𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐖𝐞 𝐖𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧: 𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

It was fuzzy, and difficult to gain a clear image of it in his mind, but Harry had flashes of thoughts about a list of things that made him happy in the days before he left for Hogwarts that year.

Those were the days when he felt particularly awful. Happiness was scarce, and any fragment of it was something to be valued beyond many other things.

The list—if he recalled correctly—listed three things of vague significance. Things that would make even the most boring of people perk up.

He couldn't remember exactly what he had written down—if he had written it down at all, or if it was simply a mental note—but he had a feeling that every one of those things could be demolished.

He also had a feeling, that if he were to write it again from scratch, the list would be comprised of completely knew ideas. Perhaps, it would be longer, too.

Was he a happier person than before? Or is he simply distracted? Would the outcome even matter if the things listed were something to stabilize him, if only eventually?

He desired—above many things—to keep his feet on the ground, in a figurative sense. To loose himself to corruption would be to end his world as he knew it.

Sanity was to be treated as a mother would treat her infant.

𖦹𖦹𖦹

"Is that a different one than last time?" Harry questioned.

A slow, breezy melody bounced off the degrading walls of the Shrieking Shack. Harry wrapped the scarf he had on tighter around his neck. The sent: one that smelled distinctly like the boy who played the tune.

Harry watched Draco nod his head, never looking away from his hands splaying over the keys of the piano.

"I think I like it," he hummed.

"More than the other one?" asked Draco.

"Probably."

Draco scuffed out a laugh, shaking his head while still smiling.

"Does it have any words?"

Draco shook his head. "I don't sing."

"I didn't ask if you can sing. I asked if the song had words." Harry stood up from where he had been sitting on the floor. The December frost bite had long since set in around the Shack, the wooden floor much too cold for sitting.

Draco sighed, "I'm sure it did at one point."

Harry stood behind Draco, watching his hands as they moved with such elegance and ease.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He shrugged, "Just that, with time, they've been long forgotten."

Harry hummed, although not fully understanding.

"So, you don't know them?"

Draco did not respond.

"Pansy always had a nice voice, you know?" he said instead, "She used to hum while she did her History of Magic homework." He hit a wrong note. "I don't think she ever knew I heard her."

Harry pondered this. Never had he truly pictured any of the Slytherins—particularly Draco's friends—as having any good qualities before.