Lost Meaning

It had been repeated to him so many times the words had lost all meaning. Dumbledore had given up on saying it; he resorted to smiling sadly at Harry whenever he was around.

Professor McGonagall would sometimes take him aside and preach at him, but he smiled and nodded and said ‘I understand’ until she let him go, obviously frustrated and obviously not convinced he did understand. Harry would then escape, to the Great Hall, the common room, anywhere that Professor McGonagall would not follow. People fell silent as he approached and began to whisper as soon as he passed. No one had direct proof, but that has never stopped a spreading rumor.

Sometimes, when Hermione would approach him and broach the subject (always in a sideways manner so it took him a few minutes to understand what he’d gotten himself into), he’d dive into the argument. If the argument started on a cold evening in front of the common room fire, Harry might notice Ron. Before the argument reached shouting pitch, Ron would close whatever book he was reading and head for their dormitory. Ron didn’t speak to Harry any more, not even to argue.

“Don’t do this, Harry!” Hermione would finally plead, words falling into the well-worn track. He could see in her eyes that she knew as well as he did what was coming next, like a gambit in wizard chess. Two more moves to checkmate.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Harry would shout, standing up, fists balled at his side. She would flinch slightly, and that always tugged at his heart. She was the closest thing he had to a friend, and she was afraid he’d attack her.

She soldiered on, showing that Gryffindor courage. The words fell softly from her lips, so softly he doubted the eavesdropping students ever heard what she said. “You can’t save everybody.”

Harry stood there for a few seconds more, deciding whether this would be the time he would reach over and slap that horribly pitiful, pleading expression right off her face. Instead, he spun on his heel and stormed off in a blind fury.

No matter where he ran off to, one person would find him. Harry would feel the hairs on his arms tingle as wards went up, and the peculiar ringing sound that heralded a Silencing Charm. Can’t have anyone seeing the Slytherin Quidditch captain wrapping his arms around the Gryffindor Seeker’s waist, comforting him with warmth and murmured words.

Sometimes Harry would simply stand there, silently drawing strength from the man who held him. Sometimes, Harry would break down, great gulping sobs pouring out until he felt emptied of even his ability to feel emotion. Sometimes, what came pouring out was words, confessions of frustration, fears, and inadequacies. Rarely, there was a question that pried more, that started one reaction as it ended another; but more often, there was nothing but silence from Draco.

At some point, the comforting arms would start to move restlessly, the hands seeking access to skin. As soon as Harry realised what was happening, he moved to help divest Draco and himself of clothes, to get into more accessible positions, to dig the lube out of whatever pocket it had been shoved into.

After the groping and grunting and sweating was done, there would be a moment where Draco was unguarded. He would reach out to caress Harry, or to retrieve his jumper from the grass, and Harry’s eyes would be drawn to the mark on Draco’s arm, a lurid black against the pure white of his skin. Whenever Draco caught Harry staring, he would smile back enigmatically.

Harry rolled over and began to find his own clothes. They were all wrong. He didn’t want to save everyone.

Just one particular person.