Drarry One Shots

Flame (pt.1)

I see you, Potter.

I see you with your new rebellious image.

I see you on that large black motorbike that Hagrid keeps tucked away behind his hut.

I see you in your Godfather's scruffy leather bike jacket and those oh-so-indecently tight ripped jeans and your combat boots. I see you in those figure-hugging black t-shirts that leave nothing to my imagination, or to the imagination of the hundreds of adoring fans that flutter around you with their dull, dusty wings.

I see you with that full tattoo sleeve and, oh, how I long to get a closer look, to study the details of the Hallows, to run my fingers over the scales of the dragon and the feathers of the phoenix and Hedwig; I see the inked Triwizard cup, the shaggy black dog, the lilies. What other in memoriams does that artwork hide?

I see your languid smiles and your glinting green eyes, no longer hidden behind your glasses as your eyesight is now corrected courtesy of St Mungo's after the war. I see the smudges of black eyeliner which send shivers down my spine to my toes and back up to my groin.

I see how you walk into the Great Hall, with your head held high and your smile bright; how you give everyone a moment of your time; how you reach out and gently touch someone's arm or shoulder, you benevolently smile and bestow quiet words of condolences to those that seek it from you, or offer sympathy to those who are struggling, grant words of praise to those who deserve it, of encouragement to those who are trying to better their ways, to those who are trying to change. You haven't stopped giving yet and, despite the black that you wear, you are a brightness that we are all drawn to, we all quiver around your light with the futile longing to touch but not to get burnt.

Yes, I see you with your raven-black hair, still as messy as ever but it's longer now, and with signs of premature greying at your temples, even at eighteen. I assume it must be an aftershock of the war, of the trauma that you've been through. I see how you like to scrap it back into a messy knot on top of your head, how loose tendrils frame your face. I see how the others itch to push it back from around your square jaw and tuck it behind your ears. And despite how well you hide it, I see how you flinch away from the touches. You cover it with nonchalance and a carefree attitude which means you appear to stand above us all.

Yes, I see you, Potter.

And I see you, the man behind the mask.

It's ironic, it used to me that wore the mask but mine ... well, it's a difference mask now. But yours, yours is a Thalia/Melpomene mask and it's heart-breaking to see.

I see how you use that bike to escape, to roar off into the evening dusk and leave this all behind you in the dust of your trail.

I see how you train; you push yourself physically as if you are trying to drive out the anguish that haunts your soul.

I see how your shoulders slump and your smile falls away and your eyes dull into hardened stones once you are away from the masses, once you are given a moment when you don't need to perform the hero.

I see how you clutch your tattooed arm with the grief that it encompasses and how the pain resonates from you in waves that threatens to overwhelm you in darkness.

I see how your hair drapes around your face as you vanish into the gloominess of the hidden corners of the library. I see how your long locks hide the shadows that flit beneath the surface. Oh, how I want to be the one who loosens that knot and runs my fingers through your tousled hair. I want to be the one who frees you from the tangled webs of the thoughts that you're disguising.

Yet I cannot, I can only watch from a distance because I am shunned by society, I am a social pariah. I must continue to circle in your shadow, to watch, to see, and to protect myself from your light. It is funny how my life has always been about you. The only time it wasn't, well, that was the worst year of my life. Of course, I understand now, I realise what all that circling around you means. But I am doomed. I cannot fly close to the flame because my fragile broken wings will get scorched and I will fall. I have already fallen.