d r a c o
Draco was staring at the sky. He had been standing there in his bedroom, staring, for at least thirty minutes now. His forearms were starting to cramp from where his hands rested against the windowsill.
He sighed heavily, and moved to lie down on his bed. He decided to count to one hundred before he would allow himself to look at the sky again.
He had recently gone furniture shopping, so his room was fuller than he had become used to. He had given himself one day to expend his energy: one day to get everything he needed, before he was allowed to shut himself in here again. His haul had included a bed frame, two nightstands and a couch for the living room. He had thrown in several desk lamps too, and liked to leave them all switched on, along with the overhead lighting.
He was quite impressed with himself, to be honest. He didn't have much use for material objects - he never really left his head - but at least his apartment actually looked like someone lived in it now. It looked grown up. Sometimes, he would imagine Belly beside him, head nestled into his neck, one arm across his chest. He liked to imagine it was their apartment, not just his.
When he wasn't living in a world of daydreams, or otherwise feeling sorry for himself, he was overwhelmed with a restless anger.
He was angry at the cards the world had played him; at the life he had ended up with. He was angry at himself - furious - for being so senseless to have left Isobel's side in the war. He was angry at his younger self, too, for forcing something that had always been wrong. If he'd never spoken to her - if he had ignored the constant, overwhelming urges he'd always had to talk to her, to annoy her, to get her attention... If he had never fallen in love with her, and she with him, she might still be alive.
Mostly, right now, he was angry at his mother, who had decided that one year was time enough to move on, and was now trying to organise his marriage to another girl. Was forcing him to meet her, soon. And to buy her stupid flowers that he didn't have a clue about.
He didn't do anything with this anger, of course. Just lay there and let it brew.
A knock on his door pulled him out of his thoughts. "Come in," he said loudly, not moving. The only person that ever knocked on his door was Blaise, who liked to show up without warning every few weeks or so. Most of Draco's friends from school had distanced themselves from him a bit. They seemed to feel uneasy around him, now that he wasn't wearing a mask of snark and contempt. But Blaise had shown an unexpected compassion to Draco's situation, and, somewhat forcefully, had made it his mission to ensure Draco didn't spend all of his time lying in bed.
"Freezing in here," called Blaise, in lieu of a greeting. His footsteps sounded across the living area. "Can I close a window?"
"No," mumbled Draco. But Blaise seemed either not to hear him, or to ignore him, because the sound came of a window clicking shut. The London bumble dimmed to a faint hum.
"Well." Blaise appeared at the door frame. "How are you? Bright in here, mate. Christ." Squinting, he flicked off the lamp closest to him. "Most depressed people like the dark, you know." He wrinkled his nose. "And what is that smell? It's like - burnt sugar -"
Draco rolled his eyes. On the nightstand beside him sat a pink, glass bottle - Isobel's perfume. He motioned towards it. "I think it's caramel."
"Why do you have that?" asked Blaise - then his expression fell. "It was hers?"
Draco lay back, saying nothing. He quite liked the perfume, actually - it wasn't sickly sweet, but a deep, kind of musky smell. Although, he supposed, it could have smelt absolutely terrible and he would still spray it all over his room.
