Something I started recently, it'll be short and probably plotless, but full of metaphors and blood, like most of my work tends to be.

Title: Orchid (1/?)
Author: Morgan
Fandom/Original: Harry Potter
Pairing: Draco / Harry
Rating: PG-13
Comments: Not too slashy, not yet at least. It'll get sick later. :D

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01

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Draco touched two long, slim fingers delicately to his lips. Drawing them back, into the light, he found blood.

"Fuck."

He brought his fingers back to his lips, moving them gently, smearing the blood across the pink flesh like a crimson gloss, a glittering rouge. The taste was nothing unfamiliar; it was almost comforting, that hot salt on his tongue. It reminded him that Harry Potter still couldn't stand Draco Malfoy, and Ronald Weasley still couldn't stomach a crack about his family's bank statement.

It reminded Draco, in far more unpleasant ways, how much it hurt to have his father's steel-topped cane fly towards him, smash into his cheek, knock a tooth loose and leave a blossoming, blistering welt in it's wake.

He refused to throw up.

The Slytherin boy pulled himself to his feet, specks of quickly-drying blood scattering the floor's white symmetry, and braced himself against a bust of a previous headmaster. The dank smell of the dungeons rose from a darkened stairway behind him, and the cool light of the corridor beat down on him form above, echoing with the trio's retreating footsteps.

Maybe he had deserved it this time; maybe he was fool for starting a fight without Crabbe and Goyle by his side.

Draco stood upright, wobbling only slightly, and straightened his robes, his perfect tie, his slightly askew collar. He brushed back his hair, licked the blood from his lips, swallowed. He smiled.

It was lunch hour, and the boy entered the Grand Hall after most everyone was seated, drawing attention to himself. Preening like a bird, he lifted his chin high and sauntered across the tiled floor, ignoring the glares of three Gryffindors. Draco found his usual seat at the Slytherin table, and sank into it gracefully, fending off the questions of his peers with a dimissive wave of the hand.

Ron watched from the opposite side of the Hall, ears red with fury. Hermione shook her head and returned to her book, absently nibbling on a roll. Harry, however, watched Draco intently, expression unreadable. His wide green eyes followed each of the boy's movements, taking it in, thinking, thinking. Did he ever stop thinking? Only in the air, and even then the ghost of a strategy remained.

Harry jumped when Ron's warm hand fell onto his shoulder, an unexpected weight. "Bloody good hit you landed back there, mate." His redheaded friend grinned crookedly. The freckles on his face swam before Harry's eyes. "I couldn't have done it better myself. Little prick." This last bit was added with a furtive glance over towards the Slytherin table. "It felt good, though, laying my foot up his arse. I hope he feels it for days." Ron laughed, and Harry forced a smile, feeling no glee with his friend. He hated this cycle, this antagonistic ritual he'd shared with Draco Malfoy since day one. Even now, though, in their last few years at Hogwarts, the violence made him sick. It didn't feel right, the endless taunting and hurting of each other, especially with the war drawing so close.

Hermione, it seemed, had finally pulled herself away from the Advanced Arithmancy book. "I'd clean my shoes off later, Ron." She said with the smallest bit of content in her voice. Harry looked away, at his plate, the food swimming on it in a thick gravy. He felt sick.

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TBC