when it's all over ♤ drarry

chapter//seven

Three weeks passed, and Harry had given up on trying to talk to Draco. He was sick and tired of him ignoring his every move and pretending he didn't exist. His nightmares were more frequent again, and he'd resorted to casting silencing charms on his bed again. He woke up crying more often than he'd like to admit. Sometimes breathing heavily, struggling to get air back into his lungs with every breath. It was becoming something he was growing used to, but not in a good way, not really. 

Everything was flipped around one night, eight days before December began. Harry had fallen asleep before he cast a silencing charm on his bed. He was exhausted, he hadn't slept the night before and sleep was the only thing he wanted to do. So, he slept. But not peacefully, not a dreamless sleep. It was the opposite. Bodies were everywhere, blood was the only thing he could see, or feel. He felt like he was drowning in it. He couldn't breathe, the blood was filling his lungs. 

He woke up to a shaking shoulder, someone was waking him up. What the hell? Harry's eyes snapped open, and his eyes found blond hair above him, attached to a face, one containing worried silver eyes. Harry scrambled up, instinctively pushing Draco away as he gasped heavily to get more air into his lungs. His cheeks felt wet with tears, god, how had he let the Slytherin find him like this? That was never meant to happen. 

"Harry?" Draco whispered. Harry grabbed his wand and cast a silencing spell over his bed. Draco was already sitting on it, looking at him anxiously. Harry let out a strangled sob and buried his face in his hands. Draco hesitantly reached out to place a hand on Harry's shoulder, but he shrugged it away. No one was supposed to see him like this. He was a brave Gryffindor. But then again, even the bravest people sometimes had to let everything out.

The next thing Harry knew he was reaching for Draco, who was quick to crawl over to the crying boy and take him in his arms. "It's okay," Draco soothed, rubbing Harry's back as he cried into his shoulder. Harry wanted to push him away, yell at him for hurting him and then punch him and kick him while he was down. But, even more than that Harry wanted his comfort, he craved it more than anything else because goddamn it! Harry loved Draco. It was all moving so fast. One moment he hated the bastard and the next all he wanted to do was kiss him.

"I'm so sorry," Harry cried. Draco didn't say anything. The roles were switched now. Last time either of them had cried it had been Draco, clinging to Harry like nothing else mattered. Almost... almost like he was his lifeline. The blond could practically feel the anger radiating off of Harry, more than just the sadness. It was almost overwhelming, the blond felt as though he could drown in the emotion coming off of him.

In fact, a flurry of emotions was sweeping through Harry, though he barely noticed them. What he did notice was the solid structure holding him, rubbing his back in small circles while whispering soothing things in his ear.  Harry wanted to thank him until he could speak anymore, while at the same time he wanted to yell at him until his voice gave way with one final shout, before collapsing in a heap of tears. 

He wanted to leave for America once and for all, leaving everything here behind him. He wanted to start a new life and build it for himself, away from the watchful eye of wizards who knew his name better than their own. But at the same time he felt as though, even after everything, he couldn't leave Draco. He could take him along, build up a new life with him rather than his own sorrow and pitiful words, the only thing that seemed to soothe him.

Oh god, his words. He hadn't written since he'd lost his journal, he saw no point in it without that bloody journal, it was special to him. For one, Draco had given it to him. Second, he had started realizing maybe he could do this for a living with that journal. It had boosted his creativity, made him realize that life after this year may not be so bad after all. Maybe he could publish poetry under a fake name, posing as a muggle. It would work, he could make it work. He was desperate enough, isn't that all he needed. Desperation?