Remembering Love (Tomarry) (HP)

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Anger. Overwhelming, all consuming, mind numbing anger. It's all Harry can feel, that familiar ache beneath his skin that begs to be let out. He knows he's been this pissed before (how could he not have? His life is simply brimming with things to be pissed about), but it doesn't seem any easier to deal with.

Harry's hand is on his wand before he knows it, his mind running through every hex Fred and George had ever taught him, but he feels another wave of emotion (magic) run over him, calming him. It's not his own. It's Tom's, seemingly reaching out from his confides to remind Harry that he cannot afford to express his anger so openly. Not here.

Harry's wand is returned to it's place in his pocket. A smile (fake, plastic, clear as day) is plastered on his face. He swallows his anger because it is simply easier to swallow than expulsion. He nods to his friends who are not friends (they've mad THAT clear enough, with shitty letters and neglect for his wellbeing) and puts up his trunk.

He wants to scream, yell, kick and cry and hex his heart out (so immature but what was to be expected from a child?) but he doesn't. He sits down, putting some distance between him and the former duo members, but not enough to be suspicious. He can't get in trouble, Dumbledore is looking any reason (however small) to expel him and Harry would rather not give him any more ammo.

He will continue playing friends, playing nice, with Ron and Hermione. He doesn't want him leaving them to be taken as a sign of aggression (which would be used against him) or, even worse, break out into a full blown fight. He will play along with them for as long as they are willing to play.

This entire year, Harry realizes, will be like walking on eggshells. ("Easygoing" always has been a fickle thing for the one and only Harry Potter.)

"Hello," Harry says simply. It's a meek greeting but the one they deserve.

Ron smiles. His expression is warm and open, but he is obviously offput by his lack of energy. Hermione seems to be as well, though her expression is hidden mostly by the book she'd burried her head in.

Harry doesn't understand it— not completely, anyway. Everything (god, so much) had changed over the sumner, why not this as well? Why should their friendship (friendship, non friendship) be so special? The moment Harry's (rightful) title of the boy who lived fails to be his, the moment his fickle fame proves fickle, their care regarding him drops drastically. It means something, and Harry can't comprehend why they think it doesn't.

The ride is spent with Dudley chatting away with Ron and Hermione, grinning, looking like he wants to absolutely pummel Harry for no other reason except that he can. Harry looks out the window, absentmindedly rubbing the ring on his finger.

The train stops. It's early.

Harry's only thought before the door to their compartment opens (by a hand and a presence that is anything but human and anything but happy) is simple:

It's cold.