Author's Note: Well damn it's been a little while sorry. Okay so there was some concern that the perspective (being either Hermione or Theodore) isn't made clear. Well, the chapter titles do clearly state which is what. Furthermore, I do alternate each chapter like I don't change perspectives mid-chapter. (I'm not going to write "_ POV" at the beginning because that would mean it's time for me to give up on life altogether so um infer from the context or read the chapter titles? Or just, idk, have fun).
He thumbs the hem of his shirt. Unwashed, like himself. The bottoms of his pants were getting dirty and ripped. He tucks them into his socks now.
He pads along the hall. He likes the feeling of cold concrete underneath his feet. He likes how it seems as though he's touching it, when he isn't. He likes the school when it's empty. The portraits are silent, sleeping, steady breathing of ageless personalities accompanies the dragging of his bones through the air.
He imagines smoke flowing around him. It fills the gaps between his ribs and his fingers, it holds his hand. He imagines that she hadn't draped that floral dress over Draco's body. He imagines that his own pressed suit had laid underneath it instead, the flowers drifting off on the pillow of his trousers.
He imagines the deep smell of brandy hanging between them, hugging her stockings and stroking his eyes.
The record scratches. The music he was composing falls to his feet.
There is a sound, like stones being skipped over a lake made of glass and he stills. He hasn't been scared of the dark since he last slept.
But he is scared of that noise. He is scared of the glass breaking, of the stones sinking to the bottom. He is scared of what he will find when he walks into the shadows.
He pulls back the velvet curtain.
The stones fall together, like squeezing a wet shirt dry. He imagines switching the grey stones for pearls, white as paper with tints of pink.
"Granger?" She stares at him with those leather eyes. Her perfume smells of anger and hurt and confinement. He imagines the lake made of green glass like a bottle. He imagines her beneath it, tapping ever so delicately.
He places his hand on hers, staring through the thick green surface. He imagines makeup running down her face. He imagines red painted lips, and instead he finds lips that have been bitten raw.
"How's your father?" Draco is tense. Theo knows that he would have cursed anyone else if they had asked that question. But Draco is wearing thin. His eyes sink into his head. He is torn. He is thin.
Theo thinks maybe he hasn't been sleeping either.
He watches the light against the ice. He listens to the sounds reflecting off and up into the waiting clouds full of grey.
He likes the winter. He likes the feeling of the cold against his veins. He likes the way his bones float in the thin air.
He imagines streets made of ice. He imagines the constant sound of shoe against the mirror water and he imagines the way it feels. Like he's living in a tap dance, moving with strangers, wrapped up in the warmth of piano keys.
He sinks further into the snow. It clings to the skin of his elbows.
He can't breathe. He's suffocated from head to tow in clouds. Big and grey clouds and he can feel the edges of water droplets pushing into his eyes.
Like they're trying to steal his mind. They're trying to freeze it. They're trying to bury him deep. They're trying to bury him deep enough to sing him asleep.
He's so tired.
His mother's hand is stroking his cheek. He's eight years old and he's learning to swim. He hates the way the sea licks all the way up his neck.
He lies on the mud bank and she soothes him. She warms his blue fingertips.
"I've got you." She whispers. Her hair falls from her twisted bun. He counts the number of pink white pearls hanging from her neck.
There are seven before they disappear into the comfort of her locks.
He sinks into the clouds. He feels the rain.
He falls asleep. His mother's hands cradle his neck.
The ghost shakes. It is the colour of the sheets that fall like stone against his body.
The ghost shakes and Theo wonders if there's a window open. Theo wonders if the ghost is still lying in the snow. Theo wonders if he is still lying in the snow.
The ghost places its hand on his cheek. He can't feel its skin.
"Damn it." The ghost takes Draco's form. He is transparent from head to toe. Theo envies him. Theo wants to disappear like Draco.