Fic: A Light Too Bright
Apr. 24th, 2013 10:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
omi_ohmyLook! I wrote something, again. I am most surprised and pleased to be finding my writing mojo slowly returning, after an absence of some months. Yay!
Title: A Light Too Bright
Summary: The bright light of spring is all wrong for Harry and Draco; they are both haunted by their memories of war.
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Word count: ~1, 400
Rating: R for themes and a bit of curtains-blowing-in-the-wind (so to say)
Disclaimer: Written for fun, not profit. All characters remain the property of JK Rowling et al.
Author’s note: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lokifan’s prompt ‘Harry/Draco, nightmares’, in melusinahp’s Hurt/Comfort Comment Meme. This is unbetaed, and written all in a rush this morning, after a night peppered with nightmares of my own.
A Light Too Bright
The day had been filled with sharp, bright sunlight. After the months of murky darkness, it had hurt Harry’s eyes and he had developed a pounding headache by sunset. No one noticed that he was quieter than normal: everyone else seemed to be buoyed by the sunshine.
In the brightness of the day, the blue sky grew above Harry’s head until it threatened to blot out the rest of the world. It bled into the stones of the castle, into the newly-budded trees in the grounds, into the faces of his friends. It was close, too close, to the white peace he’d experienced after death. But how could he explain that to his friends? That he didn’t like the sunshine, as it reminded him of the true peace, true quiet, that he would not know until he died again? How could he explain that it was the memory of the forest floor beneath his cheek, the ground damp and rough, the heady scent of half-rotted leaves and the mulch of earthworms that kept him grounded, that made him feel alive?
There was one face though, amongst the others, that never lost its definition, no matter how bright the light. It already seemed to shine with its own brittle light, breaking at its edges: Draco Malfoy. He didn’t speak, his mouth drawn tight with pain. When Harry looked at him, he saw it in his eyes: the months of fear, the Unforgiveables cast by him, and on him. The horror. He wasn’t sure what anyone else saw, beyond the too-pale skin and the too-thin body.
They shared a room, Harry and Draco. Harry knew, because McGonagall had told him, that this was to prevent Draco being hexed in his sleep. But as it turned out, he spoke to no one, and no one spoke to him. No one even seemed to notice him. Apart from Harry, who watched in silence.
It was early yet when Harry retreated to bed. The sun had set, leaving rosy-cheeked babbling excitement in its wake, but he just wanted peace and quiet. And for his head to stop hurting. Draco was already in bed, as he always was. Harry understood: it was Draco’s one solitary space, his place of safety.
Lying under the cool sheets of his own bed, the thud of blood filling his ears, each rhythmic beat bringing with it a rush of pain, Harry closed his eyes in the dark, and drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
When he woke, the room was filled with the angular lines of white moonlight and shadow. His head had eased to a dull ache above one eye. He listened for even breathing from across the room; it often helped to calm him, to lull him back to sleep, listening to the sound of another human respiring. But it wasn’t a calm night of sleep for Draco. A soft whimpering filled the room, interspersed with the odd murmured word. Harry held his breath and listened. He shouldn’t, he knew, it was trespassing on the most intimate of unconscious thought, but what choice did he have, in the quiet of the night?
Sometimes, Harry would wake, or not have fallen asleep yet, and he would hear Draco’s night-time cries. They varied, from tears for his mother, to shouts of fear, to a voice twisted with rage. Harry never mentioned them, but would lie, stiff and silent, as Draco’s voice filled the room.
This night, though, Harry heard a word which brought a prickle of cold sweat to his skin.
“Harry.”
He wasn’t certain. Had he just heard his own name?
“Harry Potter.”
Yes, he had.
“You– No! Not… too quiet, too still, not dead. Not dead. No…” The sound of weeping filled the room. Harry couldn’t see Draco’s face, but he could imagine how it looked, screwed tight with pain. He had seen it like that before, in the moonlight. But he’d never heard his name.
“Too late. Always, too late.”
Harry’s face ached, in rhythm with the beating of his heart. He had been able to ignore everything else, but his own name?
“Harry.”
He sat up without thinking about it, his legs swinging around even as his head protested, his eyes closing against the cold light of the moon. Harry crossed the room in three wavering footsteps, swaying with the newly-sharpened thumping in his head, but determined that this night, somehow, he would ease Draco’s suffering.
Draco’s back was hot to touch, a fevered landscape of hard-edged bone and tightly wound muscle. Harry ran his hand over it, tentatively at first and with a quiet “Shhhh.” He thought that Draco relaxed a fraction, so continued, growing bolder as he moved from shoulder to shoulder, then down to where he could feel the band of Draco’s pyjama bottoms. Over and over, Harry ran his hand, whispering as he went that he was there, that he was there.
Slowly, Draco quietened until Harry could feel the slow and even rise of his chest, the familiar rhythm which had lulled him to sleep on so many occasions. The palm of his hand was warm now, from the rubbing and from the heat Draco gave off. Harry shivered, cold in the room. He sat on the side of Draco’s bed, keeping one hand on his back, and leant forward to brush Draco’s hair with a gentleness he didn’t quite recognise.
Harry jumped though, when Draco turned his head, grey eyes shining with tears. But Draco reached out and brought Harry’s hand back to his hair.
“I don’t think that this is a dream,” Draco whispered. Harry shook his head, eyes wary. His hand though, was moving, softly, gently, through Draco’s hair. Another shiver moved through him; the spring night was cold, in just his thin pyjamas.
Draco turned fully towards Harry. “You’re cold. I need… don’t go.” He pulled back his covers, and Harry looked at him, at the silver tracks left by tears on his cheeks, and the way his eyes were still slightly unfocused by sleep, and he climbed in beside Draco.
A hot arm snaked around his waist, pulling him closer. “So cold,” Draco said again. “Let me warm you.” And he began to run his hand, up and down Harry’s back, just as Harry had done to him. Harry was aware of every pass of Draco’s hand, wide lines of heat across his skin. A shaking began, in his stomach, in his toes, all through his body. He reached out for Draco, to steady himself. His hand found a sharp hip, hot skin; an answering tremble.
Eyes closed, Harry moved closer to Draco. His hand sought out the heated firmness of Draco’s back again, but this time, under the pyjamas, bare skin. He could feel each huff of Draco’s breath on his face, a fluttering lightness that seemed to shake too. He turned his head, just enough that his lips met Draco’s, and all the heat and the trembling and the tears became a kiss. It grew from a whisper to a soft conversation of tongues, and need, and loss, and pain. Harry felt as if his soul was being sucked from him, and he wondered if this searing heat was akin to a Dementor’s Kiss. And yet he knew it wasn’t, because he was being offered so much at the same time.
Their hands began to move again, hungry, seeking fresh spaces, fresh skin. Harry’s head was still aching, but it was a sweet pain now, in the dark and light of the moon. He pulled back, tasting Draco on his lips. Grey eyes met his, steady, yet filled with a challenge, a need for emptiness. Harry tried, as hard as he could, to help blot out the pain, the memories.
Teeth on his skin, a touch like fire, the blinding flash of orgasm: Harry found a peace like death itself. Draco’s eyes were empty before they fell asleep.
They slept without nightmares, until the warm sun woke them in the morning. Sticky and crusty, they looked at each other warily. But hot fingers on skin – it didn’t matter whose they were – reignited a fire. The bright sunlight was no match for it, for Harry had found the rough darkness of the earth, the sweating, grunting place where he could be alive.
There were nightmares, on other nights, but they never lasted longer than the time it took to reach out, and touch.
Title: A Light Too Bright
Summary: The bright light of spring is all wrong for Harry and Draco; they are both haunted by their memories of war.
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Word count: ~1, 400
Rating: R for themes and a bit of curtains-blowing-in-the-wind (so to say)
Disclaimer: Written for fun, not profit. All characters remain the property of JK Rowling et al.
Author’s note: Written for
lokifan’s prompt ‘Harry/Draco, nightmares’, in melusinahp’s Hurt/Comfort Comment Meme. This is unbetaed, and written all in a rush this morning, after a night peppered with nightmares of my own.A Light Too Bright
The day had been filled with sharp, bright sunlight. After the months of murky darkness, it had hurt Harry’s eyes and he had developed a pounding headache by sunset. No one noticed that he was quieter than normal: everyone else seemed to be buoyed by the sunshine.
In the brightness of the day, the blue sky grew above Harry’s head until it threatened to blot out the rest of the world. It bled into the stones of the castle, into the newly-budded trees in the grounds, into the faces of his friends. It was close, too close, to the white peace he’d experienced after death. But how could he explain that to his friends? That he didn’t like the sunshine, as it reminded him of the true peace, true quiet, that he would not know until he died again? How could he explain that it was the memory of the forest floor beneath his cheek, the ground damp and rough, the heady scent of half-rotted leaves and the mulch of earthworms that kept him grounded, that made him feel alive?
There was one face though, amongst the others, that never lost its definition, no matter how bright the light. It already seemed to shine with its own brittle light, breaking at its edges: Draco Malfoy. He didn’t speak, his mouth drawn tight with pain. When Harry looked at him, he saw it in his eyes: the months of fear, the Unforgiveables cast by him, and on him. The horror. He wasn’t sure what anyone else saw, beyond the too-pale skin and the too-thin body.
They shared a room, Harry and Draco. Harry knew, because McGonagall had told him, that this was to prevent Draco being hexed in his sleep. But as it turned out, he spoke to no one, and no one spoke to him. No one even seemed to notice him. Apart from Harry, who watched in silence.
It was early yet when Harry retreated to bed. The sun had set, leaving rosy-cheeked babbling excitement in its wake, but he just wanted peace and quiet. And for his head to stop hurting. Draco was already in bed, as he always was. Harry understood: it was Draco’s one solitary space, his place of safety.
Lying under the cool sheets of his own bed, the thud of blood filling his ears, each rhythmic beat bringing with it a rush of pain, Harry closed his eyes in the dark, and drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
When he woke, the room was filled with the angular lines of white moonlight and shadow. His head had eased to a dull ache above one eye. He listened for even breathing from across the room; it often helped to calm him, to lull him back to sleep, listening to the sound of another human respiring. But it wasn’t a calm night of sleep for Draco. A soft whimpering filled the room, interspersed with the odd murmured word. Harry held his breath and listened. He shouldn’t, he knew, it was trespassing on the most intimate of unconscious thought, but what choice did he have, in the quiet of the night?
Sometimes, Harry would wake, or not have fallen asleep yet, and he would hear Draco’s night-time cries. They varied, from tears for his mother, to shouts of fear, to a voice twisted with rage. Harry never mentioned them, but would lie, stiff and silent, as Draco’s voice filled the room.
This night, though, Harry heard a word which brought a prickle of cold sweat to his skin.
“Harry.”
He wasn’t certain. Had he just heard his own name?
“Harry Potter.”
Yes, he had.
“You– No! Not… too quiet, too still, not dead. Not dead. No…” The sound of weeping filled the room. Harry couldn’t see Draco’s face, but he could imagine how it looked, screwed tight with pain. He had seen it like that before, in the moonlight. But he’d never heard his name.
“Too late. Always, too late.”
Harry’s face ached, in rhythm with the beating of his heart. He had been able to ignore everything else, but his own name?
“Harry.”
He sat up without thinking about it, his legs swinging around even as his head protested, his eyes closing against the cold light of the moon. Harry crossed the room in three wavering footsteps, swaying with the newly-sharpened thumping in his head, but determined that this night, somehow, he would ease Draco’s suffering.
Draco’s back was hot to touch, a fevered landscape of hard-edged bone and tightly wound muscle. Harry ran his hand over it, tentatively at first and with a quiet “Shhhh.” He thought that Draco relaxed a fraction, so continued, growing bolder as he moved from shoulder to shoulder, then down to where he could feel the band of Draco’s pyjama bottoms. Over and over, Harry ran his hand, whispering as he went that he was there, that he was there.
Slowly, Draco quietened until Harry could feel the slow and even rise of his chest, the familiar rhythm which had lulled him to sleep on so many occasions. The palm of his hand was warm now, from the rubbing and from the heat Draco gave off. Harry shivered, cold in the room. He sat on the side of Draco’s bed, keeping one hand on his back, and leant forward to brush Draco’s hair with a gentleness he didn’t quite recognise.
Harry jumped though, when Draco turned his head, grey eyes shining with tears. But Draco reached out and brought Harry’s hand back to his hair.
“I don’t think that this is a dream,” Draco whispered. Harry shook his head, eyes wary. His hand though, was moving, softly, gently, through Draco’s hair. Another shiver moved through him; the spring night was cold, in just his thin pyjamas.
Draco turned fully towards Harry. “You’re cold. I need… don’t go.” He pulled back his covers, and Harry looked at him, at the silver tracks left by tears on his cheeks, and the way his eyes were still slightly unfocused by sleep, and he climbed in beside Draco.
A hot arm snaked around his waist, pulling him closer. “So cold,” Draco said again. “Let me warm you.” And he began to run his hand, up and down Harry’s back, just as Harry had done to him. Harry was aware of every pass of Draco’s hand, wide lines of heat across his skin. A shaking began, in his stomach, in his toes, all through his body. He reached out for Draco, to steady himself. His hand found a sharp hip, hot skin; an answering tremble.
Eyes closed, Harry moved closer to Draco. His hand sought out the heated firmness of Draco’s back again, but this time, under the pyjamas, bare skin. He could feel each huff of Draco’s breath on his face, a fluttering lightness that seemed to shake too. He turned his head, just enough that his lips met Draco’s, and all the heat and the trembling and the tears became a kiss. It grew from a whisper to a soft conversation of tongues, and need, and loss, and pain. Harry felt as if his soul was being sucked from him, and he wondered if this searing heat was akin to a Dementor’s Kiss. And yet he knew it wasn’t, because he was being offered so much at the same time.
Their hands began to move again, hungry, seeking fresh spaces, fresh skin. Harry’s head was still aching, but it was a sweet pain now, in the dark and light of the moon. He pulled back, tasting Draco on his lips. Grey eyes met his, steady, yet filled with a challenge, a need for emptiness. Harry tried, as hard as he could, to help blot out the pain, the memories.
Teeth on his skin, a touch like fire, the blinding flash of orgasm: Harry found a peace like death itself. Draco’s eyes were empty before they fell asleep.
They slept without nightmares, until the warm sun woke them in the morning. Sticky and crusty, they looked at each other warily. But hot fingers on skin – it didn’t matter whose they were – reignited a fire. The bright sunlight was no match for it, for Harry had found the rough darkness of the earth, the sweating, grunting place where he could be alive.
There were nightmares, on other nights, but they never lasted longer than the time it took to reach out, and touch.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-04-24 09:19 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2013-04-24 09:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-25 01:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-24 09:42 pm (UTC)I love how you wrote Harry, and the dark instead of the light made him feel peace.
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Date: 2013-04-25 01:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-24 09:49 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2013-04-25 10:37 pm (UTC)Very nicely done. Welcome back, Omi mojo!
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Date: 2013-04-28 10:16 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2013-04-28 10:18 pm (UTC)