#this is some crisp imagery
He starts feeding the Thestrals with Luna after the war. They bundle themselves up with scarves and heavy coats and toss the bloody meat with bloody hands; blood splatter on the pristine snow. Luna doesn’t mind. Draco learns not to, either.
They can all see them now. Dark, skeletal, elegant, quiet. Omens of misfortune.
Then Harry joins them, broody and silent. He blinks at his blood-stained hands. They sit together and watch Luna walk around in her muddy boots, checking on the foals. Their fingers almost touch; blood-stained fingertips on cold snow. It doesn’t feel out of place.
Someday, Draco thinks, when Harry no longer blinks at his bloody hands, when he sits and hears the quietness of the forest all around them—
Spring is coming.
*
Written for @drarrymicrofic: magical creature
