Title: "Citrus"

Author: Kooriblue
Aim: kooriblue
Rating: PG13
Category: ummm?
Warning: HP/DM; Abused!Harry;
Disclaimer: I don't own anything at all. Just keep the men in the white coats away.
Author Notes: I know I can't write. Normally, I wouldn't even put such a horrific thing out there. It's all Jeffina's fault. Also, title has no relation to actual "lemon." Sorry. Truly, I am.
Dedication: To Jeffina

Summary: War has an ambience of desperation and helplessness. Sometimes, when you're torn between orders and soft words, you find yourself slipping to apathy and as the ground collapses, death isn't so frightening anymore. Killing Harry Potter shouldn't be so hard for Draco Malfoy. Dying shouldn't be so easy for Harry.

Chapter Three. (In which Draco's annoyed, Harry hates cat-dust-crap, and nothing really happens) Next chapter will be more, I promise.

Pansy is telling someone about her second cousin twice removed who is actually a prince. Again. Draco wonders how many times a person can talk about the same thing to the same people without tiring of it. He wonders how those people can listen to the same thing from the same person without tiring of it. Draco personally can't stand hearing it for the 38th time. He had started counting after her sixth. He wishes somebody would say, "Shut up Pansy! You are a cunt!"

"Wow, is he really a prince?" He gives Pansy an "I'm interested" look. He half wishes she could see that he is laughing at her beneath everything. He never says what he's really feeling, Perhaps because he's a Malfoy, Perhaps because he finds it amusing, Perhaps because he is just a coward, after all. His smile falters. He looks toward Potter, chattering with his friends. He wonders if Potter is remembering last night, or if he has succeeded at forgetting about it for the moment, something Draco has been repeatedly trying to do since this morning, and utterly failing at. He sees Potter suddenly look up from his toast, meet Draco's eyes, then glance hurriedly back down again. For some unknown reason, that glance was comforting. An assurance of No, I haven't forgotten you, like everybody else has. A root of something takes hold in Draco's mind. Like a weed. An ugly, obtrusive weed. Draco doesn't like it. He hates it. He hates that it makes him despise his housemates, despise the people he should be looking up to. He hates the way it seeps into his neck muscles, forcing his head to turn in Potter's direction, against his will. He hates the way it obliterates and suffocates anything else in his mind. He hates the way he wants it to grow.

He decides that he could probably breathe better if he left the room. He politely excuses himself. Always Polite. Always assured, calm, collected. He lets his fingers linger on Pansy's shoulder as he gets up to go. She smiles at him, with no idea that he is imagining his fingers as red-hot pokers that burn through her flesh. He gives her a half-smile. Calm, collected. He turns to go but cannot for the life of him stop his disobedient neck from directing his gaze once more to the Gryffindor table. He curses, and disappears through the doors. He has homework due in twelve and a half minutes.

Harry severely dislikes thinking about Malfoy. So much so that it seems to add an unpleasant residue to his day. Harry impulsively remembers Mrs. Fig, the cat lady. Thinking about Malfoy was like cleaning out eight cat litter boxes. The dust would rise up and infiltrate his nostrils, stick to the back of his throat, make him want to vomit. Think about where that dust has been. Think about all that Crap. He would run his tongue against the back of his teeth, feel the residue of cat-dust-crap; yes, he hates thinking about Malfoy that much. Yet, he can't make himself refrain from doing so. He supposes he has no one to blame but himself. Why had he agreed to meet Malfoy tonight? What had possibly overcome him to agree to that?

It gives him something to think about, though. Sometimes he just wants something to think about, even if it is cat-dust-crap. It's better than nothing. Even more than he hates thinking about Malfoy, he hates thinking about nothing. Nothing at all. Just fear, cold and clammy against his gut. What is coming tomorrow? When is it all going to break me down? He tries not to care. He tries to get tired of it, to get bored with it, but this incessant fear is always gnawing at the lining of his stomach. It helps to pretend he is bored of everything. Bored of the war. Bored of hurting. Bored of life.

He isn't bored of Malfoy yet, so he is still thinking about the slithering nuisance during Potions, his last hour of the day, and he can hardly remember what happened during care of magical creatures. Snape finds an inopportune time to inform the class of the assignment- an essay, of course. Harry groans with the rest. Then groans again when he remembers his care of magical creatures assignment- an essay. He groans again when he realizes they are both due tomorrow. He groans once more just to top it all off.

Ron ends up asking him if he's alright. Hermione ends up giving him a concerned look. Nobody asks what the fourth one was for. Harry smiles, like it is a joke.

"It's nothing. My mouth just tastes like cat-dust-crap. The jelly I ate this morning on my toast was probably expired."

They both give him a look that said, "… but that was breakfast. It's been hours.." combined with, "Cat-dust-crap? What are you talking about?" He fires back with a look that said, "Don't you ever get that taste in your mouth? No? Never mind. You wouldn't understand.."

Harry is glad that He, Ron, and Hermione had gotten so good at reading each other's looks; it was like they could hold entire conversations. Complicated ones, too, without saying a word. It made things simpler, easier. He never even has to make conversation. That is what he wants, isn't it? Simplicity. Easy. Boring. That is what he wants…