PSYCHEDLIC CRIME OF VISUAL SHOCK (no, that's not the title.)
http://www.geocities.com/x_nosorrow/BandGallery3.html
*sobbing* X!
In the words of Seri Black: PERCY I GONNA KEEL YOU
A cottage in Surrey, hot summer days, and the countryside slowly turning golden underneath the hardest drought in twenty years. Even the well underneath the house is starting to run dry, and in the morning, when Harry turns on the water to make tea, a spray of dust and dirt comes out, so he has to go to the store in town and buy gallon jugs of water and carry them back by hand. So that comprises his Wednesdays and Saturdays -- they've told him to lay off the Apparition and the magic whenever he can to keep the Dementors from finding him, so Harry leaves the house a little after sun up for the three hour walk to town and comes back at dusk with two five litre bottles of water. One day, he rounds the corner of the road and sees Draco standing at the mailbox, underneath the arch of old June roses going to cane, so he drops his bags, drops the water and breaks into a dead run.
The cicadas call at a volume which would drive a man mad if he didn't sleep. The radio said that the dry spring had kept down the fungal infections, and now they call day in and day out. They perch on the railing on the porch and press themselves on the screen, they sit on the window sills and in the rose bushes. Harry isn't sure that he hasn't gone mad or that he's slept at all himself. That's how living with Draco is. Silence. Afternoons. Cicadas and rationing out the water because he has to make one person's supply of water last for two, and then this feverish lovemaking on the kitchen floor.
Pushing Draco full length down the linoleum and lying against him even though it's so hot the addition of Draco's body heat is almost painful. Afternoons in the yard, with Draco pressed up against the garden shed with his pants down around his ankles and Harry licking his way up those thighs like they were melting vanilla ice cream and taking Draco's bobbing cock in his mouth. Listening to Draco's breath seize up and feeling those long-fingered hands in his hair, watching Draco so hot with desire that he stands up on tiptoe to angle himself down Harry's throat, then the shudder that starts at the knees, travels up Draco's legs and makes him slam his heels against the building, crying Harry's name, over and over into the heavy summer sunset.
Harry wipes his mouth on Draco's skin and lies down next to him in the grass. Fireflies turn on. Cicadas call in the bushes, and Draco's hand creeps into Harry's. There isn't any standing water to be had for miles, so there are no mosquitoes, not even gnats. This unnatural summer -- when dusk is blue on their skins, Draco rolls over, straddles Harry's hips and kisses him. He doesn't pin Harry's hands above his head, doesn't even rest his whole weight on Harry. Instead, he threads his fingers around grass and pulls kisses from Harry's with nothing more than his mouth. Daze-headed with lust, vision blurry from losing his glasses earlier that day, all Harry can see is the white shape of Draco's face, the paler bits of his hair. Later, that night, with his hot face pressed against the wallpaper and moonlight all over the bed, Harry doesn't even see that. He asks Draco, "How'd you find me? How'd you get away?"
Draco touches Harry's hipbone. There's a silence. "You don't want to know."
There aren't any marks on Draco. He walks around naked, and Harry licks that pale forearm at least twice a day, so that's the end of it. Voldemort is so close that Harry swears he can hear it in the wingbeats of birds passing overhead, and here Draco is, unmarked. A miracle.
But then, one day, Harry's out in the yard wondering if he can save any of the vegetables, and when he goes back in, Draco is gone. He'd never noticed how neatly Draco kept all of his things, how Draco never really unpacked and instead lived out of his bags, and sitting on the kitchen table is Draco's wand, broken in two. There's a bottle of poison, two bottles and a little tiny glass ampoule, a garotte made out of spider steel, and a little container of ashes that moves around on the table all on its own. Also, a bottle of cosmetic paint, the exact color of Draco's skin.
Snape comes with summons from Dumbledore three days after that. Snape is pale-faced with worry and almost shakes Harry, but by then, Harry's thrown everything away except for the cosmetic paint which he wordlessly hands to Snape on their way out of the door. Snape holds it for a moment, then looks at Harry, whose eyes are hidden in shadow even at noon. Harry looks at the roses on the trellis for a moment, then back at Snape. After that, they both Dis-Apparate.
Snape shows up at Harry's cottage three days after Draco leaves Harry. The two of them will be dead before the cicadas stop calling whereas Draco is already dead, murdered on the road.
*sobbing* X!
In the words of Seri Black: PERCY I GONNA KEEL YOU
A cottage in Surrey, hot summer days, and the countryside slowly turning golden underneath the hardest drought in twenty years. Even the well underneath the house is starting to run dry, and in the morning, when Harry turns on the water to make tea, a spray of dust and dirt comes out, so he has to go to the store in town and buy gallon jugs of water and carry them back by hand. So that comprises his Wednesdays and Saturdays -- they've told him to lay off the Apparition and the magic whenever he can to keep the Dementors from finding him, so Harry leaves the house a little after sun up for the three hour walk to town and comes back at dusk with two five litre bottles of water. One day, he rounds the corner of the road and sees Draco standing at the mailbox, underneath the arch of old June roses going to cane, so he drops his bags, drops the water and breaks into a dead run.
The cicadas call at a volume which would drive a man mad if he didn't sleep. The radio said that the dry spring had kept down the fungal infections, and now they call day in and day out. They perch on the railing on the porch and press themselves on the screen, they sit on the window sills and in the rose bushes. Harry isn't sure that he hasn't gone mad or that he's slept at all himself. That's how living with Draco is. Silence. Afternoons. Cicadas and rationing out the water because he has to make one person's supply of water last for two, and then this feverish lovemaking on the kitchen floor.
Pushing Draco full length down the linoleum and lying against him even though it's so hot the addition of Draco's body heat is almost painful. Afternoons in the yard, with Draco pressed up against the garden shed with his pants down around his ankles and Harry licking his way up those thighs like they were melting vanilla ice cream and taking Draco's bobbing cock in his mouth. Listening to Draco's breath seize up and feeling those long-fingered hands in his hair, watching Draco so hot with desire that he stands up on tiptoe to angle himself down Harry's throat, then the shudder that starts at the knees, travels up Draco's legs and makes him slam his heels against the building, crying Harry's name, over and over into the heavy summer sunset.
Harry wipes his mouth on Draco's skin and lies down next to him in the grass. Fireflies turn on. Cicadas call in the bushes, and Draco's hand creeps into Harry's. There isn't any standing water to be had for miles, so there are no mosquitoes, not even gnats. This unnatural summer -- when dusk is blue on their skins, Draco rolls over, straddles Harry's hips and kisses him. He doesn't pin Harry's hands above his head, doesn't even rest his whole weight on Harry. Instead, he threads his fingers around grass and pulls kisses from Harry's with nothing more than his mouth. Daze-headed with lust, vision blurry from losing his glasses earlier that day, all Harry can see is the white shape of Draco's face, the paler bits of his hair. Later, that night, with his hot face pressed against the wallpaper and moonlight all over the bed, Harry doesn't even see that. He asks Draco, "How'd you find me? How'd you get away?"
Draco touches Harry's hipbone. There's a silence. "You don't want to know."
There aren't any marks on Draco. He walks around naked, and Harry licks that pale forearm at least twice a day, so that's the end of it. Voldemort is so close that Harry swears he can hear it in the wingbeats of birds passing overhead, and here Draco is, unmarked. A miracle.
But then, one day, Harry's out in the yard wondering if he can save any of the vegetables, and when he goes back in, Draco is gone. He'd never noticed how neatly Draco kept all of his things, how Draco never really unpacked and instead lived out of his bags, and sitting on the kitchen table is Draco's wand, broken in two. There's a bottle of poison, two bottles and a little tiny glass ampoule, a garotte made out of spider steel, and a little container of ashes that moves around on the table all on its own. Also, a bottle of cosmetic paint, the exact color of Draco's skin.
Snape comes with summons from Dumbledore three days after that. Snape is pale-faced with worry and almost shakes Harry, but by then, Harry's thrown everything away except for the cosmetic paint which he wordlessly hands to Snape on their way out of the door. Snape holds it for a moment, then looks at Harry, whose eyes are hidden in shadow even at noon. Harry looks at the roses on the trellis for a moment, then back at Snape. After that, they both Dis-Apparate.
Snape shows up at Harry's cottage three days after Draco leaves Harry. The two of them will be dead before the cicadas stop calling whereas Draco is already dead, murdered on the road.