sparks~drarry

The Snowy Eve

Description: a writer, alone in the heart of his mansion, writes a letter to his love before Christmas (Third Person POV)

Warnings: slight sexual content

Song: Let it Snow by Dean Martin
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Third Person POV

     The wind was soft that night, a lover's breath caressing the cheek of the earth. Alone at the heart his mansion, infamous lord and fiction writer Draco Malfoy wrote with looping letters that words of his latest manuscript, his breath escaping rapidly into the cool air of his home. This is what any outsider would see, but you, my friend, are not an outsider. Peer into the depths of those pages and you would not find a story but rather a series of love letters. Love letters to whom, only Draco knew.

Dear Lionhearted,

     The moon has come out to play tonight, a Christmas ornament. It beams in the sky like one of your brilliant smiles that I miss so much. Oh, now everything reminds me of you. That's what happens, isn't it? When you fall in love? I should know. After all, I am the writer of us both. Though you know what they say... you artists can peer into the windows of human souls, whether they are eyes or not.
     Anyway, the poems I long to sing to you are irrelevant tonight. Instead I write to you to tell you of what I am planning to do in the days following up to the Eve of Christmas.
     We have always discussed of how we would like to meet, my sweet, and perhaps we can in just a fortnight. By then, I will be back from my trip to winter kissed London, where, as you know, I plan on rewriting a few holiday classics for you to read once we meet. I know you love those. Though if you are as eager as I, perhaps I can postpone the trip until we meet, and then we can sail to the land of the old gods together. You can paint the skyline, while I write just and only for you.
     My point was not to talk of my gift to you, which was intended to be a surprise but you know very well that I can't withhold secrets from you very long. I mean to discuss the means of how we will meet. I know that you would like for it to be a gilded affair, but I am afraid, my dear, that I would much prefer to cling to you somewhere honeyed, such as your bedroom. You know how much I long to make you say my name so sweetly. We have done so before, but only in my most wondrous dreams. In those dreams, you always wear a blue velvet jacket, and nothing else. We meet in gardens; there, we make love beneath a rose bush, which is almost always a different color. After we shared that most scandalous letter in August, I dreamt that the roses were white. Surprisingly, that was the first time they were such a shade. Ivory is so lovely, don't you think? Disregarding your dignity, it is a gossamer wish of mine that you will be wearing white when we meet.
     I have reserved a place at Paris's most splendid restaurant for the both of us on the Eve of Christmas. I told them we were going to speak of the king's private business, so they will give us a private room. You can thank me and my vivid writer's imagination. Afterwards, I was wondering whether we could stroll along the streets until we find a suitable hotel. There is a wonderful one on the main street, a palace for a prince like you. Though, not quite as literally. There we may enjoy the pleasures that we never get to enjoy while only exchanging letters. Though these letters are one of the most marvelous things in my life, I won't be able to go without seeing your face for much longer.
     The next morning, I reserved a place for us at the tiniest café that serves only best pastries and eggnog. I would love for us to head towards my apartment after, where I can show you my collection of books and the Italian paints I bought especially for you. Then we may head to London, if you desire a change of plans on my part. There we may frequent their best attractions, and there we may enjoy our crafts.
     I have always wanted to watch you paint, my love. Your feather fingers and the way you hold your paint brushes must be sensual in ways I can only imagine. You'd be surprised by my patience, watching something so beautiful. I'm not only referring to the painting.
     By the time I have almost completed this letter, it is late in the night. The sky looks like the velvet on my dream version of you's torso. The stars have shifted, and the wind has become to howl. Is that howl rude, do you think, or is it sexual? What a silly thing for me to say. But you know, I am always thinking of these kinds of things. Not sex, of course, but the humanity within nature. Maybe sex, actually, but only with you. I am beginning to think the wind is neither, not rude or sexual, and certainly not angry or sorrowful or in mourning. Instead, it is fierce, like you and your spirit.
     I yearn to see you and your lovely face in two weeks time, and I do hope that you show up on time, even if your letters, you say that you are always late.