sweetener; drarry

epilogue

FINAL TRACK
Creep
Radiohead

✖️

Harry's life had been divided into Before and After. Before he had opened the door, Before he had punched Draco, Before he had even met the boy — all memories intertwined and tangled now — he was bound to the title of world's greatest Magician. To defeat Voldemort. To live happily ever after. That was Before, now there is only After.

Draco's suicide rattled Hogwarts to its very core. His tragic demise opened up discussions of mental health and safeguarding — though Harry cared for none of that. He resented Hogwarts for deciding to stitch up the wound when it had already gone septic, and he hated himself for, well, everything.

Harry couldn't sleep, and on the rare occasions that he did, his dreams were plagued with images of Draco — crying, screaming, hanging. He often woke up in pools of his own sweat, shouting until his throat burned red and then compressing into a mound of sobs. He had been diagnosed with a variety of illnesses — panic attacks, PTSD, depression, like picking chocolates out of a heart-shaped box — and the array of pills he swallowed throughout the day did nothing to alleviate his disorders.

Most professors were lenient with him, but when he violently assaulted two Ravenclaw's who had proclaimed "Draco Malfoy deserved to die!" He had definitely pushed the boundaries too far. Over and over and over his fists had driven into those students, shattering noses like lightbulbs beneath his knuckles. That had earned him four new types of medication, one for each of their finger's he'd broken.

He didn't speak much to Hermione or Ron, didn't speak much at all. At first, they had tried to crack through his shell and demand he let them help, but then he'd snapped and screamed some terrible things he instantly regretted. They've stopped prying now.

After. After he met Draco, After he punched the boy, After he opened the door. No memories from Before could pass over into his head now, not without the sickening thought of After lingering in the foreground.

Harry decided to write a letter — though, a response would be more accurate. He wanted to write a response to Draco to see if it could help with the abscess of remorse lodged in his chest. It was written and rewritten over and over (he was up until 5am scrawling in his chicken-scratch handwriting) to the point where his hand ached and cramped. He'd gone through six different pens and twenty eight pieces of parchment. When he was finally finished, his handwriting was barely legible and the content of his letter had digressed to sorrowful ramblings:

Dear Draco,

I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I can't possibly put the thoughts in my head onto paper without it coming out indecent and distorted, but I will try.

To be completely honest, I'm angry. But not at you. I'm angry at myself and I don't think I can ever overcome that. I made so many mistakes whilst trying to help you. I let my emotions and fear of rejection sway the way I approached you. I got hotheaded and aggressive when anybody questioned what I was doing. Instead of being there for you, I sat and gawked at you and made you feel uncomfortable. When you pushed me away, I kept pushing back instead of stepping away and coming up with another solution. I can't fucking express how sorry I am.

It's been hell without you. I never thought I could miss somebody like this. It's like a genuine pain in my chest, like my body doesn't only want to mentally disrupt me but physically too. My body wants me to suffer, and I deserve it. I thought the anger and yearning for my parents was the worst emotions I could feel, but it's hard missing people you've never had a conversation with. I'm supposed to feel something for them. For you, I'm not allowed to. Yet whenever I think about you my throat swells up and I can't breathe and the walls close in. My vision darkens and my eyes want to explode out my head.

Not very poetic or as beautifully put as you could've put it, I know, but my mind is a battlefield right now and it's hard to concentrate.

Basically, I wanted to apologise. And I know it's too late and I know this is fucking pathetic but I never got the chance to write a response to your letter so I'm doing it now. I'm sorry you felt so isolated and I'm sorry I made you feel so shit. I know you probably don't want to hear it and you'd rather hex me as an apology but this is the best I can do. I'm writing as if you're still here, as if I wasn't the sole reason you're not alive anymore. Oh god...it hurts, it hurts so bad i still can't believe you're gone. there's times when i forget and wake up expecting to see you in the halls and get into one of our stupid arguments and poke at each other's chests and physically feel each other and then it hits me like a shit ton of bricks and i realise you're never coming back and it's all my fault

im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry

love,
harry

Still, he sealed it in the most elegant envelope he could find (a creme one with gold thread lining the corners) and secured it with a red wax seal (stamped with the Hogwarts crest). He knew where to place it, though he wasn't sure what he would do afterwards. He set off towards the spot, clutching the letter as though it would sprout wings and flutter away. He stood before the door, closing his eyes as he turned the handle and stepped inside (as if that would rid him of the memories).

As Harry stood in the Janitor's Closet (where the new guidance councillor, Honey Hardilock, had instructed him to stop visiting) Draco's absence was like a physical presence itself. Instead of leaving a gap, like Harry thought it would, it filled up the small space as though it were rushing water — struggling to squeeze into every crevice. It filled Harry's lungs and sloshed around inside his stomach, seeping into every inch of his mind and exploding in a crescendo of vacancy. He held the letter in his hand, loosening his iron grip. As he placed it down on the desk, his hand brushed against the book which Draco had been reading when he was still present. When his lungs still filled and then deflated. When his heart still pounded in time to his emotions. When there was still time to help him. A surge of guilt wracked Harry's body — almost like when stood next to a blaring speaker. His fingers and toes grew numb and his tongue tasted coppery.

Harry closed his eyes, overcome with the need to sleep. He was tired, so, so tired. As he curled up in the green chair, eyelids too heavy to move, a warmth spread across his back and around his shoulders. Almost as if a person had come and pressed their slim figure against his. He daren't open his eyes, less the presence be frightened away, so instead he relaxed his tense body and drifted into a deep, uninterrupted sleep.