Warnings: Has emotion. A lot of it. Beware.

And: Slash! (Harry/Draco, if you look at it)

Note: Originally About Thanksgiving. It is no longer. Instead: One night, Harry didn't eat in the Great Hall, but instead set up a dinner with Draco, who didn't come. He might have gone to the Room of requirement, or something. I don't know. Remember, I just noticed they don't celebrate Thanksgiving anywhere but the USA. I didn't realize it when writing in a sugar-induced frenzy. Forgive me.

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Raindrops hit the castle walls,

sit alone with the turkey,

and it's getting warm from cold.

Harry, smile at the small table, watch

the stuffing curdle, because we

all know

that it's your fault,

that you're

alone.

And smile, as you eat it alone,

because Ron and Hermione are in the Great Hall, enjoying the meal,

and you know that Luna flew of,

to some foreign moon,

and the single rose you left him, didn't last,

and it shattered on the floor,

followed by glass tears.

Sit alone in the room,
because, you know,

the Malfoy sneer is the reason you're sobbing.

Don't cry Delilah;

as you know, your schizophrenic needs,

are beyond everyone's control,

and the lips covered in red,

and as the mascara smears down your face, darling,

because Harry,

maybe you should have said something you didn't.

And we all know that you're just alone now,

Harry.

The sheet has fallen,

from bone-dry shoulders, but know, it's wet with things that have never been said,

and why aren't your favorite colors blue and purple,

because that's what you're turning.

And you know, something,

eating something alone isn't that big a problem,

I'm sure the situation is just temporary, and this will

all be done,

in a year or two.

And, like dried flowers sitting in a Mason glass, forming

a water lip, on the top of the piano,

your words have made no real indentation, in the icebox of

his heart.

Maybe you would have noticed it Harry,

because in the moonlight,

maybe someone slashed their wrists,

and that's why there were those scars up his left arm.

And Harry,

If you hadn't cried to him, you

might have had a chance.

Well,

good luck now.

Sleep tight, and we'll address the problem tomorrow.

Maybe if you had admitted that those pink petals over your own acted as a few desperate rays of

sunshine,

the rain wouldn't

rattle the windows,

or carry the storm out through the glass,

to drench your book.

But you've already done that,

because you've been reading the same page, soaked with tears, and pneumonia for the past two hours,

and you're sure as Hell not moving.

And that potted plant, hanging over your head, Harry, is as pointless as your

love fest. All dead, the sprigs of Chamomile dried and white,

even though you are sniffling below,

muttering the last words he ever said to you,

rocking for hours in the rain.

You squeezed the glass so hard, it

shattered, slashing your fingers, imbedding

itself inside you,

but you didn't feel it.

You couldn't.

The dinner is still there, though the candle

has burned to a stub, and it is withering. It is after eleven Harry,

and you,

all alone,

have nothing.

Dumbledore will stop by in another day or so, after school is collected again.

He'll talk to you,

if you haven't thrown your life out

the tower window.

So, maybe by then the tear stains on your face can dry,

and then you can reattach the

cracking,

varnished,

yellowed,

aged,

decrepit little scrap you call "emotional control"

and sew the elastic back into place, before pulling it up under your hair,

and hiding the wires

that move your eyebrows,

and finish that piece of faded paper

you call a love song.

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