PLEASE READ
this was orignally a piece i did for my english class. but after re-reading it i felt that it was perfect for harry/draco
so this is harry's perspective if draco ever died.
i dont own harry potter, if i did i promise this would never happen, i love them too much.
A place I do not like.
It's been 40 day's. 40 long slow day's since the accident. 40 day's since I have stood outside this god forsaken house.
I forgot you planted roses, there dying now, you know, withering like you. They surround the house clutching tightly, clutching as if its there life force.
And the house, you said it had charm, you said…but now it looks sad. Pathetic. The dreary Smokey grey of the walls and the big hollow windows staring blankly at me. Yes pathetic.
I opened the door, and crunch, I look down and under my foot there was my stale white mail lying delicately there, I lean down and look closer. Not mine, his, I throw it in the bin with disgust.
I didn't have the heart to turn on the light. Light I scoff. Brightness? In this place? A place like this only deserves this dank gloom; I felt the darkness fitted smugly in the corners and knacks of the room, who am I to remove such a joy?
I sighed, shrugging off my coat, ghostly laughter filled the hallway. I put my coat were I always did. On the right hook, trying to ignore the dusty coat on the left hook. Ignorance is bliss – a mantra that overtook my head, and my every movement.
I past the dank hallway and a gruesome tasteless smell filled my nostrils. I am sure if I cared enough my gag reflexes would have started in full motion, but how could I care?
Then, I was in that room, your favourite room. I touched your favourite chair, and a faint familiar smell expelled from it. This was not what made me hate this room; it was when I saw the glass.
The glass so innocently perched on the table, a cruel reminder of you. Cruel reminders of you're once beating heart, your laugh, and those smiles.
That's why I hate this room.
I picked up the glass, in my hand; I looked closer and saw your finger prints, vainly painted on there with your oily hands. My shaking thumb filled the spot where yours once was, as if a fingerprint could hug me, touch me, love me.
It's too much. You're gone. With a hitch in my breathe and a slow cold tear. I drop the glass. And leave through the open door. The hallway looked sad now, wrapped up in its darkness, suffocating in it.
I saw his coat now, dusted with age, and cold from disuse. I glance into the kitchen and the repulsive vulgar smell from earlier shot through me, I couldn't escape it, and it seeped into my veins, digging into me. I found the source of it quickly. It was the mouldy sandwich I was making when I got the call, the same knife was still lying on the plate, and the jam jar was still half opened.
With a vile taste of horror in my mouth, I sank to the floor, all notice of smell, sight or taste left.
And I was alone with my grief.
