Fic: Carnival for enchanted_jae
Title: Carnival
Author: jinified
Giftee: enchanted_jae
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1147 words
Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Harry Potter
Summary: It’s hindsight, it was really about the marshmallows and perhaps, the waiting. Draco’s late, and Harry’s counting.
It’s night.
The field overflows in waves of bright, angry colors and red swipes.
It’s night.
The wind blows gently against your forehead, and you pull the folds of the tattered blanket close to your body with a twist of the wrist, inhaling the faint but unmistakable scent of the one whom you wait for with an impatient tap; tap; flop.
The balcony groans under the pressure of your weight and for one startled shaky moment, you wonder if the wood will give, and you’ll crash onto the hard icy ground.
The air smells sweet.
You shiver.
The birds chirp.
You find yourself clenching to the dulled edge of the wooden patio table, barely maneuvering the sudden onslaught of paranoia, a result of the mud-soaked war, away from you and your withered dates, the ones that you’ve slowly nibbled on in frustration because damn it, he’s never three hours late on an important day.
You hate the fact that you’re harboring delusions, and hypotheticals, and ifs about falling off the balcony and dying and certainly, that sort of death would be viewed as a disappointment, a feeble end for the prophesized hero, along with any other epitaphs the newspapers will parade around in droves once you’re actually dead, feasting with the dirt and curled ashes. Anyhow, the public’s always been starved for any news, real or fabricated, about their reclusive Harry Potter.
No wonder you’ve run away and eloped with a former Death Eater.
You stare thoughtfully at the soaked teddy bear, the one that the said former Death Eater won for you during a clandestine adventure amidst uncontrollable clowns and bloated cotton candy. You proceed to toy with the possibility of your death because you're terribly bored, abandoned in this drafty old house with no one to entertain you. And why can't you die from, say, chocolate instead? At least death by chocolate will be sweet, you think wryly after you've had several minutes to compose yourself.
Your heart gives a slight lurch.
If you died for real, extinguished forever like a overzealous rabbit, your life-time friends will quibble with your one true love, the one whom you’re currently exasperated with, and everyone will forget about their own lives, instead focusing on the tattered remains of your short but starlit existence because that’s what newspapers and ordinary people, the majority of whom seemed to be fixated on heroes, you think cynically, do to expired legends.
You’ve always disdained the wizarding world’s preoccupation with heroes and villains. Even though you know that Draco’s capable of taking care of himself, albeit clumsily, you wonder how life will be for the wayward Malfoy once Harry Potter is dead, and Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater, will no longer have the protection of the Golden Boy.
It’s pathetic.
You harbor no illusions about the prospect of your friends and Malfoy, you smile poisonously, co-habituating together after your demise.
After all, Hermione and Ron barely manage to restrain their thinly disguised disdain, not entirely undeserved, whenever they visit you in the house away from Hogwarts and the magical world. And that was after the mounting explosion of “I don’t think he’s really right for you, Harry” and “You weren’t in your right mind when the two of you left, Harry” from a few week ago.
It’s nine o’clock.
And so, you can’t die, not yet.
Fidgety, you restrain the urge to bite your nails, focusing instead on the idyllic image of the wind ripping apart the wild sunflowers. The yellow mothballs scatter throughout a blank sky, swimming in ignominy. The night’s devoid of any stars, the ones that quietly remind you of your lost comrades, and summer doesn’t feel like summer, not when you’re currently taking a slip of hot cocoa from the mug that’s precariously cradled in your lap while waiting for him to return from what you ultimately realize as another exhausting, almost unbearable day in the real world, the one that you’ve temporary forsaken for isolation in this tousled, dry country.
You assume that today, he’s finalized the acquisition of another company, brought with what remains of his family’s fortune and so, you’ve already taken the liberty of opening a sealed glass of wine once you realized that your erstwhile lover had forgotten about the reservation at the restaurant and theatre, the ones that had taken you weeks to arrange because you’ve forgotten about the intricacies of using a computer. It’s alienating - this life - but liberating. You’re free, unhindered by the Prophecy. Nowadays, life differs from the Dursleys or the clandestine meetings with Draco during the war.
You’re free and so is he. You no longer breathe; live; smell death.
It’s breathtaking.
And unfortunately, he’s still not here. You stare at the glass wine bottle, slender in form and transparent in color, with a contemplative expression gracing you lined, wan face. Abruptly, you make your mind. You set your porcelain mug down on the rickety table and limp toward the door, grabbing onto the table for support because your knees haven’t healed from Bellatrix’s wand yet; at least, not properly. The soles of your combat boots skid against the still wet floors while you stubbornly improvise on what you’ll say to that - that hedonistic workaholic once he finds you in his office.
Certainly, it’ll be an unexpected surprise. Most likely, you’ll take malicious delight in seeing his bafflement at you. There. In his office. Wearing combat boots and a raggedly old bathrobe. Nothing else.
Unfortunately, that hedonistic workaholic beat you to it - a confrontation - and he’s here. He’s here, a hand fiddling with papers in his other arm. He’s here, you slowly analyze. Now. He’s here, and -
Your heart gives a lurch.
You want to hit him or conjure up a few carefully chosen words that would instantly start an argument late in the night. Unfortunately, that’s his expertise: biting, hurtful words. And so, you say nothing.
You examine him curiously.
After all, what could be so thrilling that he forgot all about the plans to go out for the first time in how many months?
But his hair is all disheveled, and he’s mumbling about the idiotic nature of the Minister, and the tie’s so loose that you could almost pull the thing right off. You just want to, too. You just want to yell at him, God knows how long he’s kept you up, but you can’t, not when you’ve already memorized this stolen little moment of complete and utter perfection - the crooked, tired smile that he gives you which conjures up the smell of chocolate and a thousand achy memories; the feel of his fingers massaging your soaked skin; the whispered “I’m sorry” before a chaste kiss; the pool of warmth that dangles in your stomach before floating up to the bottom of your heart, and you whisper back, almost inaudibly.
“I’ve missed you.”
Author: jinified
Giftee: enchanted_jae
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1147 words
Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Harry Potter
Summary: It’s hindsight, it was really about the marshmallows and perhaps, the waiting. Draco’s late, and Harry’s counting.
It’s night.
The field overflows in waves of bright, angry colors and red swipes.
It’s night.
The wind blows gently against your forehead, and you pull the folds of the tattered blanket close to your body with a twist of the wrist, inhaling the faint but unmistakable scent of the one whom you wait for with an impatient tap; tap; flop.
The balcony groans under the pressure of your weight and for one startled shaky moment, you wonder if the wood will give, and you’ll crash onto the hard icy ground.
The air smells sweet.
You shiver.
The birds chirp.
You find yourself clenching to the dulled edge of the wooden patio table, barely maneuvering the sudden onslaught of paranoia, a result of the mud-soaked war, away from you and your withered dates, the ones that you’ve slowly nibbled on in frustration because damn it, he’s never three hours late on an important day.
You hate the fact that you’re harboring delusions, and hypotheticals, and ifs about falling off the balcony and dying and certainly, that sort of death would be viewed as a disappointment, a feeble end for the prophesized hero, along with any other epitaphs the newspapers will parade around in droves once you’re actually dead, feasting with the dirt and curled ashes. Anyhow, the public’s always been starved for any news, real or fabricated, about their reclusive Harry Potter.
No wonder you’ve run away and eloped with a former Death Eater.
You stare thoughtfully at the soaked teddy bear, the one that the said former Death Eater won for you during a clandestine adventure amidst uncontrollable clowns and bloated cotton candy. You proceed to toy with the possibility of your death because you're terribly bored, abandoned in this drafty old house with no one to entertain you. And why can't you die from, say, chocolate instead? At least death by chocolate will be sweet, you think wryly after you've had several minutes to compose yourself.
Your heart gives a slight lurch.
If you died for real, extinguished forever like a overzealous rabbit, your life-time friends will quibble with your one true love, the one whom you’re currently exasperated with, and everyone will forget about their own lives, instead focusing on the tattered remains of your short but starlit existence because that’s what newspapers and ordinary people, the majority of whom seemed to be fixated on heroes, you think cynically, do to expired legends.
You’ve always disdained the wizarding world’s preoccupation with heroes and villains. Even though you know that Draco’s capable of taking care of himself, albeit clumsily, you wonder how life will be for the wayward Malfoy once Harry Potter is dead, and Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater, will no longer have the protection of the Golden Boy.
It’s pathetic.
You harbor no illusions about the prospect of your friends and Malfoy, you smile poisonously, co-habituating together after your demise.
After all, Hermione and Ron barely manage to restrain their thinly disguised disdain, not entirely undeserved, whenever they visit you in the house away from Hogwarts and the magical world. And that was after the mounting explosion of “I don’t think he’s really right for you, Harry” and “You weren’t in your right mind when the two of you left, Harry” from a few week ago.
It’s nine o’clock.
And so, you can’t die, not yet.
Fidgety, you restrain the urge to bite your nails, focusing instead on the idyllic image of the wind ripping apart the wild sunflowers. The yellow mothballs scatter throughout a blank sky, swimming in ignominy. The night’s devoid of any stars, the ones that quietly remind you of your lost comrades, and summer doesn’t feel like summer, not when you’re currently taking a slip of hot cocoa from the mug that’s precariously cradled in your lap while waiting for him to return from what you ultimately realize as another exhausting, almost unbearable day in the real world, the one that you’ve temporary forsaken for isolation in this tousled, dry country.
You assume that today, he’s finalized the acquisition of another company, brought with what remains of his family’s fortune and so, you’ve already taken the liberty of opening a sealed glass of wine once you realized that your erstwhile lover had forgotten about the reservation at the restaurant and theatre, the ones that had taken you weeks to arrange because you’ve forgotten about the intricacies of using a computer. It’s alienating - this life - but liberating. You’re free, unhindered by the Prophecy. Nowadays, life differs from the Dursleys or the clandestine meetings with Draco during the war.
You’re free and so is he. You no longer breathe; live; smell death.
It’s breathtaking.
And unfortunately, he’s still not here. You stare at the glass wine bottle, slender in form and transparent in color, with a contemplative expression gracing you lined, wan face. Abruptly, you make your mind. You set your porcelain mug down on the rickety table and limp toward the door, grabbing onto the table for support because your knees haven’t healed from Bellatrix’s wand yet; at least, not properly. The soles of your combat boots skid against the still wet floors while you stubbornly improvise on what you’ll say to that - that hedonistic workaholic once he finds you in his office.
Certainly, it’ll be an unexpected surprise. Most likely, you’ll take malicious delight in seeing his bafflement at you. There. In his office. Wearing combat boots and a raggedly old bathrobe. Nothing else.
Unfortunately, that hedonistic workaholic beat you to it - a confrontation - and he’s here. He’s here, a hand fiddling with papers in his other arm. He’s here, you slowly analyze. Now. He’s here, and -
Your heart gives a lurch.
You want to hit him or conjure up a few carefully chosen words that would instantly start an argument late in the night. Unfortunately, that’s his expertise: biting, hurtful words. And so, you say nothing.
You examine him curiously.
After all, what could be so thrilling that he forgot all about the plans to go out for the first time in how many months?
But his hair is all disheveled, and he’s mumbling about the idiotic nature of the Minister, and the tie’s so loose that you could almost pull the thing right off. You just want to, too. You just want to yell at him, God knows how long he’s kept you up, but you can’t, not when you’ve already memorized this stolen little moment of complete and utter perfection - the crooked, tired smile that he gives you which conjures up the smell of chocolate and a thousand achy memories; the feel of his fingers massaging your soaked skin; the whispered “I’m sorry” before a chaste kiss; the pool of warmth that dangles in your stomach before floating up to the bottom of your heart, and you whisper back, almost inaudibly.
“I’ve missed you.”