sparks~drarry

Watercolors and Bloodstains

Description: A soulmate AU in which whatever you write on your arm shows up on their arm, and Harry is an artist who paints best with watercolors (Harry's AU)

Warnings: suicidal actions

Song: Same Thing by Marian Hill

Notes: I don't think I'm going to add the songs as an attachment anymore, but rather just list them before the oneshot. What do you think?

Length: 2k words

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Harry's POV

The Gryffindor common room is cold without the company of my friends. Dean and Seamus are probably making out somewhere in the castle, Neville is hidden away with a growling rose he named Bert, and Ron is with Hermione down by the Black Lake, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a lone firefly that flickers ever so often by the window,  orange and lonely with its dying light.

A paintbrush tinted pink with watercolors glides delicately across my skin, barely showing up against the darkness. But from what I can gouge from the short letters I receive from my soulmate on the expanse of my wrist, they can perfectly see the pale colors I paint.

The feather forms slowly, and I smile slightly as I place my paintbrush down. It is designed as a peacock's feather, but the colors are switched, revealing one toned with bright reds, cool purples, fiery oranges, and pale pinks.

Beautiful, scripts its way across my palm, and I smile. Their handwriting can only be described as soft and curving, like the tip of a candle's flame, written with blue ink so dark it's almost black, but not quite. I never respond to their letters with words, but rather with pictures that spawn from ones of oil paints to ones made of ink in the midst of class.

Sometimes, I notice others receiving notes from their soulmates during class. Ron, who goes red as a beat, Luna, who smiles faintly before writing back, Pansy, who tries to hide her smile behind a dark sleeve, and then there is Draco, with his sunset blush and satin-soft smile. Oh, that beautiful smile. Curved from lips as red as the Harvest Moon, a bloody yet elegant slash against skin as white as moonlight. It catches my gaze whenever I take glance in his direction, and sometimes, I can't help but wonder. What if he is my soulmate? But alas, no. I suppose that spot is reserved for some Slytherin girl with golden curls and a quick smile.

I know the soulmates of a lot of people. It is obvious, really - how does Padma not realize the blocky letters on her arms belong to Ron? How has Ginny not realized the cursive on her fingers is Luna's? How does Hermione not know that the green ink that always appears on her wrists are unique to Pansy Parkinson? And how the bloody Hell does Dean not know that the tiny sketches of different animals that stretch to his elbows are also on Seamus Finnigan's notes? Or, better yet - how can I not recognize the letters on my wrists and palms? It frustrates me. I want to tell everyone that their soulmates are right in front of their faces, but that ridiculous fear that I may disappoint them or I might be wrong holds me back as if they are iron chains.

"Harry?" I am brought out of my thoughts by a voice from the corridor beyond the boy's quarters. My eyes drift upwards, and they make contact with Neville, who has tears streaking down his face while he holds his wrist in a death grip. I stand and throw down my paintbrush.

"Neville, what's going-"

His lips pressed together in a thin, white line, he marches to me and, I realize with dawning horror, blood paints his hands like red paint.

"I think m-my soulmate h-hurt themselves," he whispers, and burst into tears.

My heart leapt as I grabbed him by the hand and turned over his arm to reveal what seemed like a million slashes, white and pink and red. Neville began to wheeze.