sweetener; drarry

14; chapped-lips chilly

TRACK 14
Misery
The Beatles

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Sitting by the fire in the Gryffindor Common Room was mind numbingly boring with neither Ron nor Hermione to spice things up. Harry was alone, and he knew he'd put it on himself, but he couldn't help feeling betrayed and wrongly accused. Why were they so interested in his private business anyway? Sure, they were his best friends, but that didn't mean they had access to every, single aspect of his brain and thoughts. If anything, being so close with Harry must've told both Ron and Hermione by now that he was stubborn and if he didn't want to tell you something; you most definitely were not going to hear it.

Still, it bothered Harry that he felt a smidgen of remorse. It irked him even more that he felt the need to hunt them down and apologise. The entire trio were stubborn as rocks and somewhat hotheaded, it wasn't a matter of who was right but of who cracked first. Maybe it would do better not to dwell but to make up a reason for his continuous disappearing, then they would at least be on speaking terms again.

Either way, both Ron and Hermione were irritated by Harry's frequent absence and his refusal to explain where he was going. At least they had each other, Harry had no one. They should both know how it feels to be ignored and isolated by the only true friends you have. That just angered Harry even more, there was no way he was apologising now.

Besides, he had much bigger things on his mind. Such as Draco's fleeting kiss, Harry just couldn't keep that confusing moment from replaying over and over again in his head. For every one thought he had about making amends with Ron and Hermione, an influx of images of Draco's sea blue lips placed ever so delicately upon his own — like how one might handle a butterfly, constantly aware of its fragile nature — surrounded and swallowed all other thoughts. Plus, the ever-looming fear of just how skinny Malfoy had become (well done for being so observant, you git!) weighed heavily on his conscious and he just couldn't shake the feeling of how unfair this entire ordeal was.

It was wrong. Disgusting, almost, that Harry had only developed a crush on Draco once he'd found out the boy was subject to constant abuse. Perhaps there had always been a sense of attraction to Malfoy, he was a very good looking boy, but Harry had never acted on those feelings because the blond was an absolute horror to be around. So why had that all changed, just because Draco had a terrible father? That was always common knowledge, but nobody knew the extent of that man's repulsiveness until of late. Maybe it was the universe's cruel way of bringing Harry back down to Earth. His life had been a chaotic mess from day one and the most normal thing to happen to him had been his discovery of the Great Malfoy Crush that had always been nipping at his skin. In a way, this was a blessing. Harry could finally worry about normal teenage things such as crushes and sexual tension. On the other hand, he also had to deal with Draco's obvious eating disorder and history of abuse. It was like a small bit of sweet and a whole lot of sour. That seemed to be how every situation in his life was constructed. A horrible mixture of just a pinch of good with two cups of bad: hey! You're the Chosen One and also a really sick wizard BUT both your parents are dead and nobody really believes you most of the time. Or: every girl fancies the socks off you and you're a moderately attractive guy BUT you're kind of super gay for that pale, blond boy who hates your guts. Have fun with that!

Harry would take battling Death Eaters and finding cursed necklaces over the situation he was currently tangled up in any day. It wasn't an experience he'd ever had to deal with before. Every time he had to complete a seemingly impossible task, he had the aid of his best fiends, his godfather or his teachers at his disposal. Now, he was twined with the knowledge of Draco's declining mental and physical state, and he could think of nothing to do but watch. It didn't help that he literally had no one to turn to. Traversing to his dormitory for no other reason than the space being smaller, Harry acknowledged something: a realisation he had never had the displeasure of experiencing before.

This entire ordeal felt like handling a human grenade. He couldn't act too fast or he'd surely set something off, but if he moved too slow he would run out of time. If he stayed away, he would be forced to watch Draco's downward spiral without the ability to help, but if he kept too close then he would only follow after Draco down the rabbit hole — or at least become heavily mutilated by shrapnel. Whatever he did, he had to do it perfectly, and whilst he sat around in his dormitory rowing in his head: the fuse was shortening and things were getting dangerous.

It was only a matter of time before Draco exploded.

Harry couldn't let that happen. He had vowed to help and help he would, even if Draco pushed every single button on his board and used all the tricks in, around and outside of the book to dishearten him.

The best way to help someone suffering not from an illness or physical adversity but from a plague of the mind was surely to talk it out. The only way to properly speak to someone, unless you are telepathic, is to see them face to face. And that's exactly what Harry intended on doing. He had no idea where Draco was or how to track him down, that is, until he peered out of his dormitory window. The weather had somehow managed to transform from walk-around-with-an-untucked-shirt sunny to a nips-at-your-nose-and-chaps-your-lips chilly in a few short hours. Snow hugged the window-frame and flecks of the stuff sprinkled down on the panes entrancingly. By the lake (that was now frozen over and glistening) stood a shivering figure clad in an outrageously thin looking cloak with no hat or scarf. Harry knew immediately, thanks to the white-blond hair upon the person's head, that he had just found the boy he was looking for.

Hurling his cloak over his shoulders and zipping his Gryffindor scarf effortlessly into one of the many inside pockets of his robes, the brunet beelined straight for the Entrance Hall — either completely unaware of or just choosing to ignore the many enraged professors bellowing at him to get back to class.