Melancholia | Drarry

jagged edge of misery

The vinyl crackles for what feels to be the last time. Harry sits on the edge of his bed, tears streaming down his face. The soft piano, Billie Holiday's gentle vocals, evokes memories of countless candlelit evenings, Draco's arms around his neck, head resting on his shoulder.

Harry lets out a broken sob, clutching his shoulders. This wasn't how their great adventure was supposed to end, with a drunken argument and a void instead of a goodbye. "How could you leave me?" He whispers, but Draco is too far away to hear, too oblivious and cruel. How can the hands that held him in the dark push him to the ground? How can the lips that brushed over every inch of his skin tear him apart so?

"Blue moon...you saw me standing alone, without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own."

The voice from the record player reminds him of Draco's when he sung this song, just under his breath, an octave lower. Harry abruptly takes the needle off, presses the stop button. Relief will come. Relief will come.

He takes the pills, and artificial exhaustion overcomes him, soaking like shadow into his eyes. Harry leaves the top button of his red silk pajamas undone, crawling into bed just as sleep dims his mind.

Relief will come, and it does, in the shape of two people. One of them drums his fingers on the steering wheel, humming some tuneless melody as they drive along in a white van filled with equipment. His colleague, a young woman whose Doc Martens are propped up on the dashboard, makes a noise of annoyance.

"Can you shut up? I'm too tired for that shit."

"I thought late night jobs were your forte," The young man replies, running a hand through his auburn curls.

"Singing's obviously not your forte," She snaps back, talking around a cherry lollipop. "You're making my ears bleed."

"Humming is not singing, Pansy dear."

"Technicalities. Hey. Hey, hey," says Pansy, rapidly thwacking her colleague's arm. "There it is."

"First of all, ow. Second, yes, I see it," The young man grumbles, and turns the wheel with one hand.

It takes quite a bit of time and hassle to lug the computer, the monitor, the cooler, and the electrode helmet, perched on the man's head, all the way up to Harry Potter's apartment. Pansy is panting when she unlocks the door, lugging a dolly with most of their equipment. "Jesus fuck," She proclaims, flopping onto an armchair in the living room.

"Language," The man chides. "There are young ears nearby."

"Fuck off, Justin." Pansy glances at Harry, fast asleep, round glasses still on his face. "Isn't he, like, fifty?"

"Thirty-six," Justin corrects. He leans over, takes off the glasses, and sets them on the nightstand before starting to set up all the equipment.

"What respectable thirty-six-year-old sleeps on a pullout couch?" Pansy scoffs.

Justin raises an eyebrow as the glow of the monitor turns his bronze skin pale. "Don't you sleep on a pullout couch?"

Pansy tosses her hair over her shoulder, though it's not long enough to have the desired effect. "I have ten years to catch up."

"Whatever you say." Justin leans over Harry again, slipping the electrode helmet over his head, then plugging it into the extension cord. "Pansy, make yourself useful, won't you? Check the CPU while I'm setting this up."