Red

Ron and Hermione were a couple and Harry saw red.

He sat alone in the scarlet common room by the red-orange of the fireplace in one of the comfortable old armchairs the older students always got, and realised that it was a lot like blood and death and hate in there, and when he woke up screaming in the middle of the night he thought he might be drowning in seas of blood, blood pouring out of the walls from all the people who had died because he wasn't fast enough wasn't strong enough wasn't anything enough to save them. He struggled and gasped for air, and it was only when he finally succeeded in kicking hard enough to swim free that Harry realised all it was was the sheets and the blankets and the curtains of his four-poster bed trying to strangle him in his sleep, leaving red creases on his skin where they had tightened into his flesh. And through it all Ron hadn't woken up to help, and Harry was angry despite knowing he had cast silencing spells on his bed himself and it wasn't Ron's fault, but it was because helping Harry was Ron's job.

Harry knew it was stupid, having hated the attention and the concern and the questions he had been getting ever since the train, sitting twisting the strands of red yarn that fringed the end of the Gryffindor scarf stuffed into the pocket of his coat by Aunt Petunia, who wanted Mrs Weasley and Remus Lupin to think she didn't fantasise about having throttled Harry on the doorstep and living a normal life.

But Ron and Hermione had always been there before, and surely it wasn't selfish to want your friends to be there so that you could tell them about the worries and dreams and visions if you wanted to, not that Harry did because nobody could know, but it would have been nice to have had the option indefinitely instead of being ignored so that your best friends could snog in private.

Harry was full of redness now, angry abused flames licking at his intestines and growling like a pissed off red demon of a dragon, cold eyes prowling the back alleys of Harry's mind and peering out from behind his glasses with gold-slit pupils, and neither of them noticed at all.

Harry supposed it might be that they thought the redness was for Voldemort, that when his cheeks were flushed red and angry creases lined his forehead it was hatred on behalf of himself or his parents or of Sirius.

The dragon asked him why he did nothing said nothing sat there steaming, and Harry had no answer. His tie was red and gold striped, a ring of fire around his throat keeping him from speaking. The dragon had burned away his insides, and insomuch as he could feel any more Harry was glad that he didn't have to feel anything think anything say anything be human be HarryPotterBoyWhoLivedVoldemort'sBaneScarhead any more, because he had done that for long enough and he didn't want to be that person any more, he had already done his lifetime's worth of feeling all the blood despair unhappiness red.

Everyone was watching him all the time, and Harry could feel Voldemort's crimson gaze digging in between his shoulderblades, even when he pressed up against a solid stone wall and the cool grey rock crushed his robes to his back, fabric almost abrasive now that he had stopped feeling emotions. Malfoy was watching him, cold grey eyes somehow blazing with something he couldn't name and didn't want to, because if he thought about Malfoy he might end up thinking of everything else and losing his mind. Harry Potter never brushed Draco Malfoy aside, always reacted, and if he was to stop everyone else from realising he had been burnt away from the inside out then he'd have to do something if he bumped into Malfoy or die.

The corridor was red in the torchlight, with the moon streaming in through the stained glass in shades of blood. Harry had found this corridor last year and it was a good place to sit in the dark in the invisibility cloak, having extinguished the torches and curling up in the deep windowsill to stay up late, and not to sleep perchance to dream perchance to wake up drowning in blood again with red Ron hair showing above the blanket but red Ron eyelashes shut on red Ron cheeks in sleep.

Footsteps quiet on the stairs around the corner and a pale head that burned crimson as it rounded the corner, colourless hair picking up the moon and wearing it like a red dyed crown that burned like a head on fire. Draco Malfoy walked toward him and Harry held his breath not sure if he wanted to be caught or not by Draco Malfoy, who watched him all the time these days.

Malfoy walked straight past, never even glancing at where Harry sat, and with a disregard for his safety Harry yanked the cloak back from over his head so that if he looked back Malfoy could see him catch him question him, but he turned the corner without looking and was gone.

Harry wondered if, just maybe, Malfoy would understand the red rawness and knew the redness, but the dragon roiled in his gut and Harry didn't call out or move or do anything at all.