Work Text
Harry is a runner. From place to place to place she runs, always
seeking something. That, she never finds.
She doesn’t find her something down Camden market where she spies a bracelet
gold leaf that’s cheap copper painted on,
(she feels that way sometimes)
buys a gold ring to keep. Her hair, shorn curls now, browner than
the roasted chestnuts she picks up at Hyde, watching the birds fly.
She hopes it’s to somewhere warm. She runs into summer, glasses still searching. Her scar
not the one in pain, but her heart,
empty where it seeks that something.
But she does find a someone. A vertical girl with hair that drips down her body
like the sweat that pools down her back. Nails olive, like Harry’s shirt.
She thinks it’s fate.//Draco’s shirt (green and white stripes) goes up
and down, up and down –
a portrait of her life, a messy one at that.
All of the ups and all of the downs, written on her shirt skin
blood,
vertical lines surrounding her, green and white and white and green
vertical lines hemming her in, a prison –
just one of her own making. She gets better. She starts to climb – up and up and
up into the sky, disappearing
into her dreams like the cat who curls by the bins to scavenge, two doors down.
She meets the girl again when she takes the bins out,
not making eye contact when she reaches down to pat the cat.
The empty spaces on her shirt, left for the dead – hollow and bitter and raw egg white –
suddenly look more apparent.But they’re flush now, spaces melding,
a kiss