Drabble: Snow Angel - PG13 Title: Snow Angel Characters: Harry, Draco Rating: PG13 for blood and violence Word Count: 500
The fresh-fallen snow is a cold austere blanket over these grounds. It makes Hogwarts seem long-abandoned, though in truth only a few years have gone by since the war against Voldemort and his demise – and the final closing of Hogwarts. It is just a hollowed-out shell; only an army of ghosts and bad memories walk those desecrated halls now.
It's the perfect place for retribution – and redemption.
He comes to him there, barefoot, clad in only his Slytherin robes, his skin pale and his cheeks wind scoured into bright roses. His eyes – sharp shards of rainy skies – are full of shadows, fear, uncertainty. But still, he comes. Still he drops his robe and stands in the snow naked in front of Harry, nearly as pale as the landscape.
Once he would have said Draco's heart was colder than the snow – but he knows better now.
It only takes an hour for his retribution to be cut into the blond's skin, for the failures and sins to be catalogued in blood. The fresh blood against the cold flesh is vivid, richer and darker than the blood of innocents, tainted. He uses a small, sharp blade; it makes the retribution personal. It drives the lesson home.
Draco never whimpers, never twitchs. The cold is a balm; he will feel the burning pain later. It is part of the healing process; nor will he speed the healing with spells or potions. He knows what is necessary and he will obey. He lies spread on the snow, arms flung wide, streaming with crimson - a fallen snow angel, marked and punished.
Later there will be more retribution – but not too much, now. Such a fine line to walk – he doesn't want Draco broken, he wants him shattered. So much more to come. But for now, there will be kindness – and the subsequent retribution will be all the more harsh for it.
Clumsily Draco stands, numb; he knows what is expected of him. Silently he drapes the robe back over his lacerated body; the cloak will freeze to his wounds on the walk back. Tenderly, Harry touches the blond's face, strokes his cold cheek with a warm, bloody hand. “The blood sains you,” he told him earnestly, seriously. “Each time a little more.” The blond nods his head. Harry wonders what he thinks, if he really believes him – or if he understands -
- understands that the retribution will never really end. But it doesn't matter, because in the end, he always comes, and always bleeds, and neither of them ever heal.
Draco leaves first, as always; walking home the long way. His feet will be all but frozen and will need medical care. Harry allows that, so he can walk humbly to his next punishment. But not for long.
The wind is cold, cutting sideways and toying with Harry's cloak as he walks to the edge of the grounds to apparate. Cold – but not as cold as Draco.