sweetener; drarry

18; we can work it out

TRACK 18
We Can Work It Out
The Beatles

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Words could not describe the mounting guilt that settled in Harry's stomach and ached through his limbs. There were no metaphors, no simile's, to accurately portray the self hatred that pulsed in his chest like a second heart as he stared down at one of the two people he had hurt today. Harry brushed his bangs away from his eyes — now swimming in tears that threatened to flood his cheeks — and cusped one of Ron's hands in both of his own. It wasn't much, but it was the least he felt he could do.

Much like with Draco, there was nobody else in the Hospital Wing to disrupt Harry's remorse. He knew what was to come, he would be expelled and lose everything he ever had. The fingers he had used to grip onto this new life and cherish it would quickly be pried off as everyone he ever loved shot him disappointed, hateful glares. He knew he deserved it, encouraged it almost — simply to see if it would alleviate the guilt.

No. Nothing would ever wipe that terrified expression off of Draco's eyes.

How had he come to think of Draco at such a time? Ron was right there before him (battered, bruised and scared), and yet the brunet's mind trudged to the boy who thought he had found someone who would obscure him from pain — only to be viciously proven wrong.

The pool of dismay that flooded Harry's senses was soon pushed aside as a flustered and absolutely terrified looking Hermione burst through the huge, front door. Her bushy hair, messy as ever, streamed behind her as she ran. Another pang of regret coursed through Harry as he saw how afraid she was. She stopped just short of running through Ron's bed, hungry eyes stealing a long glance up the ginger's body — no doubt checking for any magical wounds that could be fatal. She froze when she saw none.

As Hermione's eyes landed on Ron's face, Harry couldn't help but look away. In the quick seconds he had seen her face before turning, her eyes glazed over and worry aged her face by a good few years. Her entire demeanour transformed to a broken thing, something that could be fixed but would never forget what had happened.

Harry, Hermione and Ron were a family — mismatching and sometimes dysfunctional, but a family nonetheless — and he had ruined that. It was his fault, for what was to come, for the tears and arguments. It was his fault. He couldn't even think of Draco now.

"What happened, Harry?" The words were small to start, far away and not fully registered. Then they came again, louder but still ignored. It wasn't until Hermione touched Harry's shoulder and turned him herself, sitting in the empty seat beside him with a concerned expression, that he listened. "What happened?" She asked tenderly. Harry looked confused for a moment, before realising she didn't know. Of course she didn't, how could she?

He stole one last glance at her face (soft, loving, pitiful and sad) before staring at his hands and inhaling heavily.

"It was my fault," he paused, and when she didn't answer he spoke again in rushed sentences that merged together, "I'm so sorry, Hermione, it's just—he wound me up and he wouldn't stop poking and poking so I exploded! I'm so sorry. I couldn't stop—"
"What did you do?" The way she said it, hesitantly, almost afraid. All tenderness had quickly escaped her expression. It broke Harry.
"I hit him, a lot. I swear I didn't mean to I just couldn't—" Smack! Hermione's opened hand collided with Harry's cheek, sending his head to the side and causing his eyes to open wide. The place were she had hit him burned and shone red.

He turned back to her, eyes wide and mouth ajar. She was angry, angrier than he had ever seen her. Her eyebrows were knitted together tightly, nose scrunched up and eyes full of hateful tears.
"Hit me again." He spoke without fully realising what he was saying, as if it was an impulse of his raw thoughts. Fuhwack! She did exactly as he asked, this time harder than before and with much more force behind it.

It did not accomplish what he thought it would. He deserved more pain, a full and proper beating. He knew Hermione would never attack him as he had Ron, but he felt as though she should've.

He wasn't fully aware that Hermione was softly drumming on his chest, hitting him over and over with the side of her first, until he snapped out of his thoughts and faced her. She wasn't hurting him — this they both knew — but as she hit him (her head pressed against his shoulder and tears seeping through his shirt) something unspoken passed between them. She stopped fighting, covering her face with her hands and crying into Harry's chest. He knew she would never forgive him, but she seemed to drain of anger — which was somehow worse.

Some time passed. It could've been a minute, an hour, a year — nobody was checking. Madam Pomfrey arrived at the end of Ron's bed, bearing some water and a tray of food. Her face was somber, gazing over the ginger and then at his company.
"He's unconscious, as you both know," she spoke soberly, "I'm not fully aware of what spell has hit him to hurt him so." The end of her sentence flicked up, turning it into a question. Neither Hermione nor Harry spoke, they were too focused on staring at Ron's rising and falling chest. Harry could've killed him, so they were both relieved to see him breathing steadily.

"Do either of you two know what happened to him?" Madam Pomfrey's voice rang through Harry's head. Her tone betrayed her face, Harry thought that she must know what caused these inflictions. Maybe not who, but she has to know how.

The brunet opened his mouth to confess. To increase the damage to his life with each guilty word that left his throat. To throw away each and every chance he had of staying at Hogwarts, his first and only true home. He closed his eyes, beginning to speak,
"I—"
"I fell down the stairs. Merlin knows how I didn't break a bone." Ron spoke over Harry, shooting his most honest expression at Pomfrey. The ginger then turned to face Harry, flashing a weak smile. Madam Pomfrey didn't seem convinced, though upon seeing the fleeting look pass between the two boys, she settled and left them to it.
"I want you two out in five minutes so I can check his vitals!" She called from her spot behind the curtains to both Harry and Hermione.

"Ron, why did you—"
"You're still my best friend, mate, I'd do anything to save your neck." Ron cut across Harry, shaking his head softly before stopping that motion as pain flashed across his face.
"You shouldn't have, seriously, I deserve to be thrown out right this sec—"
"And you will be if you keep hanging around Malfoy. That fucker is nothing good, so stay away from him. You owe me that." Ron said with such finalisation Harry couldn't respond. Anger fluttered through him but quickly left again. He could understand why Ron felt the way he did. Draco had bullied him and Hermione for nearly all of their time at Hogwarts. He was racist to Hermione and downright disgusting to Ron. It was also because of Draco that Ron was in the Hospital Wing, for Harry wouldn't have exploded had he not insulted Malfoy.

Harry still felt pity for the blond. He couldn't expel the tenderness he had grown over the boy. He couldn't forget the two times they had kissed, but he realised now that Draco was more harm than good.

Some people just can't be fixed.

AN: the song doesn't really match but i couldn't find a good one and i really wanted to get this outttttt!!1!1!! please vote and comment or whatever!!1!1!!1!!