Beautiful World ~ 𝑫𝑹𝑨𝑹𝑹𝒀

Chapter 18

Harry lay awake for a long time that night, not thinking about the things that usually kept him up at night. Instead, Harry watched the shadows on the roof and thought about Draco. He was scared, the nervous sort of fear that feels like butterflies and made him want to constantly keep moving to pretend they weren't there. The shaky sort of excited nervousness that made him sick to his stomach yet unable to stop grinning all at once.

"What am I doing?" he whispered once, turning over in his bed and burying his face in his pillow. He was smiling, his face slowly heating up, and he laughed a little, muffling the sound by pressing his mouth to his arm. "God. This is crazy."

He'd just been holding hands with Draco Malfoy in the formal gardens.

That thought made him laugh harder, until, desperate not to wake his housemates up, Harry was forced to throw his blanket up over his head and dive under his pillow as helpless laughter crashed over him. He couldn't have stopped it for the world. It was like the nervous butterflies in his stomach were all bursting from his throat and the sound of their wings was his laughter. And it was nice. He hadn't laughed like that in forever.

Finally, when the giggles had subsided and he wasn't so nervous after all (the butterflies had left now), Harry, still buried under his blanket, let out a small sigh, his smile fading. The other things Harry had to fear came back now, slowly creeping into his mind, and he closed his eyes, pressing his fist to his lips to prevent a low cry from escaping.

He didn't like to think of that. Of his birthday or his mother or his life, none of it. It wasn't real, it couldn't be. But his eyes flew open and he ran a finger over the healing cuts on his arm and whispered, "It's real..."

That terror spilled over to his thoughts about Draco, and Harry's nervous excitement was gone in an instant. What was he doing?

He remembered then how Draco had flippantly claimed that he was going to die that summer, and a strange burst of longing hit him so hard that all the breath hissed out of his lungs. If Draco did die that summer, maybe they could die together...

And then Harry was crying, painful, harsh sobs that burned in his throat.

***

Draco was worried. He hadn't slept much and now, sitting across from Harry in the library, all the thoughts he'd had the night before were pushed form his mind, the thoughts about forgetting everything in the garden and going on as if they were still blood enemies and not whatever the hell Harry seemed to think they were. Harry was pale, his eyes bloodshot, dark and distracted. He looked like he'd been crying all night.

"Harry," Draco said finally, after watching Harry stare out the window for a long while. The other boy didn't react to his voice, and Draco reached over and touched his hand.

Harry's head snapped around, his eyes widening a bit, and his lower lip trembled, just a little. "Oh," he said, and even his voice was husky, as if he'd been crying. "Sorry. What?"

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah." Harry moved as if to turn back to the window, and Draco touched him again.

"You look ill or something."

"I'm not."

Chewing his bottom lip nervously, Draco said falteringly, "It wasn't...wasn't what happened in the garden, was it? That made you cry?"

Tears glittered in Harry's eyes and he smiled, thought it was a wane, weak smile. "Who ever said I was crying? I never cry."

"Harry."

Sighing, Harry closed his eyes and turned his hand over underneath Draco's. Palm to palm again. "No," he whispered. "It wasn't that. It was... I was remembering. How you said you were going to die this summer."