Harry is still.
He usually is, he always moves softly, as though worried about disturbing others.
But he is too still, and too silent, and too cold. Almost like he's...
No. No, Draco will not think of that. He's not.
He's alive, just really, really tired, he must have gotten in late last night.
Draco covers him with a blanket, Harry's cold, and there's a blue tinge to his lips.
Why is his wand in his hand? He always puts it in the bureau drawer, he doesn't sleep with it.
None of this makes sense. Any moment now Harry will wake, and his eyes will shine, and he'll ask, What's the matter Draco? Scared? And Draco will just smirk.
And they'll kiss, and Harry will make breakfast, because he cooks better then Draco does.
Harry never sleeps past seven, and it's almost noon. Why is he so tired?
He probably just had a nightmare, and that's why he looks so pale and sickly.
Anyway, Harry would never commit suicide. Not after Draco almost did, and Harry found him, and talked him out of it, and they kissed for the first time, with snow melting in their hair and catching in Harry's eyelashes.
Harry never keeps secrets anymore.
If only Harry would wake up and rub his eyes and laugh and stop looking so-
-dead.
Because he's not.
He can't be.