Cicatrices- Marks That Remain

Problems

Hello folks! Happy Sunday!

Some notes before chapter start:

While Draco's cleaning (and baking) does have OCD-ish vibes, His actual OCD behaviors are in his door locking. I am not at all implying that the way Draco cleans is OCD. That's simply not how cleaning OCD works. For Draco, cleaning is just a really awful coping mechanism, and his inclination towards Obsessive Compulsive behaviors doesn't make it any better. Mental health is never cut and dry. It is often messy and not exactly to-the-book.

Also! The beginning of this chapter has quite a few POV shifts... sorry. I tried to reduce it but I really couldn't find a way to do it while also giving out the info I want.

Please, let me know what y'all think, and, as always...

Enjoy!

Draco was... quiet today.

Quiet and distant.

Harry wasn't entirely sure what he was expecting, really. They had kissed, yes, for two days, yes. And they had snogged plenty, and he had even let Draco's hands explore his torso, yes, and Harry couldn't stop thinking about him, yes.

But everything was still so fresh and new, and there were still problems in the world. When Harry returned from St. Mungo's and the fiasco with George as well as the Ministry Auror office to discuss the new information that came up, Draco's response to him walking through the front door was a barely present "hello".

Despite having so boldly asked what was on Draco's mind multiple times, that was before... he found he wasn't sure if he could now. How would he react? What if Harry was simply imagining Draco's odd demeanour? Auror Dawlish gave him a grim smile and pulled him aside. Harry hoped that he might have some answers as to why Draco seemed so off. Dawlish spoke about a distant demeanour, an absent appetite, and feverish cleaning. Harry supposed the news about his father, and whether he could provide any clarity on what Harry learned, would need to be put off for now.

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Draco was missing her.

The longing hadn't hit him this hard in at least a couple of months, and he wasn't sure why now, of all times, it came forth as a black sludge and swallowed up every avalible crevice within his chest. It had begun in the night, during one of his many failed attempts to sleep, when a living image of her dead and mangled body blamed him for her death. He spent the evening trying to right his room, rearrange the furniture, do something, anything to wipe these thoughts from his mind. He worked in an anxious frenzy until the effort to move his limbs was akin to trudging through mud, and even then, he found that any attempt to rest was only greeted by her.

Her and her smile, her and her laugh, her and her gentle touches, her and her soft lips, and her and her mangled, bloody, and broken body.

He gave up on distracting himself when he realised that thoughts of her were even permeating his mind while he cleaned, and read recipes, and rearranged and reorganised.

So, by the time Harry walked through the door, he was pulled aside by Dawlish, no doubt to tell him that he'd been ignoring the man all day in favour of mindless, meaningless tasks. Draco simply didn't have it in him to really talk.

Now, he was sitting on the sofa, wearing clothing with heating charms on them (he suspects that if the heat stays broken long enough, someone will be able to force the owner to get it fixed. Hopefully.) and trying to think about the nativity, or the christmas tree, or some book he can read, or some sweet he can make, or the golden light of the day casting through his window, or something. Anything.