Count: 365
Disclaimer: Harry Potter character are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Unbetaed. Written for
hogwarts365's prompt 162: Grapes. Eighth year, written from Harry's point-of-view. Title comes from Jarryd James's 'Burning Out'.
Summary: More than anything, Harry wants.
“Bloody hell, Harry!” Ron exclaimed, his alarm reverberating through the great hall like a plucked violin string.
Harry sighed as he straddled the cherry wood Gryffindor bench. His legs felt boneless, yet he remained anchored to the spot. His jagged, bitten fingernails outlining a golden snitch on the tabletop.
His hair was slick with sweat, black wisps matted to his forehead, as if they were attempting to protect his pulsating crimson scar from further harm. His fingers trembled, drawing their final breath before masking their emotion-laced identities behind the guise of commonplace bodily function.
Harry inhaled, his silent prayer to feel anything other than the dull ache of time to the Hogwarts ghosts concluding. Once he opened his eyes, all he could see was Ron, stuffing his mouth full of red-grapes that he'd taken from the gold serving platter in the center of the table, the juice oozing out of each morsel, coating his clumsy fingers with a transparent sugary film.
"Harry -- you all right, mate?"
He nodded, speaking for the first time since he entered the Great Hall.
"Yeah, all right, Ron."
His voice sounded thick, foreign, empty. Sounded as if it belonged to another Harry, in another life -- a life in which the title of 'father' was his greatest accomplishment, a life shared with Ginny, sitting on the balcony of their country flat, tasting the world and the spark of possibility as his lips moulded themselves to hers.
A familiar presence draped itself over Harry's shoulder, waking him from his idealized lull.
"Daydreaming, Saint Potter?"
The voice echoed against Harry's skin, the notes chiming full, deep, alive in his ear - he wanted. Draco's voice, pre-war -- dripping with disdain, those sharp, staccato P's laced with vehemence -- was now nothing but a soundless corpse, buried underneath the floorboards of Malfoy Manor, slithering its way through the rusted silver pipes, attempting to reunite with the dark mark.
Harry shivered, plucked a single grape from the platter, placed it carefully in his mouth. He bit. The juice released itself on his tongue -- sharply sweet, unexpected. He licked his lips, coating them with the sticky film, grinning at Draco all the while.