Our little community of Potent Serpent pirates are growing... our ship is sailing steadily. Oh, and I've also written my first cookie for the potent_serpent community:
Title: Hour Upon Hour
Author: Teh Harmony
Summary: Response to question on the Potent Serpent thread: 'Harry and Blaise are locked in an empty room. No hope of escape for at least twelve hours. How do they kill time?'
Much opportunity for fun. Go have a read if you share in our H/B love!
( Hour Upon Hour )
EDIT 16th November 2005: I've decided to put it in here instead of writing a new entry, but I've also written a cookie for the Leather & Handcuffs merged thread. Right now I'm in a bit of a bad mood, you see, which is why I was inspired to write this.
Title: Footprints In The Snow
Author: Teh Harmony
Summary: Written for the Guns 'n' Handcuffs (Harry/Draco) and Leather & Libraries (Draco/Hermione) ships at Fictionalley. Mild H/D and D/Hr. Draco, over-confident and desperate, makes a very big mistake.
Snowflake after snowflake fall from the sky, and drift, pale as teardrops, past the mist-blurred window.
Draco gazed upon the snow-covered trees, the pale grey sky, and the milky fog. Everything was so cold, and so lifeless. He couldn't help but realize that the winter outside was hardly any different from what it was like here in his bedchamber at the Malfoy Manor... everything was so grey, devoid of breath. This dusty, unoccupied estate, with its empty, empty rooms, resembled a tomb. He knew, however, that no matter how far he would go, he would never be able to run away from this, or from what he'd done.
He had been sitting on a wooden chair, staring out of the window for days; to him, there was nothing more he could do. He hardly ate the food that the House Elves had brought him. And he positively refused to sleep on his bed, and acknowledge the warm memories that would inevitably unfold there. He didn't want to remember anything. It always caused him pain.
How peculiar it was that, being a detached person his entire life, he had learned how to long for tenderness... which had ironically struck him across the face.
Once upon a time, he would have run outside with the bespectacled, messy-haired, green-eyed boy, throwing snowballs at one another and laughing. Thanking the world for the gift of Christmas. Once upon a time, he would have curled up inside with the bushy-haired, intelligent, brilliantly cunning girl, opening the presents beneath the tree and telling stories to one another by the fire. They both had not been as bad as their first impressions to him. And these brief moments were among the first times that he had felt that he had anyone to truly share his existence with.
And then, they had found out about one another.
Draco had known it was foolish to think that he could have them both at once. They were close friends, and they would inevitably find out. But during the coldest, most desperate times when he had most needed honesty and human contact, they had both been there, and he found himself unable to decide between them. He thought he would have been able to pull it off... although subconsciously knowing at the same time that he was so wrong for thinking that.
Hermione had wept. She was furious. Draco had tried to reason with her, but she had hit him and stormed away. Harry... Harry was worse. He had simply looked at Draco with such an empty, distant gaze that suddenly Draco knew that henceforth, he would be alone. He had uttered, I'm disappointed in you. Although Draco had tried pleading with him, he had turned away, promptly walking after Hermione. Draco had not seen either of them again since that day.
'...How the hell did it come to this?!' he yelled, and suddenly swung around and swept everything off the nearby desk. A vase of wilted flowers smashed, and leaves of parchment fluttered to the ground. Two separate photographs, one of an endearing boy and the other a cheerful girl, screamed in fright as they fell. The glass frames cracked as they hit the ground, concealing their once-smiling faces.
Draco staggered against the window sill, his fists clenched. He had predicted this loneliness in his chambers, seen himself spending these cold mornings and nights staring out the window, hoping that he would see a flash of spectacles or a mane of bushy hair coming through the gates. He had hoped to hear voices approaching, warm voices of laughter and life that once filled the emptiness of the Manor. He had cherished those days when he had footprints in the snow leading to the door.
He hated expressing weakness. It always ended badly. He slumped to the floor, his face in his hands. The hand of winter seemed to touch any place where he had gone.
Outside, the grey sky still wept soft tears.