"You look dashing, dear, but you'd look better with a smile." The mirror gave him a reprimanding, but sad look.
Harry sighed.
He did look good, he must say, but…it was off. The suit was perfect, and perfectly tailored to him. A green silk tie hugged his neck, the knot twisted, with a matching pocket square; even his hair had cooperated.
Italian leather shoes squeaked when he shifted his weight. Harry looked down at himself with dismay.
He looked good, but that doesn't matter when your heart is twisting and turning in your chest, clenching and crippling itself over and over. Loneliness.
He had to go soon, though. Ron and Hermione were expecting him. They were supposed to meet before they all went to the Gala, but…he couldn't decide.
Tryin to decide
Tryin to decide if I
Really want to go out tonight…
It just…felt weird. This was the first time in a long time that he was dressing so nice…alone. Normally he had a blonde git in front of him fixing his tie, and calling him hopeless before his scar was kissed gently with soft lips. Soft hands would normally twine with his before he'd feel the pull of Apparation. His sensitive wrists would be teased and caressed during long speeches, and horrid soups surrounded by old pieces of dust telling him how magnificent, handsome, and powerful he is.
Harry wasn't sure he could imagine going out without someone by his side.
Well…he didn't want a someone..he wanted his someone.
I never used to go out without 'cha
Not sure I remember how ta'
He looked into the mirror again, then at his watch. He was going to be late. A part of him didn't care. He didn't care many people would be angry. If they wanted to see him, they were going to have to wait, or come see him themselves.
If he'd let them in.
Gonna be late, Gonna be late, but
All my girls gon' have to wait, cuz
The mirror stared at him when he began to loosen his tie. He was no longer sure if black and green went together, nor did he like how his hair wasn't sticking up. He fixed that too. Laces were loosened, and black stocken feet were exposed to the room.
"Ugh, not again," moaned the mirror. This was the third time he'd begun this process. "Just pick a suit or robe. I don't care, but I'm not your servant, Mr. Potter. I have things to do."
The reflective piece of enchanted glass was ignored.
He continued to strip.
I'm not sure if I like my outfit,
I've tried everything in my closet.
The pocket square was played with briefly before it fell to the hard wood next to his shoes. The fitted black jacket was pulled from his torso and it crashed carelessly into a nearby chair as he turned around, tired feet finding themselves in the direction of his bed.
Air puffed up from the comforter as he plopped onto the mattress and Harry caught the musky, signature scent of his ex-lover. He stopped breathing and his heart skipped a beat. Shallow breaths followed and hot liquid perked in his eyes.
Harry took a deep breath through his mouth.
Nothing feels right when I'm not with you
Sick of this dress and these Chimmy Choos
He sat up and angrily threw off his tie. He straightened and his onyx shirt lost tension as each glass button was undone to reveal quivering tan skin. He ripped the door of his closet open.
Who was he, really. Who was he to think dressing up would have felt comfortable and not foolish? He would have called him foolish. But then…Harry wasn't sure if he cared any more. Everything was going to shit. His hear thumped thickly in his chest, hard and slow as if his blood had turn to cold molasses.
His hands shook, the cold air in the old room didn't help either.
Taking them off cause I feel a fool
Tryin to dress up when I'm missing you.
Next to go were his dark trousers, leaving him in silk red pants. A gift, he remembered, a Christmas gift to be exact. He shivered, knobby knees knocking, and not just from the chill. His world slowly crumbled around him as he reached for a worn white t-shirt under a preservation charm.
Harry pressed it to his nose.
I'mma slip out of this lingerie
The scent filled him to the brim. It smelled like warmth, and love. It smelled of a happier time, one where Harry wasn't half naked, smelling an old shirt. One filled with lazy fall afternoons in jumpers while he was snuggled in front of a snarky blonde who liked to play with the "mop he called hair." It was burned sugar cookies on Christmas Eve and overwhelmed tears that Harry whipped away with careful thumbs. It was hot summer nights that grew hotter when their bodies met and sweat slicked every surface which made for excellent rubbing and always left Harry begging for more.
He melted into the shirt, wrapping himself up in it, and when he wiggled his hips just so, his pants fell. Harry sighed when his body was being hugged by the cotton once more.
The shirt itself was clean, bright, and very, very loose on Harry's slightly scrawny form. He padded back to the bed.
Curl up in a ball with something Hanes.
In bed I lay…
He curled under the covers on what was his once-was-lover's side and stuffed his head in the shirt until he buried enough to feel comfortable. He let memory after memory collide with him and wrack his soul into a whimpering kitten, lost and alone without a mother, or her milk.
Tears fell down his cheeks and high sobs caused him to shake.
With nothing but your T-Shirt on.
I'm all by myself with nothing but your T-Shirt on…
The door to his bedroom creaked open, it was then shut carefully.
"Speccy Sap."