~ Drarry Oneshots ~

Bloom From Blood

Because who isn't a sucker for Soulmate AUs.

:After the age of 18, flowers grow in the place of your soulmate's injuries.

PS. To all those who wanted a part. 2 for the last chapter: seeing as you all asked so nicely, I'll see what I can do (; (but no promises)

Edit: I'm going to have to ask that everyone just ignores, pretty much, the entire timeline that this might be relevant to. Like, seriously, just turn away from it and enjoy this instead.

Harry's POV

My mind was stained red with blood. Blood in the water that logged the floor, tinged a mockingly-bright pink. Blood on the sink, seeping from his hands before he had even hit the floor. Blood that bloomed through his shirt, strangling its usual crisp whiteness.

Blood that dripped from his lips as he screamed silently over Severus' shoulder. Blood that I had drawn.

It was that single thought that made my body shake and voice choke. That made the tears down my face sting. That haunted me beyond belief.

Even in the early hours of dawn, hours after I had received a note telling of his survival, I curled in bed, pathetic. What is wrong with me?

My mind scolded me for feeling sorry for myself, while also assuring me that the feeling wasn't self-pity: just burning guilt. Guilt that ate me up from the inside; ripped up my innards and snapped at my ribcage.

My emotions ripped at me until I went numb. This numbness might have been unconciousness, but it felt as though I hadn't slept in years. I knew I probably wouldn't, starting now.

New weight dragged at my body, anchoring me to the bed. Yet, I felt too light to exist. Like someone had decided to decapitate me as punishment in my 'sleep'. And they were right to do so.

Still, I couldn't help but feel for my other arm, making certain that I was still here. It was - albeit feeling coarse and unfamiliar, which could have been my shirt. I let out a choked sigh and lay there for a few seconds longer before finally registering the slick texture my finger came away with.

My brows furrowed and I reached beneath my pillow, searching for my glasses despite my blurred vision. And the strange darkness that shrouded a fraction of one.

I squinted in the morning haze that drifted through the bed curtains, noticing the obstruction between my face and the lenses placed upon it. Battling the invisible hands that gripped my limbs and pulled them downwards, I crept out of bed.

The notion of a Sunday lie-in blessed his roommates as they continued to sleep through the morning; they would no doubt seek fitting punishment for him also, as soon as they found out about the unforgivable he had committed.

They were peaceful and, yet again, I was not. Just a sleepless, rumpled figure reflected in the finger-stained mirror on the wall. A sleepless figure of distorted features and sandpaper skin.

My hands began their routine of trembling again as my feet dragged me towards the mirror, confirming the fears that took root in my heart. The liquid on my fingers had dried, gritty and unwanted beneath my nails, only to be coated again as I traced my cheek.

Trailing through the corner of my mouth and up my cheekbone, a split had formed in my skin. No blood spilled from it, only glistened in the tender flesh beneath it. Skin to the side of it raised like a vein, curving towards the dark flower that bloomed below my left eye. A rose.

no.

With a racing pulse and trembling fingers, a pulled at the unfamiliar texture of my shirt, gasping at both the sight and the pain. I ease the cloth away from the patch of thorns that protruded from my forearm. Several slits streaked the skin, adorning it with the same same fleshy sheen and giving way to the fittingly-coloured blooms that had risen high.