You mentioned Dementors
Nov. 16th, 2005 10:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lurkittyWell, Fiona, you wanted to know what was lurking in the corners of my brain... This is a pretty tame example. My first foray into the realm of HPDM shipping fanfic. I have no idea if it fits into anything anyone else has done...
Harry Potter zigzagged through the woods oblivious to the briars and thorns tearing at his clothing. He held his wand high, searching anxiously. It was a foggy night, no moon was visible, the only light from Harry's wand. Perhaps the stench of Dementor was real, perhaps it was only the all too vivid memory of his own encounter he felt in the air. What ever it was made him quiver. The shadows bounced in the wand light.
He trekked deeper into the woods, switching hands when his arm gave out. A branch hit his forehead, blood began to drip into his eye. He angrily wiped it away, staying on task, not stopping to heal the wound. Harry had only one purpose.
In the distance, Harry glimpsed what he at first thought was a sack lying on the ground. As he neared the object, it resolved into the crumpled form of a body. He ran to it, heart beating a wild tattoo.
A mass of blonde hair mingled with the leaf mould on the ground. Harry tenderly touched the familiar face, fearing that it would feel cold, dead. His heart leapt to find some warmth. He moved to cradle the recumbent form, to somehow give of his own life energy to the one he loved. He began to rock back and forth, his arms gently enfolding the object of his affections. Harry brushed the blonde hair aside, and it was then his wounded lover began to stir.
As Draco Malfoy's eye's fluttered open, Harry greeted him with a warm and loving kiss.
“That's almost as good as chocolate,” breathed Draco, weakly.
“Almost?” cried Harry, with mock irritation, and with that, he kissed him full on, his tongue probing deeply into Draco's inviting mouth, trying to make him forget the cold night, trying to make him forget the awful touch of the Dementors.
Harry Potter zigzagged through the woods oblivious to the briars and thorns tearing at his clothing. He held his wand high, searching anxiously. It was a foggy night, no moon was visible, the only light from Harry's wand. Perhaps the stench of Dementor was real, perhaps it was only the all too vivid memory of his own encounter he felt in the air. What ever it was made him quiver. The shadows bounced in the wand light.
He trekked deeper into the woods, switching hands when his arm gave out. A branch hit his forehead, blood began to drip into his eye. He angrily wiped it away, staying on task, not stopping to heal the wound. Harry had only one purpose.
In the distance, Harry glimpsed what he at first thought was a sack lying on the ground. As he neared the object, it resolved into the crumpled form of a body. He ran to it, heart beating a wild tattoo.
A mass of blonde hair mingled with the leaf mould on the ground. Harry tenderly touched the familiar face, fearing that it would feel cold, dead. His heart leapt to find some warmth. He moved to cradle the recumbent form, to somehow give of his own life energy to the one he loved. He began to rock back and forth, his arms gently enfolding the object of his affections. Harry brushed the blonde hair aside, and it was then his wounded lover began to stir.
As Draco Malfoy's eye's fluttered open, Harry greeted him with a warm and loving kiss.
“That's almost as good as chocolate,” breathed Draco, weakly.
“Almost?” cried Harry, with mock irritation, and with that, he kissed him full on, his tongue probing deeply into Draco's inviting mouth, trying to make him forget the cold night, trying to make him forget the awful touch of the Dementors.
