Chérie, parchments and quills
Chapter Eighteen – Draco's dilemma and delusions

(Author Note: At risk of a spoiler, I wish to warn my dear readers that this chapter contains a scene where Draco scratches himself rather harshly. It falls under self-harm, but for Draco, it isn't really intended as self-harm. Please ask if you need more info, and comment/review if you liked this chapter. XD)

"Mr Potter?" Madam Pomfrey's rather unimpressed voice, startled him awake…

Awake?

Harry lifted his head, blinking as he repositioned his glasses, realising he had indeed fallen to sleep at Draco's bedside. His back ached from the position he'd been in – his head resting on the bed while still sitting in the red armchair he'd conjured.

"What time is it?" Harry mumbled, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses; he hated falling asleep in his glasses, they either ended up bent or broken, or they left marks on his face, but luckily, they seemed fine this time around.

"It's four-thirty-five in the morning Mr Potter, and YOU are NOT above the rules of visiting hours!" She reproached him in her loudest whisper, hands on her hips, and her tone harsh and cutting.

"Sorry," Harry apologised sheepishly, "I couldn't sleep."

Standing up, Harry began to make his hasty retreat – before he suffered anymore of the angry healer's wrath. It was true; he'd finally fallen asleep after tossing and turning in bed for ages – worried about a certain blond haired potions teacher, only to be woken up half an hour later by nightmares.

"That does not give you special rights to doss around in my hospital wing, well outside visiting hours I might add! I suggest warm milk and honey Mr Potter … … Well get out then!" She shooed him.

Harry fled the hospital wing like a scolded child caught with their parent's wand; the matron could be bloody scary sometimes.

Madam Pomfrey, on the other hand, tutted as Harry left her hospital wing, shaking her head as she turned to face her patient with a knowing smile gracing her lips.

"He cares a great deal about you, you know?" Madam Pomfrey whispered, more to herself than anything, since she knew that Draco was deep asleep and would remain so until the morning at least. Thank Merlin for sleeping draughts – it would have been impossible to keep the man in bed otherwise, and he needed the sleep.

Shaking her head as she returned to her office and private chamber, she thought back to the 1990's – the fierce rivalry between Harry and Draco was almost iconic, but now look at them … who would have guessed it?

It was immensely warm, so warm that he wanted to return to his slumber – – but his left hand stung painfully, especially when he tried to move it. Biting back a groan, he blinked his eyes open only to shut them again when the light nearly blinded him. He tried again, opening his lids slowly until his eyes adjusted to the bright white light – the damn hospital wing! He defiantly groaned out loud that time.

"Good morning Mr Malfoy, I have potions here for you." Madam Pomfrey sauntered over, placing the potions down on the bedside cabinet.

With his mind still foggy, and felling rather congested with a slight headache, he suddenly felt his back being propped up against the cushions – forcing him upright.

"Take this!" Madam Pomfrey ordered, handing over a potion he didn't recognise – which was strange, he was a potions master!

"What is it?" He mumbled. Pride be damned; he wouldn't consume some unknown potion.

"The Warmendall potion. You have the Snowflu Mr Malfoy, remember?" Madam Pomfrey informed him, impatiently shoving the vial into his hand.

So, this obviously wasn't the first time Poppy had informed him of his illness, but he didn't remember that … in fact he didn't even remember how he'd gotten to the hospital wing in the first place. Losing one's memory, was never a comforting thought, but perhaps his brain fog would abate once he'd had time to wake up properly.

Well, at least he knew what the Warmendall potion was, not that he'd had a reason to see it before – nor had he ever brewed it. He trusted Poppy however, so he did as he was instructed.

He wrinkled his face at the disgusting, burning taste as the potion went down the hatch. The sensation it caused was not unlike Firewhisky, but the heat radiated outwards from his stomach until it had pervaded his entire body. He felt so hot, yet his hands, his feet and his other extremities were still painfully cold. He'd heard of the Snowflu, but wasn't it a virus that children caught from diminutive pixies? He went to make his inquiries, but Poppy was handing him yet another potion.

"Now this one, then you can have your breakfast!" Madam Pomfrey instructed in her no-nonsense attitude.

As Poppy handed him the vial, he recognised it as a mild pain reducing draught and assumed that it was to reduce the stinging that he was suffering in his extremities. He downed the potion quickly, relieved when his symptoms started to alleviate… but they didn't go away completely.

"Swotty!" Madam Pomfrey called for one of the house elves that were familiar with her requirements. "Breakfast for Mr Malfoy please Swotty, no Lupine. A level two FGI should suffice."

Swotty bowed before leaving to follow her orders. A level two FGI (for general illness), was simply a small breakfast for someone that hadn't eaten much due to being unwell, or for someone that couldn't stomach much due to an illness. It was to be something light, small, and easy for someone recovering. If a particular diet was otherwise required, Madam Pomfrey would be more specific – the reminder that Draco was allergic to Lupine, was just a small example of this.

Madam Pomfrey then turned to face Draco again, observing him for changes in symptoms, health… and mentality.

Draco frowned, why was she looking at him like that – as if she expected him to bolt from the room or something?

"How are you feeling now?" She asked him hesitantly.

"My extremities are still cold." He complained, feeling as if he should be treated like the Malfoy he was. He was rather surprised by his own rising superiority, but suddenly, it became more confusing that he hadn't been demanding better treatment beforehand.

"Yes well, we can only reduce the pain I'm afraid. No potion will be able to stop the cold flashes entirely." Madam Pomfrey explained, she knew that Draco had suddenly regressed in age, again – not something she enjoyed at all. "You will just have deal with it until it passes."

"That's not good enough! I demand something better or my father will hear about this!" Draco threatened. He hissed as his right foot started smarting from the frosty sensation that was growing there.

"Unless your father knows how to brew a potion that doesn't exist yet, I feel your efforts will be in vain." She replied, deciding not to mention his father's imprisonment – Draco was confused right now, so that news would not go over well at all.

'It's going to be a very long Monday.' – Poppy thought, ignoring Draco's protests as she walked back to her office.

"My father will hear about this!"

Harry heard as he entered the hospital wing Tuesday Morning, greeted with the scene of a furious Draco shouting at Madam Pomfrey… again.

"Mr Malfoy, you will eat that food or I will bind you–"

"What's going on?" Harry asked, reaching Draco's bed. He put his bag onto the floor, along with the box he had been carrying.

"Mr Malfoy," Poppy started, turning to face Harry – for once, she was glad he was here, "Is refusing to eat and will, apparently, be telling his father about it."

'Ah.' – Harry thought, nodding his understanding; Draco kept referring to his father when he regressed in age, and it was almost as if he was subconsciously missing the man. It was strange that Lucius Malfoy was always the one that Draco mentioned when unaware of his present feeling and memories.

"I always have Pancakes and ice-cream when feeling under the weather!" Draco insisted. Sometimes his mother would even ask the house elves to spread a little chocolate onto his pancakes too. His father would complain that Mother spoiled him, but he let her do it regardless… his parents loved him.

Harry looked at Draco, he was sitting there pouting angrily with his arms crossed in defiance. He noticed the bowl of runny hot porridge, the berries on top of it, and the rather dry toast that sat on a plate next to the bowl. It certainly wasn't pancakes and ice-cream.

"He still has the childish symptoms then?" Harry asked Poppy. "It's been about thirty-eight hours. Shouldn't they have lessened by now?"

Draco had been brought into the infirmary Sunday evening; it was now Tuesday morning. Harry had visited the man for hours yesterday, but Madam Pomfrey had given him a sleeping draught in the end because the man kept hallucinating and panicking – the calming draughts hadn't helped either, and Draco kept getting out of bed. When he hadn't been panicking, he had been complaining; Draco kept threatening to report them both to his father, and although Harry had chuckled, Madam Pomfrey was at the end of her tether – especially with the fluctuation of Draco's acting age.

"He appeared to be his old self when he first woke up, I suspect his symptoms will be spasmodic until her recovers fully. It seems he no longer suffers with hallucinations at least."

Draco had been listening, and he was becoming indignant, angry, that were talking about him. He was right there! How rude of them! However, before he could express his feelings on that, he felt a wave of safety wash over him… Harry was here!

"Harry!" Draco said, a beaming smiling overcame his face. Harry was so kind, wonderful, safe. Harry would get him Pancakes!

"Hey Draco, how are you feeling?" Harry asked, unsure to which Draco he would get today.

Madam Pomfrey excused herself, quite happy to leave Harry dealing with the unstable Malfoy. Harry nodded, and returned his attention to the man. Draco responded better in Harry presence, and Harry didn't quite know how he felt about that. Radiant, that Draco trusted and preferred his company? Bittersweet, that Draco only clang to him because he wasn't mentally unstable? Perhaps he should feel more aggrieved that Draco only wanted him when he was ill.

"I'd feel better if I didn't have to eat this slop!" Draco complained.

"Well, you can't have ice-cream because it will make your cold hands and feet worse. You need to eat something warm, like that porridge." Harry explained, pointing to the tray that sat on the table at the bottom of the bed.

"Eugh!" Draco scrunched up his face.

"You don't like Porridge?" Harry asked as he sat in the armchair that was still there for him.

"Not this slop! There isn't even any honey in it."

"What if we got you some honey?" Harry asked, trying to pacify a childish Draco Malfoy.

It was confusing how protective he felt towards the man right now. Whenever Draco regressed in age, Harry had the sudden urge to… what? Parent the man? Any other time he'd been in the man's company – when Draco wasn't unwell, he'd wanted to do very illicit things to the delectable body that lay hidden beneath the clothes… wanted to kiss the man into yielding to him... into forgetting about Padfoot and just choosing him instead.

"And cinnamon?" Draco asked, unaware of Harry's whirling thoughts, and hesitantly deciding that it wouldn't be so bad if he could get honey and cinnamon. He would eat it for Harry… Harry made him feel special. Harry cared about what he wanted.

Harry chuckled. "And cinnamon, yes. Would you eat it then?"

Draco nodded, so Harry went to check with Poppy that honey and cinnamon wouldn't affect the potions that Draco had taken.

Draco waited for Harry to come back, but he slowly grew confused. Wasn't his father in prison? Wasn't he just a vile, corrupted Death Eater now? Tearing back the sleeve of his pyjamas, he stared at the fading dark mark there – the confirmation that he was indeed tainted. That mark represented who he really was, the darkness that flowed in his veins, the errors of his past… he didn't want it!

Draco started scratching at the mark – maybe he could scratch it away, maybe if he removed it he could be worthy of Harry's affections.

He didn't feel the pain as his skin torn beneath his nails. He didn't blink when it started to bleed. He didn't notice as tears fell from his eyes in his desperate need to erase the evidence of his sinful past.

"Draco NO!" Harry shouted, rushing over and stopping him. What on earth had possessed Draco to such actions? Harry knew he hated the Dark Mark, but it was telling how much he despised it if he was willing to hurt himself trying to remove it in such a way. It upset him how delirious, how confused Draco had become so suddenly, and something had stricken the man's mind to draw such a response. Harry wondered what Draco had remembered, had thought about…

"I have to!" Draco repeated, fighting to get out of Harry's sudden hold – trying to return his actions of removing the taint from his skin. "I have to!" He screamed.

"Why?" Harry asked, holding Draco tightly against his chest as the man cried out his protests.

"I want you!" Draco cried, sobbing into Harry shirt as he realised his fighting was futile.

"What?" Harry asked, wondering if he'd heard wrong.

"What's going on?" Madam Pomfrey asked, not waiting for an answer when she saw the blood on Draco's left arm. She instantly rushed away to fetch the healing salve and a bandage.

Harry didn't ask Draco again, not wanting Poppy to overhear them, and he rubbed at Draco's back to calm the man down. "It's okay Draco. It's going to fine. You don't need to hurt yourself!"

Draco continued to cry, not saying anything, and not even when Poppy came over to treat the scratches and broken skin did Draco utter another word. He just let her treat him in silence, his tears drying on his cheeks. Poppy had asked what had happened, but Draco had gone so deathly silent, just staring down at his own lap, that they were worried about him.

"I think he just remembered that he had the dark mark." Harry explained, not sure that was all it was.

"I noticed old scars there." Poppy admitted quietly, glancing at the still form of Draco worriedly.

"He doesn't – He just – I think he must have done that years ago. I really don't think it's something he still does. If I had to guess, I'd say he did that not long after the war. He probably just wanted to remove the mark… nothing else."

Harry hoped that was the case – it wasn't like Draco had scars like that anywhere else. No, Harry truly believed that Draco just wished he could remove the Dark mark from his arm… that he could remove such a glaring reminder of his past misdeeds. It was likely that the man had realised that it couldn't be removed and had given up trying… perhaps, in more ways than one.

Draco always said that the Mark was a constant reminder. Harry had started to realised that it was more than that… It was an anchor to the past, and anchor that prevented Draco from moving on with his life, from embracing his future. Harry could understand how such a strong hold would be abhorrent, it would be to himself if he were in Draco's shoes. Why wouldn't a person do anything to remove the shackles that bound you; he'd read horrible stories of Wizards removing their own limbs to escape their captors. He was thankful that Draco had never become so desperate that he had removed his own arm – – But would that even work? Would the mark perhaps move to another limb? Did Draco know this?

"Keep an eye on him." Poppy said. Harry nodded, returning to Draco's bedside once Poppy returned to her office.

One of the house elves had left some honey and cinnamon while Poppy had been treating Draco's arm. Harry used it to start up a conversation.

"Well, "Harry said, hoping to get a reaction from the blond, "we have Honey!" Draco slowly turned his head to look at him, and then he looked down at the breakfast tray that Harry had just slipped onto his lap. "Come on," Harry encouraged, trying to forget what Draco had said during his hysteria, "You really do need to eat something."

"Harry?" Draco frowned. He was confused again; why did he feel so downcast and miserable? "What's?" Draco shook his head. He remembered scratching at his arm, but he couldn't remember why he had the sudden impulse to do so. It had been years since he'd tried to disfigure or removed the mark in such a way.

"The Snowflu is certainly sending you for a loop huh?" Harry asked, smiling sadly. This was a symptom they'd discovered that hadn't been mentioned in the books – lapses in memory. Poppy suggested that the adult mind did so because it couldn't cope with the fluctuations in his mental age, that the virus was temporarily affecting the brain. It made sense, was a good theory, but it wasn't easy to watch.

"The Snowflu?" Draco repeated.

"Yeah. You'll be right as rain soon." Harry assured him, nodding. "You were brought here Sunday evening. It's Tuesday morning now. The symptoms are supposed to last about forty-eight hours."

"Symptoms?" Draco's asked.

Harry wondered if Draco was himself right now, or at least close to his real age. He seemed calmer, more mature, but he was still dubious of Draco's state of mind.

"Your extremities – hands, feet, face, are going to feel really cold sometimes."

"I'm not a child Harry! I do know what extremities are." Draco then picked up the spoon on his tray and started to eat his porridge. "Eugh! It's bloody bland." He complained, adding some of the honey and Cinnamon he then spotted on the tray.

Harry chuckled.

"What? I'm bloody starving!" Draco said. "I don't starve myself like you seem content to do. I don't skip meals!"

Harry sighed – "I don't skip meals Draco. I eat in my room. Kreacher brings–"

"Food to your room." Draco interrupted. "Yes, you said. I'm just not sure I believe you." Draco admitted, returning to his porridge now that it had been sweeten at least.

"You can ask Kreacher if you like." Harry said, wondering how this had turned onto his own eating habits.

"If I did, would he tell me that you eat three meals a day?" Draco asked pointedly.

"Not exactly." Harry admitted. "I just don't need that much food – okay!" It was true, he'd always eaten little and been content. He hadn't felt the true pains of hunger for years, just the typical, over used phrase that many meant when they said 'I'm starved, I could eat a horse!' So many people said that, but they'd never experienced real hunger.

'Cupboard now! No meals!' Vernon ground out in his rage. Harry just didn't understand why he'd not been hurt when Dudley had 'accidentally' shoved him down the stairs, or why the wooden post at the bottom seemed to have moved, but arguing was always futile.

Vernon had meant to starve him for three days – knowing that the body could last ages without food but only three days without water. Petunia had slipped him a small cup of water and a piece of stale bread once a day, and it always feed that futile desire to one day be loved, or at least accepted by his aunt. She'd even let Harry out to use to the bathroom, arguing with Vernon that she didn't want the smell infecting her home… but Harry had believed that there was a tiny, diminutive amount of concern there for him… if only he could prove that he was worth it…

"Harry?"

"Sorry, what did you say?" Harry asked, looking into concerned grey eyes.

"You went somewhere didn't you?" Draco asked, knowing that Harry had one of his mind haze episodes.

"Yeah. Kind of." Harry admitted, but he said no more. What could he say?

"It's obvious that your eating habits are not healthy Potter – – Harry. I'd like to know why that is… I won't pressure you into telling me, but I am curios." Draco admitted. He had his theories; Harry had said that his life with his muggle relatives wasn't exactly splendid, and that made him wonder if they had been poor and unable to afford food, or if they had withheld food from Harry. Had Harry been abused while the world thought their saviour was pampered and loved?

"I'm not ready to talk about it." Harry said, not denying that Draco was right. "I really don't think it's much of issue though. I do eat Draco! Just because I eat when I feel like it, and not three perfect meals a day, doesn't mean I'm starving myself."

"No. That's not what I meant. I just wondered what happen to cause your absurd eating habits. You eat small amounts, when you feel hungry, I presume, and you eat a lot of meat. You rarely join us in the Great Hall for meals, and you always seem to wait until everyone else starts eating before you do."

Harry blinked in shock, taken aback; the fact that Draco had noticed so many of his idiosyncrasies was both endearing and alarming… disturbing in fact. He hadn't thought about his habits as a whole before, never thought about what they would look like to people around him.

"It's fine." Draco said, finishing his bowl of porridge and sucking his spoon clean. "Maybe you'll tell me one day, maybe you won't. Like I said I'm just – Aughhh!"

Draco dropped his spoon as the hand holding it turned blue. The spoon fell onto the floor and clattered while Draco grimaced in pain. Looking down at the ice on his nails, the frost that covered his fingers, Draco frowned in alarm – "What in Salazar's name?"

"It's a symptom of the Snowflu." Harry explained. "It will pass in a moment. Here!" Harry took the corner of the blanket, wrapped it around Draco's right hand, and added the strongest warming charm he could.

Draco sighed as the heat seemed to help, even if only slightly. "Thanks." He said, but frowned once again in shock. "So, that's normal?" He'd felt the same symptoms in his feet, but he hadn't realised that they had literally frozen!

"Afraid so. Your extremities will sufferer from 'icy cold flashes' sometimes. You should be fine to leave the hospital wing tomorrow, but the cold flashes might last about five more days." Harry explained.

"What the hell are you on about Potter!" Draco snapped.

Harry was taken aback for a few seconds, before sighing – Here we go again! Draco had regressed in age once more.

"Aughhh! My head." Draco complained Wednesday morning to a bossy Poppy. Such bizarre memories were circling in his usually organised mind – some that were horrifyingly embarrassing, and there were also periods that were just totally blank. He'd been reminded of his illness the moment he'd woken up, the bloody Snowflu of all things, and he blamed Potter! It was all Harry bloody Potter's fault that he'd been in the hospital wing since Sunday evening.

"It's to be expected. Now drink this one as well, it will help with the pain." Poppy said, shoving another vial into his hand. "It's good to have you back." She admitted. "Ah, Harry! Right on time. He's free to go."

Draco looked up, and sure enough the cause of his distress had entered the hospital wing.

"Hey! I brought the clothes you asked for." Harry said, placing the black trousers, boxers, white shirt, and black robes onto the bed with the equally black shoes and socks. Why Draco insisted in looking like he was attending an important meeting all the time baffled him.

Draco didn't remember asking for clean clothes, but he wouldn't begrudge himself of them – clean clothes to him right now, were as wonderful as water would be to a man dying of thirst. A shower would be the crowning glory. Still…

"This is all your fault Potter!" Draco complained, taking the clothes.

"My fault?" Harry asked, snorting at such welcome. "How do you figure?"

"You had to start that damn snow fight, didn't you? If I recall correctly, and I do, you levitated about thirty pounds on snow onto my head." Draco reminded him of his delinquency, climbing off the bed now that his headache had dimmed to a mild throb. He found his wand on the bedside cabinet.

"You certainly got your own back, what with the Hippogriff sized tidal wave you dumped on me!" Harry argued.

"Like you just said, retaliation. I never started it!" Draco made his way over the shower room, Harry followed him.

"You certainly enjoyed it though." Harry said, standing in the way of the door – preventing Draco from closing it.

Their bodies were rather close, reminding Draco of Harry's disastrous interest in him, and in turn, reminding himself that he was falling in love with the raven-haired man. Preposterous!

"Unless you plan on aiding me in the shower…" Fuck – Draco thought, wrong choice of words! "Which I sincerely warn you against even thinking about, then I suggest you move away from the door."

Harry sighed in feigned remorse. "Well now, how am I not supposed to think about it when you paint such a lovely picture with those elegant words of yours." Harry smirked.

"Get lost Potter!" Draco shoved Harry away from the door, slamming it closed behind him and locking it. He could hear Harry chuckling on the other side – the damn prat was enjoying this.

Eventually Draco stood under the raining shower head, warmth cascading over him. The simple luxury of a shower that had been denied to him, on account of his illness, was now perfectly divine… much like bloody Potter!

Harry was a divinity in his own right, an icon of hope, and a symbol of triumph and peace. Harry was the dawn that drove away the night, the warmth that could melt glaciers, and an addiction that wouldn't abate.

Harry had cared for him, been there through his illness, and oh how he hated him for that… for now he couldn't deny that he was doomed – he just couldn't imagine feeling this way for Padfoot. He could settle for the mystery man behind the words, and indeed, he did feel a great attraction to him, but he suspected that what he'd deprived himself of feeling thus far, was far too great to ever let go off; his heart may never let go of Harry bloody Potter, not now that it had tasted the forbidden fruit.

As he spread the soap over his pale skin, he remembered such embarrassing moments from the last few days - his subconscious mind and desires acting out while his conscious ability was suppressed by his illness. He remembered demanding that Harry stayed with him, feeling safer when the man was there – certainly not something he'd ever humiliate himself admitting in the right state of mind. He remembered Harry taking care when wiping his face with a damp cloth, brushing back his hair from his face… perhaps believing him to be asleep at the time. He remembered many things, things that he would rather forget, but the worse memory – and the one that caused him the most anguish – was when he nearly admitted that he had feelings for Harry yet couldn't act on them because he was tainted.

He found himself removing the now soaked bandage. The scratches had healed leaving the faded dark mark glaring up at him, and the old scars reminding him. Nothing had been able to remove it, and Salazar had he tried, he was forever left with a brand that whispered and screamed in torment – the ghostly voices of his victims of torture, the victims he had witnessed murdered, the echoes of his past. He still felt the phantom pain of being called to Voldemort's side. All the wrong that he committed, all the mistakes and regrets of his past… it was forever there for the world to see…. There for him to never forget!

His tears ran with the warmth of the water, another allegory for his life perhaps – that his pain and his past, would always corrupt any happiness he found in life.

He washed, he rinsed, and he cleaned his body meticulously… but nothing could remove the Dark mark.

"Draco?" Harry called. "Draco are you okay?"

He had no idea how long he had been in the shower, but Fuck, Harry was still there… waiting for him. Harry would be waiting a long time, because Draco knew that he'd be no good for the man that was a divinity.

"I'd be out soon!" He called back. "You don't have to wait for me." And you shouldn't wait for me, he thought.

"Poppy won't let you leave without an escort!" Harry explained. "If your foot freezes up, you could trip."

Damn It! Draco cursed. He just wished that Harry would leave; he needed time alone to think, and he couldn't think straight in Harry's presence.

"I won't be long." He shouted, hoping that once he was done and back to his room, that Harry would allow him some solitude.

Harry did eventually leave him sitting alone by his crackling fire, a hot coffee in his hands and a blanket over his legs. He wanted to write to Padfoot, but he felt such guilt. Why was it okay for him to corrupt Padfoot's life and not Harry's? Well, that was rather simple, Padfoot wasn't the chosen one!

He'd realised though, on the way down to his private room, with Harry there to make sure he was safe, that he couldn't start a relationship that wasn't true. If he didn't feel for Padfoot what he felt for Harry – and, he scoffed, that was bloody unlikely – then he would have to settle for at least second best. His heart would always belong to another, and his relationship would be unfair to Padfoot. He couldn't do that!

He watched the fire dance, burning and consuming that which feed it, and he wondered… would he be like that. Would the flames only burn until he no longer had anything to give, leaving Padfoot extinguished and cold. No, he certainly couldn't do that a man that was kind, accepting, and wanted only to be love wholeheartedly.

Draco closed his eyes, a futile attempt to stop the tears that fell there as he realised … he would never know what it was like to be in a relationship with someone that loved him.

He didn't know what he was supposed to do now however, he'd promised Padfoot that he wouldn't just stop corresponding with him without an explanation at least. What was he supposed to say – 'Truly sorry Padfoot, but I'm in love with someone else that I can never have, and everything I've shared with you is now meaningless?'

Perhaps it would be best just to break his promise to Padfoot, to return his parchment and quill, and remove his files from Le'Amortentia… but it hurt to imagine Padfoot's pain if he should be so callous.

He had been so close – they were due to meet each other soon, but Harry Potter had ruined his only chance at happiness. Yet, he was angry because he could not blame Potter. It was his past that had ruined it, and it was his own growing love for Harry that had opened his eyes to the lie that would become of any relationship with another… even someone as wonderful as Padfoot.

Yes, he may have grown to love Padfoot one day, but that love would never amount to what he felt for Harry bloody Potter.

It was time to let go of his childish fantasies, of love and acceptance, and it was time to let Padfoot go… no matter how hard it would be. He was a cold hearted Slytherin, he could do what needed to be done.

As he stood up, letting the blanket hit the floor, he took two paces before throwing his half empty cup across the room. The broken shards of china representing his life, his heart… and the coffee that dripped down the wall onto the carpet mimicked his tears.

Yes, it was going to be excruciatingly painful!