it really was an ugly sweater. truly, it was. the cheerful, clashing stripes were terrible, and the colours were as busy as a one legged dwarf in an arse kicking contest, but.
it smelled.... so much.. like him.
it had been abandoned.
left carelessly rumpled on a bench beside the quidditch feild. all through the match, draco had had his eyes on it. so interested in those hideous red and yellow stripes was he that when harry caught the snitch (twelve minutes in to the game, thankyouverymuch), draco had to ask madam hooch if the game was really over.
in the midst of the post-match chaos, nobody had noticed draco stuffing the katsup and mustard coloured thing into his bag, or shooting suspicious glaces with his eyes as he hurried to catch up with the rest of his defeated, sullen teammates.
he wasn't exactly sure why he had taken it, thinking it had to have been more than just another petty, vindictive stab made at harry. ...he had stolen it to irk harry deliberately, so the gryffindor would search for it endlessly, thinking he'd misplaced it forever ....hadn't he? or had he stolen it simply because it was *harry's*? deciding not to trouble himself with such matters (because he knew the answer secretly and could hardly bear to admit it to himself), he thought of what was important: he had harry's sweater and harry was never going to see it again. (bwahahahaha!)
draco pressed his face into the soft, garish yarn around the collar and closed his eyes. it made him smile, albeit a little sadly. he thought of all the times he'd watched harry from across the hall, across the classroom. glacing over at the gryffindor every few minutes just to check and make sure harry wasn't looking at him first... and so many times, he'd been wearing this exact sweater. harry's skin had rested scratchily against it, and because draco had touched the sweater, worn it, draco had touched harry's skin, too. draco brushed his fingertips over the wool that covered his chest tenderly, as if he were almost afraid to touch it, rubbing his lips against it's fuzzy warmth.
hate is such a funny thing, really. when you hate someone, you devote so much time to them without even realizing it. so much energy is wasted, so much attention squandered.
after the slytherin locker rooms had emptied out, he had slipped from the showers and padded, dripping and bare as a baby, back into the locker room. draco lifted the sweater out of his bag and slipped it on over his head with a sigh. he sat so still that he could feel his pulse, and it rocked him gently, soothing him as his wet skin stuck to the itchy wool.
but as soft as the sweater was, or as good and it smelled, it wasn't... right.
it didn't make him happy, knowing that this was the closest he'd ever get to harry. it didn't make him happy to pretend that the warmth of the sweater was the warmth of harry's body. it didn't make him happy to know that no matter what he stole, or said.. no matter how hard he wished, or how deep he cut himself.. it didn't make him happy to know that what he felt was never going to go away.
but then, did love ever make anyone happy?