A Natural Progression of Events

A natural progression of events

Practiced movements dragged the blade, two days sharp, over his skin. A blurred figure mirrored his movements in the moisture-fogged glass; top to bottom, cheekbone to chin, in reverse. Shave, rinse, repeat; the blade pausing and pressing down a little too hard against the pulse at his throat. Most days he didn't even notice the blood that stained his towel after he'd passed the cloth over his face.

There were many things that Harry didn't notice these days.

There was a buzzing in Harry's left ear as he contemplated his toast that morning in the Great Hall. There seemed to be an awful lot of buzzing in his ears lately. Harry probably should have been worried about this but he had found that if he concentrated hard enough, he could tune out the buzzing almost completely. Between two mouthfuls of bread and marmalade, Harry belatedly noticed that the buzzing had in fact stopped, and that a hand was carefully smoothing down his uncombed hair over his forehead, his own hand swatting at air three minutes later, as if to shoo away a pesky fly.

If Harry had been vaguely interested in anything other than his breakfast that morning, he probably would have noticed the concerned look that Hermione gave Ron across the table and Ron's ensuing shrug. If Harry had in fact noticed, he probably wouldn't have given it a second thought.

Harry had told Ron last week while they were sitting by the lake that he could feel the rain in his fingertips, itchy under his skin, the scent of the storm sifting through the hairs at his nape. Ron had snorted and thrown a handful of yellowed pieces of grass onto his lap, eyes bright in the afternoon sun. Harry had watched as the wind had gently scattered them across the heavy fabric of his pants.

Harry hadn't told Ron about the dreams where his fingers transformed into dual-sided blades, slashing blindly at owls which flew at him with burning scrolls in their beaks and disappeared behind a heavy curtain just outside of his reach. In these dreams, the ground was always littered with feathers, red hair and mud that covered his feet. Blood and screams poured out of his ears and trickled down his arms, sticky and warm, tiny rivulets that curled around his forearms and onto his hands. When Harry woke every night in a tangle of sheets and sweat, he could almost taste the blood on his wrists, copper and salt under each flick of his tongue.

It didn't matter. Ron was whistling through his teeth.

It had been raining for days.

It was after one of those dreams that Harry had found himself walking around the gardens on the south side of Hogwarts, the rain slicked tiles of the path cold under his bare feet. The tips of his toes were covered in mud.

There had been no mistaking that hair when he had first caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye. Wet and limp, it stuck defiantly to the other boy's forehead, long strands of silver white hair curling over the collar of his shirt. The stone statues and monuments that adorned the garden cast shadows against his profile, the paleness of his hands making them seem disembodied in the darkness. His exhaustion-thinned limbs were distinct under the wet cotton that clung to his skin.

From where Harry stood watching, the moonlight seemed to reflect off the translucent skin under the other boy's eyelids, making his eyes look as though they were floating in pools of silver. Or, as it were, as if they were being held open by sheer determination.

He had not even turned his head when Harry had sat down beside him. His fingers were worrying nervously at the cuff of his sleeve, already frayed and worn, his eyes unblinking despite the rain drops that were soaking his lashes.

"It's all your fault, you know." His words had cut through the silence a thousand and one heartbeats later, impossibly soft against the sound of the falling rain, small puffs of condensation barely formed before they dissolved in front of his lips. It had been a simple statement, bereft of any hidden challenges and jibes, and Harry had let the words turn over and over in his mind before answering.

"I know." Of all the things that Harry could have been agreeing to, he figured that Draco was probably right.

When Draco had wearily unfolded himself from the bench to follow the path that would lead him out of the garden, he hadn't looked back.

At some point during dinnertime, Harry had said three different words in three different conversations but all he could remember was the way a pair of grey eyes narrowly avoided his gaze every time he looked across the Great Hall. When Ginny had placed a freckled hand on his arm and turned her head to smile at him, he had seen the dimples in her cheeks and had tried to imagine them on a much paler and angled face.

An inquiry later that night had earned him a cool glare and a "Don't be absurd, Potter."

Harry wondered, offhandedly, when he had last seen Draco smile.

Draco liked to suck on the tip of his right thumb when he thought no one was looking. The skin there was always wrinkled and white like the aftermath of a long hot bath.

When Harry trapped the offending digit between his lips, it was blushed and dusty pink in the dim light of the abandoned corridor, like the spots of colour on Draco's cheeks. The fingers which grasped the front of Harry's sweater, clenched and unclenched in rapid succession as Draco let out a shuddering breath.

"I don't even like you."

"I don't want you to."

When the hand, now flat against Harry's chest, pushed him awkwardly against a curved archway, Harry had to remember to breathe.

There was always a time for words between damp skin and delinquent hands but the silence was comforting and safe, and Harry cradled it delicately in the curve of his arms.

When Draco spoke, it was always hushed and rushed and dangerous, and his words were crisp in Harry's mind. "No excuses," he had said once, a finger trailing carelessly down Harry's cheek. "No apologies."

And when Harry had asked, "So, no feelings?" he had laughed. Draco had a small dimple on the right side of his face near his chin.

There were twenty nine steps, one hundred and sixty five forks, and seven ghosts between the Slytherin and Gryffindor tables in the Great Hall; five damp hallways, eight staircases, eleven rather obnoxious portraits, and one password between Ron's cold shoulder and Draco's open arms; three and a half hand spans between a moan and whispered plea, seven steps between Harry's cloak and the door, and two words - don't go - between now and forever. There were a thousand things left unsaid and Harry forgot them all.

When Harry added up the hours in a week, he was always short by four and a half days. He gathered up lost moments and stolen caresses like blades of grass, and like everything else he didn't notice, scattered them right away.

"I can't do this."

"Then don't."

But hands never stopped Harry's chest from pressing down against him, further protests forgotten between the chapped lips that covered his. Draco always tasted like wet lavender and the absence of sweat. His tongue, cool mint and lemon, was tangy and sharp behind Harry's teeth. And it was like long summer afternoons, all barefoot and grass stains and sticky rainbow fingers; and like death, every time.

And maybe Harry wouldn't notice weeks later, months later, the mud soaking through the front of his pants, dirty hands frantically pushing away at a torn sleeve, trying not to find what he knew he would find there.

And there would be blood under his fingernails, tearing away at the pale skin and leaving it raw and torn; the angry red marks in sharp contrast against the mocking darkness, the elaborate symbol etched in the still sensitive skin, cool under Harry's fingertips. There would be a look of determined sadness on Draco's face when he turned his head to look up at Harry, a subtle flash of remorse in his tired eyes when Harry tensed under his outstretched hand.

"There was nothing you could do." No excuses, no apologies.

"I could have noticed."

And Harry would press his lips against the pulse of the bloodied forearm before letting it fall gently to the ground and he would walk away, without looking back.

When Harry dreamed about Draco, it was like afternoon tea on a rainy day and the sound of a white porcelain teacup falling rapidly to the floor; waking him up, every time.