The cigarette dangled from his lips as he stood silently by the lake side.
One of his hands shoves into his pocket and curls around the paper box in it. He can feel the box vibrate slightly before re-filling itself. He can't help but feel immensely proud of himself for creating that spell. The spell to create cigarettes to his likings, with the right amount of every chemical in the nicotine. The right amount to slowly kill him. He's grateful that since smoking is something so blatantly muggle, it isn't banned from Hogwarts yet - Which really just helps his habit of chain smoking. He's never seen without a cigarette in his mouth, unless he's sleeping or in the loo. Even first thing in the morning, during breakfast, all he does is smoke, read the Prophet and drink coffee.
He reached up and tugged the stick from his lips, exhaling properly from his mouth. His friends get unnerved easily when he exhales through his nose, telling him it makes him look like a dragon that can no longer breathe fire, and just attempts it. He can't recall their exact words; he doesn't really pay attention anymore. He flicks the cigarette off to the side, and vanishes it with a twirl of his fingers, before it even hits the ground.
He lodged another cigarette in between his lips and it lit on its own accord, with a well-trained 'incendio' on his mind. Suddenly, he frowns around his cancer stick and remembers that breakfast will be starting in two hours, which gives him one hour 'til Anthony Goldstein wakes up. If he doesn't get back into the castle within that hour, Anthony will throw another fit. His best friend hates waking up to him not in the tower. It sets him on edge, is what he always says, not knowing where he was for the night. However, he can't bring himself to feel bad about worrying his best friends. And Merlin knows if Anthony gets up before he's back, then Lisa Turpin will be up, too, and his best female friend worries more than Anthony. But they both should be used to waking up to an empty bed and waiting for him during breakfast. This will be the 21st day in a row that he's spent the majority of his morning outside.
He didn't even realize that the cigarette between his lips burnt to the filter until his lips started to heat up uncomfortably. The smoke dancing in front of his eyes got thicker, and he went cross-eyed slightly watching it. Then he plucked it from his mouth, and flicked it, watching it disappear before it hit the jade grass, leaving behind only a trail of smoke.
This will be the 21st day in a row that he went without a wink of sleep.
He remembers over hearing once during the summer that after 3 to 4 or more days without sleep can cause slight insanity.
He doesn't think he's insane. Of course, that's what an insane person would say, right?
No, if he were insane, he wouldn't remember anything, right?
He remembers his name and age. He remembers his birthday. He remembers his parents' names. He remembers his address. He remembers his name. Didn't he think that already? He remembers where he is. He remembers who his best friends are.
His best friends that don't notice anything he's going through.
His best friends that don't care.
He almost slapped himself. Of course his friends care! Maybe he's slightly insane for thinking they don't care, but what Ravenclaw isn't just a bit insane? And they have noticed. They always worry about him. It's him that pushes them away and doesn't let them know what he wants them to find out on their own. But how can they find something like his internal thoughts when no one but him hears them? But no matter how much he tries to fool himself into thinking they pay enough attention, do they pay close enough attention as Draco Malfoy?
He's caught Draco staring at him more often than he'd like to admit, but he can't complain. That'd be hypocritical. He stares at the blonde as often as the blonde stares back. He notices everything about Draco. He notices how he never eats at breakfast anymore; he just pushes his food around. He notices how he toes his shoes off when he's reading, and chews on the end of his quill when he has writers block, causing his lips to get slightly ink-stained. He notices how rigid his posture is, and how his left hand always twitches when he's anxious or annoyed. He notices how he always picks at the peeling, worn out wood of the class room desks when he's bored. He notices how he always, almost always, scratches at his arms, almost like he was trying to scratch of something just under his skin – something unreachable, something that's embedded into his being.
He notices when he's walking along the shore of the black lake at 5am, barefoot – shit.
He watches the blonde walk along. The way his blonde hair falls loose and curly in front of his eyes as he keeps his head down while he walks seems to hypnotize him. The sunrise casts a warm red and gold glow over the grounds, and as it hits Draco's, it shines on his hair, giving him a halo. His black muggle skinny jeans are rolled up at the ankles slightly, and the sleeves of his short-sleeved black v-neck are rolled up also, even if the sleeves are already short. The Slytherin's normally pale skin looks tanned in the new sunlight, and as Draco nears him, he tugs out his pack of cigarettes from his pants pocket, and pulls one out. Before he lights it, however, he gestures to Draco and calls; "You look troubled."
Draco visibly jumps, like he's been electrically shocked and turns wide eyes on him. Then he calls out, "It's not your place to make those assumptions." But he sounds tired, ready to give up. It seems as though he doesn't want to fight either, because he strides over to him and sighs. He gingerly places the cigarette between his lips and lights it.
"Would you like one?" he ignores Draco's previous statement and speaks around his cancer stick then flips open his pack.
Draco nods, so he takes the stick from between his lips and hands it over. Draco makes no protest, just takes it and inhales. There is another stick between his lips the second the lit one leaves his fingers.
After a short, awkward silence of just inhaling and exhaling, he speaks; "I hope you do not underestimate my intelligence, Draco." He states, eyes downcast.
"Of course, I do." Scoffs the blonde, smoke puffing out of his mouth.
He ignores this, and watches Draco's piano hands as they move to his mouth with the cigarette lazily hanging in between his two fingers. The long, pale fingers twitch as they take the last drag, and he notices that he's using his right hand, and his left arm is folded behind his back, resting in the small of his back. His eyes travel down the vast expanse of pale skin, and across his exposed collarbone and then back to his piano fingers.
"I do not know what you're up to this year," he says, casting his eyes up to Draco's silver orbs, "But be careful. I do know that you were the one to fail in using Katie Bell, the Gryffindor Chaser, as a messenger to get that cursed necklace to Professor Dumbledore. I also know that it was you who had gifted Professor Slughorn the poisoned Mead in hopes he would drink it with Professor Dumbledore. However, your poor attempts at disposing the headmaster are all I know of. Why you are doing this? I do not know. Do I want to know? I don't believe I do. But be wary of the fact that there are young children in this building. I like to believe you have a heart. Do not let harm come to those who cannot protect themselves as well as others."
Draco only stomped out his cigarette, so he held out his pack and allowed the Slytherin the pluck other from the box. It was lit in the same fashion as his are, probably a non-verbal 'incendio' and his piano fingers uncurled from around the cigarette and dropped to his side. His eyes followed that hand, and the way the spidery fingers curled in on themselves, dug into the soft skin, and uncurled again. And he can't help but wonder if the porcelain, piano hands are as soft as they look. He decides to find out, and reaches out, taking Draco's hand and removing the stick from his lips. The piano fingers are cold in his, and he brings the hand to his lips, pressing them delicately to the back of Draco's hand. Before he removed his lips, he flickered his eyes open and caught Draco's puzzled gaze.
Then he reached out, and pulled the cigarette from Draco's pink lips and let his mind wander to the possibility of his lips being as soft as his hand. He dropped both the smokes onto the ground, and took a step forward. He wound his arm around Draco's back, gently placing it atop Draco's left arm, and intertwined their fingers, resting them on the blonde's hip. Then he pulled him closer, and pressed their lips together, light pink against rose red. And he was right, Draco's lips are as soft as he anticipated. He swiped his tongue across his bottom lip and when Draco parted his lips, he slowly slid his tongue is, caressing it against Draco's own. He could feel how Draco's right arm found his neck and was now pulling them closer together while his own other hand was gripping the Slytherin's side, right above their intertwined fingers.
When they both pulled back, Draco's porcelain skin was dusted pink and he marveled in the fact that he caused his lips to be that swollen and he caused his cheeks to be that flushed and he caused his eyes to be that unfocused. Their breath came out in tuffs against each other's skin; Draco's breath is just as cold as his piano fingers.
Slowly, Draco untwined himself with him and nodded. There was a small smile playing on his swollen lips and he knows that this won't be the last of that.
But then Draco seemed to shake himself mentally and continued walking up to the castle.
He, however, smirked and pulled out another cigarette before turning and walking in the direction Draco had come from. He took slow, deliberate steps as he lit up the smoke and exhaled grey air through his nose. The sun was high in the sky now and the rays of yellow dance across the surface of the lake. Windows start to light up in the castle, and he watches as one by one, dawn breaks and wakes up the too-early risers.
After a minute of walking, he's on the other side of the lake, with half a cigarette.
Now, instead of facing the sunrise, he's facing the magnificent old castle that's bathed in red and gold and pink and white because of the sunrise.
The silence on this side of the lake is the same, but so different than any other kind of silence. It's quieter, but so much louder at the same time. It's calming, but maddening. It seeps through the skin and crawls agonizingly slow along the bones, leaving slime in its wake. It dances in the listening ears and twirls in the cool breeze.
On this side of the lake, the wind whistled in tune with the singing leaves. The branches danced to the cold hum of the melody. The trees had quiet, murmured conversations with the berry bushes resting at their roots. The water screamed at the smooth pebbles as the low tide lapped against the rocky shore.
If a pin were to drop, nature would stop and stare as the echo of the drop would shatter glass.
Maybe he is a little insane, he muses, but really? What Ravenclaw isn't a bit mad?
Harry Potter smirked to himself as that thought crossed his sleep-deprived mind. Then he flicked his cigarette butt and vanished it with a twist of his wrist. Here, at the other side of the lake – at the end of the world, he can do anything.
A/N: Yes, Harry Potter in Ravenclaw! Totally not unlike him! But that's what I wanted. I wanted to do something that wasn't right.