Rewound (Drarry)

Cinnamon Feelings

The days from that point on felt dark.

It was as if a thundercloud had descended over Hogwarts. Everything felt colder, Harry couldn't remember the last time that he'd felt so hopeless.

Perhaps it had been when Sirius died.

He remembers how he'd felt then like it was only yesterday. How he'd been angry, so so angry, and he'd shouted and broke things and stormed around. How Dumbledore had told him he understood, and Harry had said he didn't, even though Harry couldn't possibly have known how much Dumbledore did understand, because Dumbledore never told him.

Dumbledore didn't tell him anything.

Dumbledore had been one of the few people Harry had always thought he'd be able to trust implicitly. Yet, when he was seventeen and on the run with the weight of the world on his shoulders, all he'd had from him was dead ends and a sense of betrayal that had flipped his sense of trust and loyalty so enormously Harry had stopped trusting almost anyone for years to come.

That time, back when Sirius had died, Harry had been angry.

He had been angry, and scared, and sad all at once, and some people tried to help.

Or maybe they didn't.

Really, in the end, Harry didn't know if anyone had at tried all.

People had offered him the bare minimum of their comfort, which they could give without mentally exerting themselves too greatly, in order to feel as if they were good, so the guilt didn't eat away at them.

People had said, 'Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry for your loss,' and Harry had nodded. Harry had smiled politely, and thanked them. Others had even given him flowers. Harry had thanked them too.

But really, in the end, not very many people had comforted Harry at all. Because Sirius had been a prisoner, and everyone had thought he was a murderer, and even though Harry had been so clearly going through something, everyone who didn't know was too absorbed in their own menial problems to even so much as bother with a 'You alright, Harry?', or a 'Want to talk about it, Harry?' or even a 'I hope you're okay, Harry.'

No. Not even once.

Harry didn't resent them for it. Not much.

Because really, in the end, Harry had only ever had himself.

People had told him his whole life that he wasn't alone, that he could trust them, that they wouldn't leave. But he was, and he couldn't, and they did. Every one of them.

This didn't mean Harry didn't love them, of course not. Harry loved many people. He loved so many people, and he loved them so fiercely he had willingly died for them, and he would do it again. But despite this, when Harry had spent those terrible months grieving, when he'd lock himself in the bathroom and sob and sob until he threw up just to feel something, those people hadn't been there.

And as much as he lied to himself that they had tried to be, they hadn't.

Hermione would check on him. Ron would ask him if he wanted to play a game, to take his mind off of it, you know? Sometimes even Ginny would ask if he fancied a fly, for a bit of fresh air.

But Harry didn't want that, not really. What he wanted was someone to talk to. He wanted someone he could tell, who would listen and hold him and stroke his hair and tell him everything would be okay, and that it would be over soon, who he could cry to without feeling embarrassed or ashamed or as if he wasn't being the unbreakable Saviour they all expected him to be.

He wanted someone who loved him, and who he loved in turn.

And really, really, in the end, isn't that what he'd wanted - all he'd wanted - his whole life?