wook77 | a ficlet for your enjoyment

First - if you haven't already - please to be clicking my ticky boxes HERE.

Second - I shan't be pimping the below for a bit as I'm unsure of it. This ficlet was written for the

picfor1000 challenge. I picked spring and received this photo. The challenge was for the pic to serve as inspiration - be it the title, a main feature or or a starting point. The catch is that the ficlet must be exactly 1000 words.

I have no idea where this came from, I saw the picture and went angst and madness. Maybe I should've picked a different season. So, please to be telling me honest opinion of what you think. Seriously, be as brutally honest as you'd like (do avoid flaming, please). It took me about a half hour to write it, so I'm not too attached to it, although I really do like it for some odd reason.

Details:

Title: White
Pairing: Harry and Draco
Wordcount: 1000 words exactly
Warnings: mild violence, angst
Excerpt in lieu of a summary: Shuddering at the thought, Draco paced eight steps from the door to the window. Four back across to the center of the room, three steps to the one wall, six to the other. Three back to the center, four to the door, eight to the window. As he paced, Draco talked to Harry, asking him how the weather was, if he ever dreamed of flying or playing Quidditch, if it was white where he was.

The white on white was beginning to wear on him; sheets - white, coverlet - white, walls - white, monitors - white, attendants - white, skin - white, hair - white. It was the white of the hair that scared him more than anything. He wasn't supposed to have white hair; it was a dark brown that glistened in the sun, matching the brown glint in his eyes.

There was no color anywhere in the room except for the small blue mug of red geraniums he'd placed in the dappled white light of the sun. It wasn't that Harry would ever see them; it'd been months since the last time he'd opened his eyes.

Stress. That's what the Mediwitches and Mediwizards all said. It was the stress of the battle, the stress of the defeat of the Dark Lord. That's why his hair turned white. That's why he'd collapsed. That's why Draco was forced to pace, from one white wall to the other, from the white door to the white window, across a white floor while wearing the white overcoat forced upon him.

Draco had thought that the splash of color would cheer the room, relieve a bit of the monotony and boredom from it. Hell, he'd thought that it would make it easier, more comfortable, to be in the room as Harry decayed before Draco's eyes.

Instead, that spot of color only reinforced that his white sheets and his white hospital gown trapped Harry in a white prison. Draco briefly wondered if it was white where Harry's mind and soul were. It would be wretched if they were all stuck within that white prison. Harry deserved color, he deserved garish Gryffindor red and gold, he deserved Slytherin green and silver. He deserved more than this, this, whiteness.

Shuddering at the thought, Draco paced eight steps from the door to the window. Four back across to the center of the room, three steps to the one wall, six to the other. Three back to the center, four to the door, eight to the window. As he paced, Draco talked to Harry, asking him how the weather was, if he ever dreamed of flying or playing Quidditch, if it was white where he was.

The mug mocked him, Draco would swear by it. Everyday, Draco came by and the red flowers with the blue mug sat there, centered on the white windowsill. The flowers merely sat there, day after day, in that mug. Draco had no idea how they were sustained, who watered them or if they even needed watered. They were an impulse and now they were a regret.

For a brief minute, Draco wished that he could open the window and scream to the world going about its business below that their Hero, their sodding martyred Hero was still alive, goddamnit and how the sodding hell could they go on like they did. Nevertheless, he didn't and he wouldn't, he was far too much of a gentleman and, more importantly, Harry would hate it. What if Harry chose that moment to open his eyes and look at him? Harry would be terribly disappointed in him and, despite their school years, Draco didn't want Harry disappointed for anything.

Another eight steps and Draco was back at the door. Four more steps across the floor and then two back and he stood beside Harry's bed.

"I'm leaving now, Harry. I'll be back tomorrow." Draco wasn't sure why he said goodbye; it wasn't like Harry ever acted like he heard Draco. Still, it was manners to say goodbye and so Draco did. As he turned away, a flutter of movement caught the corner of his eye. Snapping back to look at the bed, Draco waited for something, anything to happen. He willed Harry to move, to open his eyes, to damn him to hell, anything at all instead of this dreadful silence in this dreadful white nothingness.

That was the problem with the room. Finally, Draco realized why the room was so very wrong for Harry Sodding Potter to rot in. The nothingness, the blankness, it was like everyone had given up, including Harry. Those geraniums bothered Draco because they meant that he'd refused to give up on Harry.

Why the bloody hell had Draco brought Harry Bloody Potter otherwise known as the Git-Who-Wouldn't-Bugger-Off-And-Die flowers? With a snarl, Draco stalked two steps up and four across until he reached the flowers and hurled them across the room. The smear of brown across the door, the shattered blue and red and green across the floor made the room seem more vibrant instead of the nothingness.

A frustrated roar of rage burst out as Draco stalked eight steps and stomped his foot, over and over, onto those shards. He continued to yell and curse and roar as he crushed down on them, again and again. The banging at the door, the cries from the orderlies and attendants were drowned out by the emotion within the room.

"Fucking Potter! Goddamn you to hell and back! Why won't you fucking die! You killed Him now sod off and DIE!" Draco pulled back his fist before punching that smear of brown. Pain burst across his hand but he pulled back and hit the door again. Soon, red colored the brown, dripping down the door.

"Sod off and die, you speccy git! Why did you make me bring you these feckin' flowers?!"

Rage spent, Draco collapsed until he sat surrounded by the greens, reds, browns and blues. The white coat indelibly stained with the colors of his rage, he leaned forward until he lay, knees to his chest, on the shards of pottery from the blue mug that had taunted him so.

Draco didn't feel the tears on his cheeks or the blood on his hand as he reached it up to cup his head. Eventually, the door burst open and he was rushed out for care. Harry didn't see anything as he continued to lie in the bed, four paces into that white room.