What If? -Drarry

Part Two: Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

"Harry, please tell us what's wrong," Hermione said pleadingly, leaning forward in her armchair towards him. It was Christmas Eve, and he sat with Ron and Hermione in their usual place near the fire. The common room was awash with noise and excitement as almost everyone in fourth year and above had stayed at school over the holidays to attend the Yule Ball. He felt cornered as his best friends watched him with worried stares, and fixed his gaze stubbornly on the frayed fabric of the arm of his chair.

"Nothing's wrong. I'm fine."

"No, you're not." Ron said, frustrated. "You haven't been all week. If you'll just tell us, Harry? Is it something we've done?"

"No. You haven't done anything wrong. Look, I appreciate you worrying, but there's no reason to. I'm fine."

"Harry, please,"

He stood abruptly. "I'm going to bed."

The dorm was empty, for which he was grateful. Collapsing onto his bed, he sat up and drew the curtains around himself before turning onto his back and gazing up at the ceiling. How was it possible to feel so much, and yet so little? It was though his feelings had grown slowly, then with a single kiss, had swollen and engulfed him. And now they had been ripped away, and all he had was the hole they left and the pain of their absence.

Potions was the worst of it. They didn't speak, and Draco sat as though he were recoiling from him. The dark circles Harry had glimpsed were no longer visible, but Harry saw the way Draco's hands shook as he wrote in messier-than-usual curly handwriting. He didn't bring Manimi to lessons any more, and his hands were constantly blackened by graphite on the sides, as though he had been rubbing them on pencil marks. Harry didn't know what that meant, but it was unusual for Draco to be untidy or unkempt in any way. Dully, Harry wondered if he should start thinking of him as Malfoy now, but, as with most things, couldn't bring himself to care.

Sleep came easy, but the dreams were hard. Sometimes anxious - running from unseen people and trying locked doors; sometimes gut wrenching; and sometimes scenes in the Malfoy guest room that made him turn red when he recalled them in the morning. And always was the nauseous feeling of loss and sadness, which had permeated his life, damp and stinking, since that dreadful day exactly one week earlier.

0o0oDraco0o0o

As usual, Draco was crying. It was becoming a habit of his. Weak, hissed his father's voice in his mind. Pathetic. Only children and the feeble-minded cry. Manimi weighed reassuringly on his stomach, her head resting just by his collarbone, but even her presence wasn't enough to calm him down. He kept replaying the moment they had locked eyes, leaning in...

But what could he have done? Visions of Harry being turned upon by his housemates swirled through Draco's mind, and he shook his head, trying to stop the visions. He couldn't bear the thought of Harry being hurt because of him. And yet, Harry's distraught words continued to come back to him –"You are hurting me!" Tears leaked into his hair and he reached up to wipe them away, and then changed his mind. There was no point wiping them away when they would be replaced in seconds.

He let out a breath with a gasp and reached for it again, but couldn't catch it. His windpipe was closing up as it did when he got really upset. Panic, his father's voice jeered, is yet another attribute of people too weak to change their predicament.