when it's all over ♤ drarry

chapter//six

Harry woke up alone. Without Draco here the room felt ten times colder, and the sheets of the bed felt like they were five degrees colder than the room. He hadn't expected to wake up alone, he expected Draco to stick with him until morning so they could face the school together. Because what if someone had seen Draco kiss him? It was likely because in a room that full of people who had grown used to the hate between the two of them, it made sense that someone saw them together and thought "What the hell?" And ended up seeing the two kiss.

Harry forced himself out of bed, gathering up his clothes from the previous night. He put them on slowly, as he was still sore from the previous night. He felt his pockets for his journal, a new instinct of his whenever he put on old clothes, but to his dismay, it wasn't in the pockets. Harry's heart skipped a beat, the last thing he had written contained his name. He had figured he'd held onto it this long without any mishap, it would be fine to use his bloody name. But of course, the first time he does, it's gone.

Harry left the Room of Requirement and headed towards his dorm as quickly as he could, maybe Draco was there, maybe he knew where the journal was. When he arrived, it was also empty. He didn't know what he'd do for the day without that journal, he had it with him at all times, that's what he did while the others were in class. And although breakfast was being served right now, he needed it before he could focus on anything else. He sat on his bed and looked around for a moment. Maybe Draco had taken it and put it back here for him to make sure no one found it.

He looked, and he looked and looked, anywhere the blond Slytherin may have put it, but no such luck. He finally just grabbed some clean clothes to change into and was about to go take a shower, but the door to the dorms opened and Zabini stepped inside, shutting it behind him. Oh Merlin, no, what if he had been the one to see them? "Potter," he greeted coldly.

"Zabini," Harry replied, nodding his head. He stepped away from the door and walked over to Harry, his face void of any emotion, which made Harry's stomach twist.

"I know what happened. I may not have been the best person to Draco, but that doesn't stop him from telling me things he can't tell anyone else. Be careful with him, Potter, he's more breakable than you think. Let things run their course and be patient, don't rush things. I don't like whatever is going on between you two, not at all. But I respect Draco enough to trust him. If you hurt him, I'll chop you up and send you off to Romania as dragon food. Be careful, Potter." Zabini nodded his head once as a sign of respect and left, leaving Harry dumbfounded.

Harry dwelled on his words while he showered, taking his time in cleaning himself. He hoped his friends wouldn't ask any questions or make any assumptions, he didn't think he could face those today. Or ever, if they wanted answers Harry didn't want to give them. Harry left the castle afterward, deciding he could just talk to Draco tonight and make sure he didn't feel pressured into talking to him during the day when anyone could see.

The lake was always incredibly pretty in the morning light, the sunrise painting the waters with scarlet and rose and violet hues, there seemed to be no ripples. Maybe everything in the lake also slept at night, and that's why it was so peaceful in the morning. Harry sat on a rock he usually was perched on, wishing he had his journal. The only things in his journal not involving the blond Slytherin were all imagery, generally the lake or sky at dusk and dawn. He loved the way the sky was painted with what appeared to be a million different shades of the same colors, and he loved it.

One night, he remembered it vividly, Draco was sitting next to the fire with Harry as they had many nights before. Through the windows in the dungeons, through the lake water, they could see the beautiful colors that the sky provided them. Golds, reds, blues, purples. Draco had rested his head on Harry's shoulder, telling him a story that his mother had told him before. He said that every year, three hundred and sixty-five artists died, one a day, and every night they were allowed to pain the sky. They were able to paint the biggest canvas of all. Harry had then proceeded to ask him mornings.