TACTILE

Harry Potter was a very tactile young man. He craved the touch of a fellow human being almost obsessively. In the early years of his young life, those he now referred to as his 'cupboard years', he hadn't known what it was he was craving, just that he was and that the craving wasn't being satisfied.

His Aunt and Uncle had never touched him, except in punishment; his cousin had kept clear unless he wanted a punch-bag. He had never had any childhood friends; his childhood crushes, those that inevitably happen during the late primary years, had been unfruitful due mostly to the fact that Dudley made sure no-one liked him.

When he started at Hogwarts, however, he began to receive the little touches, hand-holds, brushes of flesh on flesh and the occasional hug; he finally came to realise what he had been longing for. He realised that what he had been missing was that simple human contact, and he still wasn't getting what he wanted.

In his first year, he learned the power of touch as he killed Professor Quirrel with his bare hands. In his second year, he learned that touch went further than the physical, as Voldemort's past caught up with him. In his third he learned the touch of a loved one, albeit briefly. In his fourth he was confronted with the touch of his enemy and it left him scarred, physically as well as mentally.

In Harry's fifth year, he finally learned the touch of a girl. He shared maybe two kisses with Cho Chang and didn't know what to make of them. But throughout all those years, no-one touched him in the way he truly wanted, perhaps put off by the stigma attached to his name. Then he lost Sirius, and his world turned upside down.

He spent the summer irretrievably lost in his own world of grief, the craving for human contact seeming to have died along with his Godfather. That summer, his actions nearly had him locked in the cupboard again, for his so called 'family's' protection. He blew up at the slightest provocation. Dudley feared to even look at him any more. His Aunt and Uncle took to creeping around him.

He received the usual letters and presents on his sixteenth birthday, but he barely glanced at any of them. They seemed so worthless to him. What did material things matter to him, when Sirius was gone? In fact, what did life matter to him, now his only real link to a world besides this, was gone?

One letter caught his eye however. Professor Dumbledore had thought it prudent to send him a copy of Sirius' will. In short, everything was entailed to him. Including Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. He now had a home.

Funny that such a thing should happen once he had no one left to share that home with. It had been such a stupid realization that he had burst out laughing. The laughter had lasted for so long that his Aunt had shouted through the door at him. But he hadn't stopped; he had simply gotten louder, the laughs deeper. Eventually, he forgot why he was laughing, and the laughter began to change until he was curled up in the middle of his bedroom floor, crying in such a way that he never thought he could stop.

That night he heard his Aunt telling his Uncle what had happened. That was when the subject of locking him back in the cupboard was brought up. He didn't care; maybe in there he would be able to forget everything, locked in the encompassing darkness. Maybe if he couldn't see, his problems would go away.

On the train back to Hogwarts for his sixth year, his fellow students left him alone. All that is, except for Hermione and Ron, who kept a silent vigil in the compartment with him. After the lunch lady had been round, he suddenly felt the cloying claustrophobia, something he hadn't felt in a long time. He made his quiet but insistent apologies to his friends and made his way to the rear-most carriage. He opened the only-just-big-enough door and stepped out onto the 'balcony.'

He stood there for a moment, watching the landscape passing by, watching the slightly giddying way that the land close at hand sped, while the land far away almost crawled. Then he stepped forward and closed the door behind him, letting the cool northern air wash over him as he leaned on the high rail, letting his chin rest on his forearms.

Slowly, he became aware that he wasn't alone. He turned his head slightly to his left and allowed his eyes to rest on the other figure standing at the far side of the 'balcony.' It was Draco Malfoy, leaning with his back against the rail, apparently smoking a cigarette.

Harry turned back to the rushing view, "You'll die, you know." There was a snort from Draco's direction, "From that statement alone I can tell you were brought up by Muggles."

Harry crooked his head to look at the other boy again. His blonde hair, normally gelled to perfection, was inextricably loose and blowing every-which-way in the buffeting wind, the smoke he exhaled as Harry watched disappeared in an instant. "This isn't like those things Muggles smoke. There's nothing harmful in a Wizard cigarette." A shadow of his usual smirk crossed his lips, "Just a relaxing herb or two."

Harry smirked in turn, not really caring. He looked down and watched the tracks absently, watching it gently curve as they rounded a hill. His eyes followed the cigarette butt as it flew over the rail and disappeared somewhere along the track. He heard Draco exhale the last breath of smoke a moment later.

"So why are you out here, rather than with the Delectable Duo?" Harry felt Draco move closer and turned slightly to look at him. The blonde was leaning on the rail in the same manner as himself, giving him a quizzical look.

"Needed some air. Why are you asking anyway? It's not like we've ever gotten on before." He looked at the blonde again and caught a fleeting glimpse of - what? Sorrow? Regret? He blinked and Draco replied, "Polite curiosity, I suppose."

The two of them stood in silence for a long time after that. Harry wasn't surprised when Draco eventually rooted in his pockets and pulled out a cigarette packet, lighting up as Harry gave him a dry look. The air was getting colder the further north the train took them. Harry knew he would have to go back inside and face Ron and Hermione's silence again soon.

"Voldemort killed the last remaining link to my family three months ago." He didn't look at the other boy as he said this, "Well, Bellatrix Lestrange killed him during a fight with Voldemort. Works out as the same thing." There was a slight choking noise and he finally turned to look at Draco, who appeared to have choked on a breath of smoke. Reacting rather than thinking, Harry smacked the blondes back a few times.

When Draco had recovered he gave Harry a strange look, "Aunt Bella?" He straightened as Harry nodded, returning to lean on the rail, "I never knew Aunt Bella, but Mother was always talking about her."

Wondering quite why he had told Draco Malfoy, of all people, what had happened at the end of last year, Harry watched the sky as it began darkening. He heard Draco pull shakily on the cigarette once more. "'Knew'?" he asked after a moment, turning slightly to look at the Slytherin again.

Draco nodded, "Knew. She's still alive, I think, but I've...left. Voldemort is short one Death Eater this time around."

Harry raised his eyebrows, "When?"

Another shaky drag on the cigarette. Harry noticed Draco's hand was trembling slightly, the other one was stuffed firmly in his trouser pocket. "Over the summer. Doesn't mean I like you any more than I did, though. It simply means I'm not going to grovel at the feet of some sadistic maniac with a superiority complex."

This time Harry did smirk. He looked at the sky again. One or two stars had begun to shine, to his right the sky was still a pale blue, washed with some pink, to the left the sky was almost black. He was now thoroughly frozen, so he stood back from the rail and wrapped his arms around himself.

He looked at Draco. The gray eyes were watching him, the cigarette hanging limply from his smooth, pale lips. "How about a truce, Malfoy?" He held out his right hand.

For a moment those eyes stayed on his own, and then Draco blinked and took his offered hand, "Sure." Harry allowed himself to smile and gripped Draco's hand, suddenly feeling the full force of that craving for the first time in three months. He pulled back after a moment.

"I'll see you at the Feast." He left Draco standing on the 'balcony' with his cigarette and closed the door quietly behind him.

After his first Quidditch Practice session, Harry found himself sitting alone in the stands staring at nothing as the clouds skimmed across the sky above him. So far this year he had kept himself to himself, avoiding everyone he could, despite his need to be touched, to be held, to be kissed. Since Sirius had died, he had first lost that need and now fought it. He wanted to be alone.

Ron and Hermione had noticed the growing distance he placed between himself and everyone else. He didn't want to hurt them, that wasn't his intention at all, but he couldn't stop, in his mind he saw over and over again, that swish of cloth as Sirius fell through the archway. He thought, in a detached sought of fashion, that if he distanced himself, nobody else would get hurt or die.

Professor Dumbledore had tried to get him to talk about it, but after last term, Harry couldn't bring himself to tell the old man anything. Surely he was entitled to his own secrets now? Harry sighed and stretched, putting his feet up on the seat-back in front of him, crossing his legs at the ankle. He caught a scent that was familiar and looked around.

Draco was walking slowly towards him, a recently lit cigarette hanging limply between his lips.

They had been true to their word, once they had reached the school; the truce had been well underway. They didn't exactly ignore one another, but they no longer jumped down one another's throats, or picked on one another's friends. In fact, things had been perfectly amiable between them since their quiet conversation on the train. Harry had also begun to realise that Draco was the only person, besides Ron and Hermione, whom he had refrained from completely distancing himself.

Draco sat down one chair away from him, taking hold of his cigarette as he pulled a drag, letting it rest between his fingers as he exhaled a moment or so later.

"When did you start smoking, anyway?" Harry asked lethargically, giving the cream coloured stick a cool look. Draco took another drag before answering, the smoke pouring from his mouth as he did so, "Over the summer. What are you doing out here?"

With a vague sense of déjà vu, Harry returned his gaze to thin air, "Needed some air." Draco laughed lightly, obviously remembering the same thing. Harry looked at him again as Draco inhaled once more.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked, watching as Draco closed his eyes, holding the inhaled cigarette smoke in his lungs for a moment before exhaling it through his nose.

"Same thing, wanted a fag." Harry found himself on the receiving end of a shrewd look, "Want to try one?" Draco held out the cigarette, lightly balanced between two long, pale fingers. Not quite knowing why he did it, Harry reached out and took the creamy stick. As he did so however, his fingers, currently devoid of his Quidditch gloves, brushed against Draco's. It was the first real contact with anyone since the train journey.

He fumbled and dropped the cigarette.

With a small noise of embarrassment and frustration, Harry quickly bent to retrieve it and once again found his fingers brushing against the blondes.

He moved so quickly you would have thought he'd seen a snitch. Draco straightened and gave him a strange look, one eyebrow arched in a way very reminiscent of Professor Snape. Harry was sitting on his own hands, staring out over the Quidditch Pitch in frustration. For some reason that he couldn't quite fathom, he felt like an idiot.

"Do you have a bad case of Hypersensitivity, or do you just find a Slytherin that repulsive?"

Harry gave the other youth an incredulous look, "It's – I mean..." He didn't know what to say. He had made the decision to push everyone away, had spent the past two weeks fending off even the gentlest touch, avoiding all hugs like the plague. Despite this, he still wanted to be touched, his whole body clamored for it, and that brief touch had just served as a reminder. He couldn't explain this to Draco Malfoy though, he wouldn't understand.

Draco gave him another calculating look, putting the cigarette back between his lips. They lapsed into silence until the cigarette ended, at which point Draco stood, stubbed out the butt with his boot toe then banishing it with a lazy flick of his wand.

"You coming back, or will you spend the rest of the day sitting on your hands?"

Lucky it was a Saturday.

Another week into the term and Harry started having nightmares again. He woke every morning covered in sweat, his scar burning so badly, he was almost blinded by the pain. He found he couldn't eat breakfast anymore and ate very little at lunch. He lived solely on what he managed to force down at dinner. Ron and Hermione worried about him, often encouraging him to eat or to see Madam Pomfrey, Professor McGonagall, Professor Dumbledore. He only shook his head, determined to work out his nightmares by himself.

The nightmares were actually fairly tame compared to some he had had over the years, but they filled him with even more dread for their utter simplicity. They were all variations on the same theme.

Sensory deprivation.

Which was silly. Wasn't that what he was doing to himself anyway?

In most of the nightmares, he was completely unable to feel anything and he spent eternity trying to get someone, anyone to touch him and bring back the senses that he craved. But no one would, always either ignoring his pleas or rebuffing him. But in the others, his situation was reversed, he was hypersensitive, so much so that any touch burned like a red hot iron and people kept touching him. Oblivious to his pain, they crowded in to touch, stroke, caress and hug him for eternity.

Both nightmares were driving him mad.

He put them down to his loss of Sirius, some form of shock, and simply worked his way through the days trying not to think about them.

So his marks improved, even in Potions – where he became increasingly aware of Draco's eyes on him. But he became an insomniac as a result. He started staying up later than everyone else, studying as a way to put off sleeping. When he couldn't keep his mind on studying, he took to haunting the castle, under the anonymity of his invisibility cloak.

Which is why he stumbled over Draco one night. The blonde was sitting on the top step of a short staircase leading down into an open courtyard, apparently watching the stars as he smoked another cigarette, flicking the ash at the cold ground below him.

Harry walked up behind him, pulling off the cloak as he did. Draco inclined his head in greeting, not showing any surprise at Harry's sudden appearance or the invisibility cloak. He shifted sideways slightly on the step and Harry sat down next to him, keeping a discreet distance.

Draco exhaled, his misting breath mixing with the smoke that rose and spread above them. Harry watched the shapes it made in the air.

"What are you doing out here?" Draco asked quietly, the cigarette hanging limp between two fingers.

"Needed some air." Harry folded his cloak and draped it over his shoulder and asked in turn, "Can't sleep?"

Draco pulled on the cigarette again, "Nope."

Harry looked at his hands, "Insomnia?"

Draco exhaled as he replied, "Yup."

Harry turned and looked at him, "When did that happen?"

A pause and then Draco looked at him, "Over the summer."

Once again feeling a sense of déjà vu, Harry wrapped his arms round his knees and looked at the stars.

"Oh come on, Harry, eat something at least!"

Harry tried his best not to glare at Hermione, but it was hard going. "I can't. If I eat anything now, my stomach will hate me and I won't be able to eat dinner." Hermione frowned at him while Ron gave him a flummoxed look, his mouth full of bacon.

He rolled his eyes at them both and, just to appease Hermione, he poured himself a glass of pumpkin juice. He began sipping it with the intention of drinking less than half by the time breakfast was over.

Last year, if he'd had Potions first thing in the morning, he would have stuffed himself, just for the extra energy to get through the double period. But these days, he knew he was doing well enough, based on his marks, so he didn't mind not being able to eat. He just hoped the pumpkin juice wasn't going to make a repeat performance.

Of course, thinking about Potions brought his mind to Snape, which inevitably turned his mind to Sirius. Harry choked on his mouthful of pumpkin juice, swallowed it, stood and left the Great Hall as quickly as he could, swinging his book-bag over his shoulder as he did so. He thought he heard Ron and Hermione calling after him, but he ignored their voices and ran.

When he stopped running, he realised he was standing in the dungeons, somewhere near the Potions rooms. Tears were running down his cheeks, but he didn't care. After a moment, he sank to the floor, his back to the wall, barely feeling the chill stone-work through his thin robes. He dropped his face into his hands, trying to stop the deep wracking sobs that were threatening to burst forth and overwhelm him.

Slowly he became aware of footsteps heading in his direction. They were moving at a leisurely pace, completely unhurried, and he knew he aught to get up before they reached him. But he couldn't, he was frozen to the spot. The footsteps stopped directly in front of him. There was a barely audible sigh, some movement and when he looked up, he saw it was Draco. The blonde was leaning against the wall beside him, one foot propped against the stones, knee bent at a jaunty angle.

"What are you doing out here?"

Harry wiped the tear tracks from his face and, recognizing the now familiar exchange, he mumbled, "Needed some air."

Draco pushed off from the wall and looked down at him, "You coming to Potions?" He offered one slim fingered, pale hand. Harry stared at it, alternately wanting and not wanting to grasp it with his own. His body made the decision for him, and before he knew what was happening, Draco had pulled him to his feet. He overbalanced and with a small cry of anguish, ended up in Draco's arms. Sensory overload.

To the Slytherin's apparent astonishment, he sprang backwards and out of his arms as quickly as humanly possible, then turned bright red. Draco nonchalantly patted himself down, straightening his robes while eyeing Harry warily.

"What was that about?"

Harry re-slung his book-bag over his shoulder and looked at the floor, "Nothing. Lets go to Potions." As he turned away, he felt Draco's hand on his arm. Fighting the urge to shake it off, he turned back and gave him a surprised look. Draco's wand was pointed straight between his eyes.

"Vigoratus."

He blinked as the inflamed feel of his eyes and face calmed down. He brought a hand up and realised Draco had removed any trace of his tears.

"When did you learn how to do that?"

Draco smirked, putting his wand back in his sleeve, "Over the summer."

TBC