sweetener; drarry

20; sorry can't save me now

TRACK 20
Listen Before I Go
Billie Eilish

🍓

Five minutes. Five minutes on the dot and Harry was being shooed out of the Hospital Wing by a very stern Madam Pomfrey. He hadn't seen Hermione since she excused herself earlier with the throwaway line, "I forgot something." Harry thought it very fishy, though didn't confront her. He had done enough damage as it was, he didn't want his inability to censor himself kickstarting another argument.

With a head full of anxieties about forthcoming conversations with his two dearest friends, Harry begrudgingly trudged back to the Gryffindor Dorms. A fleeting image of Draco, and a surge of electrical anger at what had happened between them, flickered across his mind — though, he wrestled the thought away and focused on feeling sorry for Ron. He would deal with Draco later, if ever, he told himself. The blond was not the centre of the universe, and even if he was, Harry would still choose to ignore him at this point.

However, much like the real centre of the universe, a gravitational force seemed to lull Harry's world gently towards Draco and orbit around him — no matter how long it took, his thoughts would always arrive back at the blond.

After an unusually uneventful (and incredibly long) trek back to the Gryffindor portrait hole, Harry was overcome with an emotion (was it hatred? Relief? Excitement?) after his eyes landed on a familiar piece of parchment stuck over the Fat Lady's mouth. It was addressed to Harry in Draco's beautifully curvaceous handwriting. He plucked it from her once youthful face and barked the correct password so quickly she had to angrily ask him again what it was before she let him climb through. Once inside the Gryffindor Common Room, he dashed up the stairs (narrowly avoiding a very talkative third-year-Gryffindor) and threw himself against the door. He clutched at his wand and flicked it whilst muttering an incantation. With a satisfying click! The door locked itself. Without hesitating to be courteous or careful, Harry ripped open the parchment and began reading. His eyes flickered side to side so quickly anyone would've thought he was having a seizure.

"Dearest Harry,

I love the sky. Especially when the sun is low and overcasts everything in a swathe of gold, even more so when the moon kisses the horizon and paints it a self assured silver. I love the sea as it glistens in the morning sun and churns in the powerful arms of a storm. I love forests for the peaceful haze that lurks in every corner and the smell of sodden trees. I love everything Mother Nature has gifted this planet.

Except for one of those so-called presents.

When Mother Nature made man, I can only assume she mistook some of the ingredients: for instead of accepting, kind and loyal humans, she created deceitful, hate-filled parasites. I cannot say much, for I am one of these parasites myself. But at least I have the dignity to right the wrongdoing that was my birth. Along with my conception, all I have brought with me is more hurt. My mother yearns for a daughter, but would rather hang by her toes than have a feminine son. My father wills for a confident successor, but would rather beat me to a pulp than present me with any of his riches. My friends want me to get better, but would rather sit and watch me starve than bring anything to light. And you, my supposed knight in shining armour, wish to burrow into my head and unfold everything inside, but would rather fuck me over than fight alongside me.

I shouldn't blame others for the demons crawling inside me, but that doesn't mean I won't.

Handling my parents disappointment was manageable after so many years practice. Ignoring my friend's increasingly unbothered attempts to help me was like neglecting to notice the smudge on an otherwise perfect mirror. It was all so very easy to overcome these cumbersome challenges.
Until you showed up.

When you lumbered into my life, bringing with you a wave of affection and acceptance, I felt as though for once in my miserable existence I finally had someone who could help. Someone who, unlike the rest, genuinely cared for me. I felt myself getting better (not only physically but mentally, too).

And then you hit me. And my world fell apart.

I know it was an accident, that you were blinded by a rage so terrifying to me I could've cried, but that doesn't mean you didn't do it. Call me soft, call me a wuss, but I can't be built up so high only to be brought back down so hard. I hope Ron is okay — he's a fucking pauper, but he doesn't deserve to die — and I hope you'll forgive me for what I am about to do.

I won't outright say it, but this world no longer needs me — it never really did. No one will care, I doubt I'll even have a funeral (if only to make my parents seem honourable). Still, I don't blame you for this. It has been predetermined for as long as time. Draco Lucius Malfoy was always going to end up killing himself. There's no way around it. There's no way to change it. Though before I go I will take back what was once mine, before it was tainted by you and your memory.

I loved you Harry, I still do. I cherish the moments we shared together before my broken head ruined everything. I will always love just you, even if those feelings are not reciprocated.

I'm sorry, but sorry can't save me now.

Love,
Draco"

A tear spattered onto Draco's signature, a tear from a wide eye — void of any emotion other than 'oh fuck.' Harry couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't breathe. It was like an elastic band had connected to each side of his skull and was stretching back his brain, leaving him unable to function. Then, as if someone had released the band and mangled his brain back to its usual spot, adrenaline thundered through his veins and took control.

Draco. What once was mine. Janitor's closet. Fast.

Harry set off at an Olympic worthy speed, ears roaring so loudly with blood he couldn't hear the professors screaming his name or calls from respectable house mates. One corner turned. Faster. Straight corridor, hurry up! Another corner, narrowly dodged first year. Faster! Running, running, running, stop! The Janitor's closet was before him, eerily familiar and yet teeming with a sense of future peril. The smell of curdled blood and broken dreams marched up Harry's nose and the brunet thought he heard a crow squawk — though neither registered in his thumping mind. Both omens of death, this he knew, but who could think of such a thing in this situation. Who could think at all?

He edged towards the door, outstretching a shaking hand. It closed around the cool metal of the door handle and seemingly conjoined to its smooth surface. He felt as though he was stuck, he could obviously move if he wanted but then again he didn't. It was an illusion, a trick of the mind. In his head he was conjoined to this doorknob.

In the split second before he opened the door and his life changed forever, he noticed the cracks and crevices in his hands. The rifts and callouses only a lifetime of pain could bestow. These hands had followed him through childhood (though his could barely be classed as one) and had served him well. They had fished Draco out of the frozen lake, but had also been used as weapons against the boy. What a strange thing to focus on, standing on the brink of insanity. His spiking anxiety calmed, though so subtly it barely counted for anything.

He turned the handle.