author: Hanna
email: hannalicious@jippii.fi
website: http://www30.brinkster.com/lokakuu/
pairing: Draco/Harry
rating: PG-13
summary: Unrequited love hurts.
disclaimer: Everything is the property of J.K. Rowling. I'm only borrowing her characters. No harm intended.
feedback: Yes.
notes: Thanks to Magenta for beta.





January wasteland


My mother's hands were always cold.

When I was little, she used to cuddle me in her lap, her elegant freezing fingers biting through the flesh of my arms. She often told me stories, her lipstick-smeared mouth barely moving. Her voice was quiet and fragile. I pressed myself against her and shivered. Narcissa smelled like flowers that don't exist outside bottles of perfume.

Once she told me a story about a magical boy in a hushed, secretive tone of voice. I sat up straight, listening to every word she said and her breath brushed against the back of my neck. The boy in the story was my age and he had saved the whole world from a powerful dark wizard. Mother's hands clutched me too hard, and her nails broke my skin. She didn't notice the blood.

The night after I had a dream about that boy. His hair was messy and black, and his eyes were the purest shade of green I had ever seen. Slytherin green. We sat in Malfoy Manor's garden and it was autumn. All the flowers around us had withered and died. He asked if I wanted to be his friend and I showed him my new broomstick. My father had bought it for me only a week ago. It was a game of play-pretend that went on for years.

When I left to Hogwarts for the first time my mother had dark stains of mascara on her cheeks. She wrapped her arms around me and there was no warmth in her embrace. She was suffocating me and I couldn't wait to get away from her.

Green eyes and rejection. I loved you even then, Harry.

Do you remember our first Quidditch match? My sweaty robes were stuck to my skin. If I had jumped off my broom, would you have rescued me?

Potions were my favourite subject. I was always seated near Harry and watched as he bowed over his cauldron, frustrated. His hair falling over his eyes and his face getting redder each passing minute. I whispered insults to him until he turned around.

Mudblood scum. That's what you mother was, Potter. Aren't you ashamed?

His eyes burned with hate, and that made me feel alive. I wanted to rub his hands against broken glass and see all those tiny pieces dig though his skin and rip his flesh open. And then I wanted to kiss the blood away and make it better.

In the Great Hall I always sat with my face to Harry. I stared at him, following his every movement. I watched as his beautiful hands, covered most of the time by too-long sleeves, lifted a fork into his mouth. There was something about him that screamed to be used and abused. He seemed to be starved for affection.

I imagined what he would look like lying on the ground, bruised and battered. What it would be like to touch him? How would his chapped lips feel under mine? I wanted to hold his hand and break his bones.

I wished he had hated and loved me as much as much as I hated and loved him. His indifference made me frozen inside. Once our hands brushed when we passed each other in the hallway, and he didn't even notice.

One night I opened my eyes and went to the window. Harry was hovering over the frost-bitten land on his broomstick. Stars were raining down and some of them got caught in his curls. He was smiling and my fingertips hurt as they touched the surface of the cold glass.

It had to be a dream. There were no windows in the Slytherin dorms.