|A Certain Kind of Peace - PG - Harry/Draco
||[story time | 9:59 am]
papers and pens and teastains
Title: A Certain Kind of Peace
Summary: Sometimes things are not always as they seem. Written for the Armchair Christmas Challenge 2003
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books and other trademarks are © by JK Rowling, Little Literacy Agency, Scholastic, Bloomsbury, Arthur A. Levine, & Warner Brothers. No profit is being made, it's all good clean fun. Really.
A Certain Kind of Peace
The sun hovered low on the horizon: the mid afternoon light making the Quidditch stand blaze redder than the Gryffindor banners behind Harry.
He was by himself in the stands, staring out over the pitch, the bare skeleton of the Forbidden Forest casting its own long shadows over the snow.
Hermione, for the first time in many years, had gone home for Christmas: mainly at Harry's own insistence. Her Aunt Mabel had died recently, and while she thought it tragic, she was highly concerned about her best friend. But Harry had put his foot down and told her that he would be, by all accounts, just fine by himself. Ron had been called home by his mother: Bill was bringing his Egyptian fiance to meet the family at long last. She had also invited Harry, but he preferred to stay by himself.
He knew that they worried about him: he could feel those anxious glances they threw in his direction. He could see the way Hermione sucked more ferociously on the end of her quill when she notices him spacing out in class. He could understand the reason for Ron stirring up the dorm for rough-housing of all kind, he laughter some kind of compensation.
All Harry wanted was a certain kind of peace.
Which found him here, his favourite spot in the whole wide world: the Gryffindor banners a heated force against his bent spine, the glare of afternoon sun on the snow reflecting spangled pink sparkles on his closed eyelids.
He seemed to be inflamed.
There was the shuffle of feet on the steps behind him, the brush of thick velvet against his legs, warm hands gripping his sides lightly; and he was born again.
The warmth from a body caressed his brow. He smiled vaguely, his hand rising to an angled face, brushing hair away.
Lips traced his jaw with eager gentleness.
The voice, like butter, spread over his consciousness that wiped all the worry away: leaving just a pleasant hum of possibility and possessiveness. It ticked his ears with playful rustle as hair was whipped up in a low wind and mixed together, warm ebony on pale brow.
A rich smell of coconut skin and angel kisses: like the kitchen just after cookies had come out of the oven. Harry remembered what it was like to sit in his cupboard and smell all that deliciousness that came from Aunt Petunia cooking -- the aroma so rich and heavy he could almost feel it on his tongue and in his belly. It tasted of Christmas and holly, spiced oranges and snow. Harry had always preferred Winter to any other time of the year.
He could feel the gentle press of lips against his own, the pink spangles turning to orange, then red, then into the fiery arms of blackness like a melted sun. His head ceased aching and there was a softer pressure, squeezing around his heart with contentment, the feel of silk on callused fingers grasping for purchase against...nothing.
The wind whipped away the words as the heat melted away, the footsteps melting back into the setting sun.
Harry opened his eyes, his illusion vanishing with it. It felt so real, like an apparition against the tide of reality, and he was warmed again. He traced his lips, traced out forever, traced out his certain kind of peace.
The word breezed away into the growing darkness and Harry settled more into his coat, revelling in his imaginary first kiss with...whoever that was.
The figure in the shadows smirked lightly, his heart not really in it, before he melted back without a sound, except for a breath of light that made the air around Harry tingle with electricity.
- finished -