𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐒𝐈𝐀| ✔︎

𝐎𝐍𝐄|𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐔𝐓𝐄𝐃

ON THE CONTRARY, Spring is sugarcoated to be nothing more than a few months of pretty flowers and allergies. For it's true, many trees are blossoming and early flowers are flourishing.

Looking in at deeper nature however, Spring is often described to bring rebirth, renewal and awakening; because it is just like any other season, any other day, or any other year. It is unpredictable, but also enhancing. We cannot predict a day in our lives, so why must Spring?

These thoughts were embroidered into Harry's head, and he ceased to write them down into his journal.

It's a warm day, and there sat the only Saviour of the Wizarding World, tracing the letters of which he had been writing with prosperity.

The fields were a parsley green. They were tall, licking at his ankles as the bright gleam of the sun illuminated other blooms and buds that scattered the meadow outside of Hogwarts. It reminded him of summer, where he'd sneak out his window to sit in the golden canola fields to sketch for hours on end. Of course, he had to keep these minorities stealth.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

Despite the atrocities that Harry'd faced ever since he was a young boy, he wasn't used to the serenity of peace and quiet. Always used to someone telling him what to do and when to do it, chastising him about how he should live. Harry felt like he was slowing ceasing to life. Fading throughout the Earth's core every day he was forced to live as the 'Chosen One.'

It sounded almost cretinous, yes, but Harry felt like a small broken and beat toy that had been exploited from an abusive owner. In a sense, however, that was correct. Even though others had told him he was perfectly fine, he realised people didn't really know all that much. Sometimes he would feel pained, inexplicably, because he hated his life, as platitude as that sounded alone — life seemed to hate him back. Every good thing always seemed to have crash and burn.

If there was one thing Harry learned throughout his life, was to never let passion overthrow principle. Sometimes what the heart knew, the head would forget.

But today was different. And for once in his life, he genuinely felt okay. So okay that he didn't even feel bothered by the wind pushing his hair in front of his face.

Nor did he notice the tall figure that stood before him.

As his eyes slowly trailed up, he grew confused. He was almost certain he was alone, but it was almost as if the person (who was now holding out there hand for him to take) were anonymous. It was as if the sun was purposely shined brighter to mask the persons' face. All Harry could do was squint.

The mysterious pale hand gestured forward, still awaiting for his movement. Feeling gullible, Harry frowned and took it. The hand hauled him up. At a standing angle, the face now became clear, and Harry's eyes widened and his breath hitched.

Gleaming in the sunlight, the intimate face of Draco Malfoy stood before him. His white-blond hair was blowing leisurely in his face and he had a lopsided smile on his lips like he couldn't give a care in the world. His cheeks and nose were rosy from the crisp and he was clad in charcoal grey wool that looked extremely soft. In fact, Harry was so up close he could smell a mixture of mahogany, French cologne, and vanilla.

Harry dropped his journal in shock, and the pages were now flicking open due to the wind. Harry wished he had his wand. Who knew what Malfoy was up to?