Melancholia | Drarry

forget-me-nots

Dawn comes with a scorching headache and the deadening promise of another dreary day. Harry curses himself for drinking, because the pain can't be anything other than a hangover, and tumbles out of bed. He strips off the sweat-damp red pajamas, ignores the dirty dishes in the sink, and briefly wonders at the faint scent of weed before heading out the door.

The gouge in the Toyota. Red, pink, and white reminders of a stupid, pointless holiday. There's plenty to send Harry into a funk, but the remedy isn't something he's tried before - ditching work to take a train out to Montauk. He scribbles and doodles in his journal for the first time in years on the steps of an old, peeling-paint beach house.

A pink-haired boy stands on the cold beach, watching the slate-colored waves melt against the shore.

The café. The train.

"I'm Draco. I saw you earlier."

Swift words, uneasy but beautiful eyes. Strangers' reunion on the streets of Ashfell. Draco meeting his gaze in the rearview mirror.

"I'd like you to call me."

A new adventure, strolling across ice and looking up at a starry sky. Harry's breathless with the unfamiliarity of it, the warmth of a man next to him, the curve of Draco's lips as he breathes asleep in the passenger seat on the way back from the river.

"Can I come over to yours? To sleep?"

To hell with it. But Harry's smile fades as he spots a girl dressed in black, standing as still as a scarecrow on the sidewalk. When Draco emerges from the apartment, he doesn't notice her, or at least pretends not to. The words they exchange are inaudible through the glass - the girl calls after Draco, who mutters something and shakes his head.

"Do you know her?" Harry asks as Draco opens the car door and tosses his things into the backseat.

"Don't think so." It's an evasive answer, coupled with a thin press of the mouth, but Harry doesn't push the subject.

The silence that accompanies them to Harry's apartment is a strange one. He blushes every time he meets Draco's eyes in the rearview, but for the life of him, Harry cannot understand why. It isn't the first time he's had people over at his apartment. He's not a child, for Pete's sake.

Usually though, those people are either his friends or girls he sleeps with. Harry knows he has no real need to sort Draco into either of those categories, but it also bothers him that neither fit.

"You okay?" Harry asks as they turn onto his street.

"Yes, why?"

"You seem less..." Harry hesitates, almost using the word "chatty." "Talkative than usual."

"Not as much of a chatterbox, you mean," Draco says with a raised eyebrow, but he laughs as Harry shake his head fervently. "I'm just tired, is all." But he doesn't fall back asleep, only leans his head against the window as Harry completes the short drive back.

This morning is part of one of those strange in-between days that come before spring, syrupy sunlight spilling between the low, gray clouds as if willfully ignoring their melancholy. The snow from Valentine's still lingers in thin drifts on bushes and shaded alleys, runoff flowing in gleaming ribbons next to the sidewalk.

The walk from the apartment is a short, biting one - the brightness of the day is deceptive, and the wind blows just as icily as the night before. Harry is eager to get back into his apartment, and he dials the thermostat as soon as he and Draco walk in.