(no subject)
Title: Broken
Author: original_lie
Pairing: implied H/D
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 602
Warning: major angst, character death.
A/N: Written for jamie2109 & nocturnali's AWDT prompt: "I like your pants around your feet.".
A/N: I wrote this on the way to work after crying for close to half an hour over something utterly ridiculous (and no i'm not telling you what it was).
Disclaimer: JK's toys, I just like to break them. I'll tape them back together and put them where I found them later.
Disclaimer: Some contents of this journal are both R and NC-17 rated which means that if you (the prospective reader) are not of age in your country of residence then you shouldn't be reading these particular entries which are labelled as such. I cannot and will not be held responsible for those who do not adhere to this warning.
Broken
~~***~~
There should be a statute of limitations on grief. There should be. You shouldn’t be allowed to wallow in self-pity, grieving for another soul year after year, on end. It’s wrong. The pain should dissipate at some point.
But it doesn’t.
Just when you think you’re moving on. Just when you think you might be able to really start living again. Just when you think it’s finally over, you find an old t-shirt you shoved under the cushions in the lounge room. Then it all comes flooding back, and it hurts more than it did the first time.
I’m so utterly furious at him, and it’s not even his fault. He didn’t knowingly set out to do this. But it still makes me angry, and it still cuts like a knife. I remember all our conversations about what would be the worst thing to ever happen. I never said the worst thing to happen would be to lose him forever. I never even considered it.
I remember everything that he said and did the last time he wore that shirt. I remember and it hurts more than it has any right to.
I remember and I break, just a little more than the last time something like this happened, it was a tie that time. I stand there holding that shirt and can’t help but wonder if it will always be like this.
I fucking remember and the memory assaults me, clearer than if I was watching it in a pensieve.
***
“I like your pants around your feet.” Harry rasps, tracing the shell of my ear with the tip of his tongue while lowering the zipper and popping the button of my trousers.
“And they say chivalry is dead.” I feign a blow to the heart, covering my heart and hand with his hand and the keys to our apartment.
He’s drunk. And as much as I would love him to throw me down and let him have his way with me, I know he’ll be asleep as soon as we get to the bedroom.
“Do you love me, Draco?” he asks.
I turn from locking the door to look at him. It’s a simple question with an even simpler answer. Yes. How could I not?
“I do, Harry. You know that.”
I don’t ask if he loves me back. I know he does. But he’s drunk and vulnerable, he needs the reassurance, not me.
His strong arms slip around my waist and almost overbalances us on the stairs, but I grab a hold of the banister and practically drag the both of us upstairs to our bedroom.
As predicted, Harry falls on top of the covers and is asleep before you can say ‘Quidditch’. Carefully I undress him and pull the covers up over him before climbing in next to him.
I watch him sleep, as I do from time to time. It’s my indulgence. My reassurance.
He’s so beautiful when he sleeps.
***
I hold the t-shirt to my nose, inhaling deeply. His scent is gone. I don’t know why I thought it would linger this long.
A tear falls and I crumble. It’s like losing him all over again.
Only Harry Fucking Potter could battle a Dark Lord and live to tell the tale, but be stupid enough to step off the sidewalk and into the path of oncoming traffic.
It still hurts just as much as it did when it happened. I’m still as furious as I was then. And I am justified, for the first time in my life, for hating Muggles with every fibre of my being.
~~***~~
A/N: Like it? Hate it? Want to kick me?
Author: original_lie
Pairing: implied H/D
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 602
Warning: major angst, character death.
A/N: Written for jamie2109 & nocturnali's AWDT prompt: "I like your pants around your feet.".
A/N: I wrote this on the way to work after crying for close to half an hour over something utterly ridiculous (and no i'm not telling you what it was).
Disclaimer: JK's toys, I just like to break them. I'll tape them back together and put them where I found them later.
Disclaimer: Some contents of this journal are both R and NC-17 rated which means that if you (the prospective reader) are not of age in your country of residence then you shouldn't be reading these particular entries which are labelled as such. I cannot and will not be held responsible for those who do not adhere to this warning.
Broken
~~***~~
There should be a statute of limitations on grief. There should be. You shouldn’t be allowed to wallow in self-pity, grieving for another soul year after year, on end. It’s wrong. The pain should dissipate at some point.
But it doesn’t.
Just when you think you’re moving on. Just when you think you might be able to really start living again. Just when you think it’s finally over, you find an old t-shirt you shoved under the cushions in the lounge room. Then it all comes flooding back, and it hurts more than it did the first time.
I’m so utterly furious at him, and it’s not even his fault. He didn’t knowingly set out to do this. But it still makes me angry, and it still cuts like a knife. I remember all our conversations about what would be the worst thing to ever happen. I never said the worst thing to happen would be to lose him forever. I never even considered it.
I remember everything that he said and did the last time he wore that shirt. I remember and it hurts more than it has any right to.
I remember and I break, just a little more than the last time something like this happened, it was a tie that time. I stand there holding that shirt and can’t help but wonder if it will always be like this.
I fucking remember and the memory assaults me, clearer than if I was watching it in a pensieve.
***
“I like your pants around your feet.” Harry rasps, tracing the shell of my ear with the tip of his tongue while lowering the zipper and popping the button of my trousers.
“And they say chivalry is dead.” I feign a blow to the heart, covering my heart and hand with his hand and the keys to our apartment.
He’s drunk. And as much as I would love him to throw me down and let him have his way with me, I know he’ll be asleep as soon as we get to the bedroom.
“Do you love me, Draco?” he asks.
I turn from locking the door to look at him. It’s a simple question with an even simpler answer. Yes. How could I not?
“I do, Harry. You know that.”
I don’t ask if he loves me back. I know he does. But he’s drunk and vulnerable, he needs the reassurance, not me.
His strong arms slip around my waist and almost overbalances us on the stairs, but I grab a hold of the banister and practically drag the both of us upstairs to our bedroom.
As predicted, Harry falls on top of the covers and is asleep before you can say ‘Quidditch’. Carefully I undress him and pull the covers up over him before climbing in next to him.
I watch him sleep, as I do from time to time. It’s my indulgence. My reassurance.
He’s so beautiful when he sleeps.
***
I hold the t-shirt to my nose, inhaling deeply. His scent is gone. I don’t know why I thought it would linger this long.
A tear falls and I crumble. It’s like losing him all over again.
Only Harry Fucking Potter could battle a Dark Lord and live to tell the tale, but be stupid enough to step off the sidewalk and into the path of oncoming traffic.
It still hurts just as much as it did when it happened. I’m still as furious as I was then. And I am justified, for the first time in my life, for hating Muggles with every fibre of my being.
~~***~~
A/N: Like it? Hate it? Want to kick me?