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Yes, it's *another* HP fic.
This time, it's for an Improv, and not nearly as ambitious. We are chilling out slightly.
Title: The Boy Who Wasn’t There
Authors: Kassie naturallycalm@yahoo.com , Zahra frans_angel@hotmail.com
Rating: PG
Improv: #9 hand -- thread -- stain – mean
Disclaimer: We don’t even own the rights to ourselves, having sold our souls to satan_dot_com in his quest for eternal, universal dominance. We certainly don’t own anything in the HP world. Not the school, the students, not even the house elves, which we could use.
Notes: We are still dipping our toes in here. We use each other as crutches.
He's never actually stabbed himself in the hand with a quill before; it's a rather unsettling feeling. Not the sensation of making a hole in his hand, but the feeling of something foreign invading him this way. Draco’s suffered other invasions, fought off other attacks. He has scars from battles that were never verbalized and injuries that a Stripping Spell would never be
able to uncover, but this is just different. Unique in a way he’s at a loss to describe.
Of course Professor Snape could potentially find a word, and naturally that Mudblood, Granger, would be willing to offer a dozen or so, but none of them would fit. None of them could, would, ever understand the importance of Draco Malfoy bleeding all over his scrolls in Potions. None of them would see the
invisible stains on parchment and nearly invisible fingerprints dotting along the edge of a piece of paper.
And then there’s the quill, hanging there, caught in his skin. Quivering with his every breath and resting against his arm like a sleeping bird. Black feather against pale, translucent skin. It’s just jutting out, flapping in an almost undetectable breeze, drawing attention to Draco’s clumsiness.
His lack of attention to detail; Malfoys always pay attention to detail. Just the way that Draco is finally paying attention to his hand now, mesmerized by the way that the blood is mixing with the ink, and what he finds so fascinating about his blood isn't really the redness of it, but the lack blueness.
All that talk of wizarding families and the importance of their blood. Draco has never shed blue blood before, he wasn't planning on starting now, but there's the ink mixing with the blood and it's a darker red than he's used to. It's almost purplish, and maybe this is what his father is talking about.
If Draco were to stab Potter this way, he wouldn't bleed the same way. He might not bleed at all, and if Draco were to touch him, to try and mark Harry by flicking his blood at him, it probably wouldn't even work.
The Boy Impervious to Everything.
Harry Potter with his impenetrable skin and his blood that probably doesn't even run red. Potter can't possibly bleed the same way Draco does, with blood that spiders off in rivulets down the back of Draco's hand. Splintering off in various directions caught and rediverted by invisible blond hairs.
Draco’s blood is the only thing that he can call his. Part of his father, part of his mother, but wholly *his*.
Nothing else that he can call his, aside from the things that he smudges, marks with his blood, and all it would take is for Potter to notice. All he would have to do is glance at Draco, just the way he is now, except that Draco doesn't have to look at Harry to know that Harry's watching him. He can feel green eyes below a reflective scar boring into the back of his head.
Harry Potter has a long way to go to learn how to burn someone with his gaze; Draco's father could probably teach him a lot about the art. Draco could teach Harry as well: how to undress someone, touch them, make the hairs rise on the back of their neck and have them feel your eyes on them, a different kind of indelible burning.
Draco doesn’t have to turn around to watch Harry; he doesn't even have to say anything. He won’t even have to turn to just flick his hand behind him. Discarding his blood randomly, aimlessly, with every intention of hitting his target.
The Muggles know nothing about archery; a good archer doesn't have to see to hit his mark.
Draco can feel it when his blood splatters Harry Potter. It’s not a stain; it’s his mark. An invisible thread pulling them together.
**
On his more bitter days, usually Thursday and Tuesday, Potions days, Harry thinks that his Muggle life never gave him anything. On balance, the majority of his life counts less than the refuse the house elves secret away in the small hours when even Hermione lays in a weary slumber. He carries only memories that often blossom out as nightmares, ruining him for daytime. Memories and scars more livid than the one on his firehead, the famous mark but hardly the deepest.
Other times, when he’s being honest in another way with himself, he knows there are parts of Mugglenss he will never abandon. A fondness for model trains that don’t run on bewitchment, chips in a bag that he never got at the Dursley’s but can have any time now, the crackle of static from a radio tuned badly. Clothes are the main vestiges, though. Like the jeans that are now flecked with Draco Malfoy’s pure, pure blood.
His robe must have fallen open at some point, probably jostling Ron for the counter space to de-eye sea urchins, and his jeans now bare a trail of rusty flecks. A splatter pattern that sums of what Harry thinks about the meaning of bloodlines. Just so much rubbish, like his jeans will be if this sets, becomes a permanent stain. He’ll be damned to wear part of Draco Malfoy on him on a daily basis. So, his favorite, well broken-in, soft to the touch, perhaps threadbare jeans are yet another casualty of Draco Malfoy’s blood.
Harry’s highly piqued by this idea, even more so that Draco doesn’t even seem to notice he’s shed his precious, indigo, wizarding blood all over Harry’s leg. On those bitterest of days, and truth be told, this was very much a Thursday, Harry felt with the amount of scrutiny that Draco lavished on him he should have at least come to know him. To notice him. To see him standing less than two feet away. Flecked with blood that turns red in the air like anyone else’s, that will taste of metal and salt, that means very little outside the vein or in some Dark potion, Harry can’t decide if he’s more angry over his jeans or that Draco has failed to acknowledge his existence.
Meaning is conferred by the perceiver, and Harry knows that Mudblood only means what the user intends. There is nothing inherently wrong, vile, demeaning, or prurient in the idea of mixing blood. He never knew the difference until a few years ago, had to learn, be taught, that mixing was deemed unseemly. Taught by Draco, who is usually so careful of his blood, of himself and the name that came with his body and tissue and fluids. Carefully cutting with his expressions and words. Exact in the occupation of space, in the execution of movement. Perfectly careful with the words he chooses and how he chooses to mean them.
Harry wonders what would happen if he pricked his thigh, just the most minute breaking of skin, and let his own claret drops mingle out into the fabric of his pants. If meeting in the thread, the two would merge, and even outside the body that would bind Malfoy to him all the more. Blood to blood, muddy and dirty. If with Malfoy’s obsession with blood, bloodletting, bloodlines, that co-sanguinity and the power it draws was how they were always going to end.
Yes, it's *another* HP fic.
This time, it's for an Improv, and not nearly as ambitious. We are chilling out slightly.
Title: The Boy Who Wasn’t There
Authors: Kassie naturallycalm@yahoo.com , Zahra frans_angel@hotmail.com
Rating: PG
Improv: #9 hand -- thread -- stain – mean
Disclaimer: We don’t even own the rights to ourselves, having sold our souls to satan_dot_com in his quest for eternal, universal dominance. We certainly don’t own anything in the HP world. Not the school, the students, not even the house elves, which we could use.
Notes: We are still dipping our toes in here. We use each other as crutches.
He's never actually stabbed himself in the hand with a quill before; it's a rather unsettling feeling. Not the sensation of making a hole in his hand, but the feeling of something foreign invading him this way. Draco’s suffered other invasions, fought off other attacks. He has scars from battles that were never verbalized and injuries that a Stripping Spell would never be
able to uncover, but this is just different. Unique in a way he’s at a loss to describe.
Of course Professor Snape could potentially find a word, and naturally that Mudblood, Granger, would be willing to offer a dozen or so, but none of them would fit. None of them could, would, ever understand the importance of Draco Malfoy bleeding all over his scrolls in Potions. None of them would see the
invisible stains on parchment and nearly invisible fingerprints dotting along the edge of a piece of paper.
And then there’s the quill, hanging there, caught in his skin. Quivering with his every breath and resting against his arm like a sleeping bird. Black feather against pale, translucent skin. It’s just jutting out, flapping in an almost undetectable breeze, drawing attention to Draco’s clumsiness.
His lack of attention to detail; Malfoys always pay attention to detail. Just the way that Draco is finally paying attention to his hand now, mesmerized by the way that the blood is mixing with the ink, and what he finds so fascinating about his blood isn't really the redness of it, but the lack blueness.
All that talk of wizarding families and the importance of their blood. Draco has never shed blue blood before, he wasn't planning on starting now, but there's the ink mixing with the blood and it's a darker red than he's used to. It's almost purplish, and maybe this is what his father is talking about.
If Draco were to stab Potter this way, he wouldn't bleed the same way. He might not bleed at all, and if Draco were to touch him, to try and mark Harry by flicking his blood at him, it probably wouldn't even work.
The Boy Impervious to Everything.
Harry Potter with his impenetrable skin and his blood that probably doesn't even run red. Potter can't possibly bleed the same way Draco does, with blood that spiders off in rivulets down the back of Draco's hand. Splintering off in various directions caught and rediverted by invisible blond hairs.
Draco’s blood is the only thing that he can call his. Part of his father, part of his mother, but wholly *his*.
Nothing else that he can call his, aside from the things that he smudges, marks with his blood, and all it would take is for Potter to notice. All he would have to do is glance at Draco, just the way he is now, except that Draco doesn't have to look at Harry to know that Harry's watching him. He can feel green eyes below a reflective scar boring into the back of his head.
Harry Potter has a long way to go to learn how to burn someone with his gaze; Draco's father could probably teach him a lot about the art. Draco could teach Harry as well: how to undress someone, touch them, make the hairs rise on the back of their neck and have them feel your eyes on them, a different kind of indelible burning.
Draco doesn’t have to turn around to watch Harry; he doesn't even have to say anything. He won’t even have to turn to just flick his hand behind him. Discarding his blood randomly, aimlessly, with every intention of hitting his target.
The Muggles know nothing about archery; a good archer doesn't have to see to hit his mark.
Draco can feel it when his blood splatters Harry Potter. It’s not a stain; it’s his mark. An invisible thread pulling them together.
**
On his more bitter days, usually Thursday and Tuesday, Potions days, Harry thinks that his Muggle life never gave him anything. On balance, the majority of his life counts less than the refuse the house elves secret away in the small hours when even Hermione lays in a weary slumber. He carries only memories that often blossom out as nightmares, ruining him for daytime. Memories and scars more livid than the one on his firehead, the famous mark but hardly the deepest.
Other times, when he’s being honest in another way with himself, he knows there are parts of Mugglenss he will never abandon. A fondness for model trains that don’t run on bewitchment, chips in a bag that he never got at the Dursley’s but can have any time now, the crackle of static from a radio tuned badly. Clothes are the main vestiges, though. Like the jeans that are now flecked with Draco Malfoy’s pure, pure blood.
His robe must have fallen open at some point, probably jostling Ron for the counter space to de-eye sea urchins, and his jeans now bare a trail of rusty flecks. A splatter pattern that sums of what Harry thinks about the meaning of bloodlines. Just so much rubbish, like his jeans will be if this sets, becomes a permanent stain. He’ll be damned to wear part of Draco Malfoy on him on a daily basis. So, his favorite, well broken-in, soft to the touch, perhaps threadbare jeans are yet another casualty of Draco Malfoy’s blood.
Harry’s highly piqued by this idea, even more so that Draco doesn’t even seem to notice he’s shed his precious, indigo, wizarding blood all over Harry’s leg. On those bitterest of days, and truth be told, this was very much a Thursday, Harry felt with the amount of scrutiny that Draco lavished on him he should have at least come to know him. To notice him. To see him standing less than two feet away. Flecked with blood that turns red in the air like anyone else’s, that will taste of metal and salt, that means very little outside the vein or in some Dark potion, Harry can’t decide if he’s more angry over his jeans or that Draco has failed to acknowledge his existence.
Meaning is conferred by the perceiver, and Harry knows that Mudblood only means what the user intends. There is nothing inherently wrong, vile, demeaning, or prurient in the idea of mixing blood. He never knew the difference until a few years ago, had to learn, be taught, that mixing was deemed unseemly. Taught by Draco, who is usually so careful of his blood, of himself and the name that came with his body and tissue and fluids. Carefully cutting with his expressions and words. Exact in the occupation of space, in the execution of movement. Perfectly careful with the words he chooses and how he chooses to mean them.
Harry wonders what would happen if he pricked his thigh, just the most minute breaking of skin, and let his own claret drops mingle out into the fabric of his pants. If meeting in the thread, the two would merge, and even outside the body that would bind Malfoy to him all the more. Blood to blood, muddy and dirty. If with Malfoy’s obsession with blood, bloodletting, bloodlines, that co-sanguinity and the power it draws was how they were always going to end.
