Melancholia | Drarry

any traces of him

Revenge's taste is unbearably bitter in his mouth as Harry wanders aimlessly, briskly through his apartment, filling a black garbage bag with memories. He replays the conversation he had with Dr. Padma Patil over and over in his mind, her voice reverberating within the thin plaster walls.

"To begin the process, you must collect memorabilia related to Draco. Gifts you bought for him, gifts he bought for you..."

The pale green velvet box, holding the silver clasp, disappears into the bag. A makeup palette opened only once. A mug painted with their caricatures. A roaring dragon handmade from copper wire.

"Photos, drawings, any visual records of him..."

Draco posing in front of the Eiffel Tower, leaning against a maple tree, catching snowflakes on his tongue. Pictures of them together, in Ashfell, in Paris, in the towns around England. An amateur charcoal etching of him, only barely capturing his likeness. Polaroids in a green box, of the hidden Draco, dressed in lace, smirking, face half-buried in the sheets. A single photo of the Draco Harry knew in high school, high ponytail pulled back from a disgruntled expression.

"Any of his clothes or possessions..."

A single green leather glove. More dragon sculptures, of wire and glazed clay, handled with care. A toothbrush. A half-full bottle of cologne. A box of red hair dye. A heating pad. A scarf striped in their school colors, green and gold. A green plastic comb.

"Anything related to him at all, really."

Harry is hesitant to get rid of the dozen vinyls of Draco's favorite albums, which will no doubt stand out amidst his own collection of jazz and old pop. He tosses the shoegaze and hard metal but can't bear to part with White Pony.

"We will use these objects to create a map of him in your mind. When you wake, all traces of his existence will be gone from your home, and you'll be completely free of Draco Malfoy."

All this and more did Harry scrape from the corners of his apartment, and fills two bulging, plastic garbage bags. As he stands in the doorway of the apartment, he looks back at the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom. Nothing appears to have changed. But Harry feels it, the emptiness that gnaws at his heart, soon to be replaced by an even wider void.

This is necessary, he tells himself. He doesn't need a photo to imagine Draco, at least having the decently to wear regret as he stands before him. "You did this to me first," Harry spits, though in the real memory, he hadn't spoken aloud. "This is your fault. I'm taking revenge on you. How does that feel?" The phantom Draco does not reply. His silver eyes are filled with glimmering sadness.

At Lockhart, the receptionist, Luna Lovegood, beams up at Harry. Today, her earrings are made of painted clay mushrooms. "Hello, Mr. Potter. How are you this morning?"

"Fine," Harry lies, dropping the heavy bags by the desk. His arms ache terribly. "Can we start?"

"Yes, of course. I'll take you to see Dr. Patil right now." Luna's gaze is compassionate as she stands, a clipboard in hand, and gestures for Harry to follow.

As they navigate the narrow hallway, they encounter a young man with swooping auburn curls, golden-framed glasses, and a white lab coat over his yellow sweater. He stands to the side to let them pass, and says to Luna, "Hey, lovely."

"I'm working," She tuts, flustered as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Mr. Potter." The young man shoots Harry an almost flirty grin in greeting, and he looks away, too knee-deep in his own misery to care.