flower crowns | drarry

nineteen

nineteen
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two days after the fiasco at lunchtime, draco wasn't in the greenhouse.

it was an unusual occurrence, and upon arriving at the greenhouse, anxiety bloomed in harry's stomach. his mind started racing, but with a hard swallow and a few deep breaths, he buried the irrational knot in a far corner of his mind.

i guess he had more luck sleeping than i did. he thought, forcing himself to leave the topic behind and head back inside.

harry's anxiety levels have been high lately because of draco. after the incident earlier that week, the blond has been...different. it seemed like he was in a sort of daze. his eyes seemed far away, he gave half-hearted answers to any attempts at conversation, and his smiles were rare and never reached his eyes. when they saw each other in the greenhouse at night, draco barely said anything and let harry do most of the talking.

what might've been the most alarming thing, though, was draco's lack of passion. he still made flower crowns, but his hands moved much more slowly, and he occasionally stopped, body going limp as if the small movements had stolen the last of his energy.

and his eyes.

normally they lit up when he talked about flowers or potions, but now they just looked sad. it was as if– somewhere deep down– he recognized that they should make him happy, but he couldn't bring himself to feel anything remotely close to joy.

harry couldn't help but feel like it was somewhat his fault.

like if he could just find the right words, then draco would go back to normal.

he just wished draco's eyes didn't look so empty.

harry hated seeing the blond sad, but right now he preferred that to this blankness that had taken over him.

because at least then he could do something. he had no idea how to help him when he was like this. he didn't know if he needed comfort, if he needed space, he didn't know.

but he couldn't just do nothing. it had only been two days, but it was tearing harry apart.

because he felt so useless.

draco needed him, and he was too stupid to figure out how to help.

before he knew it, his eyes began to sting, a familiar soreness building in his throat. he could feel his heart aching with the weight of his thoughts.

harry had been too deep in his thoughts to realize how far he'd walked, and looked up to find himself in a cold, dusty part of the castle, thick with the scent of soiled water and damp with moisture.

soft sniffles cut through the thick silence of the hallways, growing louder as he approached the girl's  bathroom. harry's brow furrowed in concern–who would be crying in the bathroom this early in the morning?– when he realized.

this was moaning myrtle's bathroom.

he tried to remember the last time he'd talked to her. definitely not since the war ended, and not for months before that.

she must've been so lonely.

the ghosts of the castle had seen as much of the war as he had, and he wondered how it affected them.