Less Like Them, More Like Me

Less Like Them, More Like Me

"I close my eyes when I get too sad,

I think thoughts that I know are bad.

Close my eyes and I count to ten,

Hope it's over when I open them."

~Wonderful, Everclear

Chapter 2:

Draco walked into the Great Hall. It was deserted, save for a few Hufflepuffs lazily finishing their breakfast, and a study group of about six Ravenclaws. There were no Slytherins at all, and the only Gryffindor was -

Him.

And he was alone.

Oh, God, he's alone.

Draco watched Harry for a moment. He was just sitting there, stirring his coffee and staring straight ahead. He didn't even seem to blink.

"Move, damn it," Draco thought. He couldn't imagine being that still. It was as if Harry was carved out of stone. Finally, Draco couldn't take it and began to weave his way around the tables toward the Gryffindor.

He moved. Draco stopped short, watching Harry laid his head on his arms, a sign of defeat. As Draco moved forward again, he had half a mind to just turn around and head in the other direction. The other half was telling him to go to Harry and sit next to him and comfort him.

Ha. Me. Comforting Harry Potter. Right.

Draco was now close enough to hear Harry's breathing. And the sob, bitten back sharply.

"Crying again, Potter? How very weak of you."

Damn. Damn. DAMN! It just slipped out, shit. And now Harry was standing up, turning around to face him, and his eyes shone like twin emerald tornadoes of which held no mercy.

In other words, he was really pissed off.

***

I'm going to kill him. I swear, I'm going to wring his neck until his pasty face turns purple. And blue. Yeah, purple and blue. No, those don't really go well together. Maybe I'll paint his face green and silver when he's dead. No, pink.

Why the hell am I thinking about this?

***

Harry took one step toward the Slytherin, shaking in fury.

"I was not crying, Malfoy."

"Funny, I heard a sob," Draco sneered, crossing his arms. He was the clear picture of apathy. Except he wasn't. Harry saw a spark of something in his cold grey eyes, and his anger relented slightly, recognizing that spark as something he himself saw in the mirror when he looked into it every morning.

Despair.

Loneliness.

***

But he's not like you. His turmoil isn't brought on by the dead. It's brought on by the living.

His father.

You see the traces of the black eye he came to school with after the Christmas holidays. You see the small white scars traced lightly along the edge of his jaw and the one barely disrupting the sharp curve of his cheek. You notice how delicate his long fingered hands are, how porcelain his skin is. You notice a lot of things that others don't, or can't.

Can't?

Yes. They can't see past his defences, just like so many can't see past yours. But you can, and he can.

Look at that. We have something in common.

***

What the fuck is he doing? Is he...staring at me? He's bloody staring at me.

***

You watch as his green eyes sweep over your face. They focus on the remnants of the healing black eye, the scars from the rings on your father's hand. You feel self-conscious, something you're really not used to.

Absentmindedly, he lifts a hand, bringing it closer and closer to your face. Fear grips you, and longing. You're terrified of him, more afraid of him than your father's rages which leave your body crippled. Because he can break your heart just as easily as Lucius could break your arm.

His fingers are nearly touching your lips. You want to feel those calloused hands so bad, but your fear is holding your back. Instinctively, you open your mouth and bite down hard upon the digits, your eyes closing.

You taste blood, sweet and tangy and metallic, flowing into your mouth. He cries out, wrenching his hand away, and you know he's going to hit you now.

You keep your eyes closed, waiting for the blow. It doesn't come. Carefully, you slit open an eye, surprised to see him sucking on his injured fingers, a hurt look on his face.

So now what are you supposed to do? Apologize?

Riiiight.

***

He bit me! I can't believe he bit me!

I can't believe I was going to touch his lips.

I can't believe I wanted to.

Shit.

***

Harry felt extremely confused, extremely angry, extremely and oddly sad.

Caught in between extremes, so much fury, can't let it out, Harry, if you let it out they'll think you're crazy, they'll lock you up. You don't like being alone.

The blood pooled in his mouth, and he jerked his fingers from his mouth and spat it out. It splattered by Draco's feet, a deep ruby stain on the polished floor, interrupting its smoothness, its perfection. Draco looked at it, then back at Harry, his guard temporarily breaking, cracking, ripping at the seams. His face seemed to melt, letting Harry see the bared soul, suffering, alone.

(You don't like being alone.)

(He doesn't like being alone, either.)

He looked at Draco, feeling somehow empty and full at the same time, bursting with so much to say, yet he had nothing to say at all because he knew that Draco could see his hurting too, and understood.

They stared at each other forever, for a second, for eternity, for no time at all. Finally, Draco turned to leave. Harry reached forward, touching his shoulder urgently.

"Don't leave me. I don't want to be alone."

A drop of blood fell on the floor.