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a random outtake of something I'm writing
It's from the wrong person's perspective, so it's not really an outtake so much as an alternate scene. It's Harry Potter, hardly ficlet-sized. Post-Voldemort is all the backstory you need.
Harry's been wounded too many times before to wonder if he'd bleed magic along with the drops or trickles or oozes of scarlet. But he wonders if that would be different now, if the feeling just under his skin of being fairly made of magic means the next time someone opens a vein, he'll bleed sparkling rivers of green or yellow that smell like ozone and turn bandages into butterflies.
He's almost afraid to find out. What if that sort of thing doesn't clot? If breaking his skin is as good as a finite incantatem, if he'll just fade and evaporate away, doing what five poisoned meals, a hundred avada kedavras, and a thousand dodged jinxes haven't managed. A fair lifetime of days he's wished it away, so hard some nights his eyes prickled with dried tears in the morning, for a reprieve or explanation or justification of this thing that destroyed his life, then gave it back again at the price of countless others'.
And saved worlds more, Hermione says in his head. Harry doesn't know if she's still alive, or still holds with that sentiment after burying Ron.
But when the jagged edge of a dropped ceramic mug slices into the soft flesh of his palm between thumb and forefinger, and it's the same glossy red as the first time he remembers seeing it bloom on his broken skin, it's all Harry can do not to give a shout of joy.
At least that, he thinks, and looks up at Remus, who is squeezing Harry's hand with a handkerchief, asking if Harry's all right. His grip falters when Harry smiles, but he just tells Harry to keep pressure on it, that he'll get some salve - not his wand, Harry still can't manage magic being done around him without chills down his spine and queasiness slicing through his belly - and leaves Harry sitting on the kitchen floor.
When Remus comes back with a warm, wet cloth and starts dabbing at Harry's wound, he's calmer and doesn't say anything else but glances covertly at Harry as he gently cleans between Harry's fingers. Harry thinks he can see relief and understanding in Remus' hazel eyes, amber-gold when they catch the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the small window above the sink. Harry leans his forehead against Remus' shoulder and, his elation having passed, muffles his first sob into the grayed fabric of robes there.
Harry's been wounded too many times before to wonder if he'd bleed magic along with the drops or trickles or oozes of scarlet. But he wonders if that would be different now, if the feeling just under his skin of being fairly made of magic means the next time someone opens a vein, he'll bleed sparkling rivers of green or yellow that smell like ozone and turn bandages into butterflies.
He's almost afraid to find out. What if that sort of thing doesn't clot? If breaking his skin is as good as a finite incantatem, if he'll just fade and evaporate away, doing what five poisoned meals, a hundred avada kedavras, and a thousand dodged jinxes haven't managed. A fair lifetime of days he's wished it away, so hard some nights his eyes prickled with dried tears in the morning, for a reprieve or explanation or justification of this thing that destroyed his life, then gave it back again at the price of countless others'.
And saved worlds more, Hermione says in his head. Harry doesn't know if she's still alive, or still holds with that sentiment after burying Ron.
But when the jagged edge of a dropped ceramic mug slices into the soft flesh of his palm between thumb and forefinger, and it's the same glossy red as the first time he remembers seeing it bloom on his broken skin, it's all Harry can do not to give a shout of joy.
At least that, he thinks, and looks up at Remus, who is squeezing Harry's hand with a handkerchief, asking if Harry's all right. His grip falters when Harry smiles, but he just tells Harry to keep pressure on it, that he'll get some salve - not his wand, Harry still can't manage magic being done around him without chills down his spine and queasiness slicing through his belly - and leaves Harry sitting on the kitchen floor.
When Remus comes back with a warm, wet cloth and starts dabbing at Harry's wound, he's calmer and doesn't say anything else but glances covertly at Harry as he gently cleans between Harry's fingers. Harry thinks he can see relief and understanding in Remus' hazel eyes, amber-gold when they catch the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the small window above the sink. Harry leans his forehead against Remus' shoulder and, his elation having passed, muffles his first sob into the grayed fabric of robes there.
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