Drarry Oneshots

Masks

Nobody knew. 

Masks of anger, of hate, of despair and spite at the very knowledge of the other’s existence hid the truth. 

It hid the truth of quiet moans in the night, or arching backs and sweat-soaked skin, of whispered “Harry”’s and “God, Draco”’s. 

It hid the truth of sly smirks and hands sliding under desks to press against clothed erections, of bitten lips and bruises on throats. 

It hid the truth of small smiles and shy glances, of blushing cheeks and quick glances away. 

It hid the truth of hands holding under desks, of “accidental brushes” and light touches of comfort, of ankles crossing over each other, and hidden kisses where no one could see. 

It hid the truth of comforting each other after nightmares, of hugging each other after panic attacks and kissing cheeks after crying for hours. 

But masks can only last so long before midnight comes and they come off. 

Harry’s mask came off on the fateful night Draco left the earth forever. 

Harry lost his mask as his best friend in the world happened to be on the Astronomy Tower the same night he and Draco were. 

Lips separated from a passionate kiss, eyes flickered with fear, and Draco’s hand protectively wrapped around Harry’s waist as the redheaded boy advanced, screaming. 

Harry lost his mask the same night Draco lost his life, falling off the tower, the last touch he ever felt being the touch of Ron’s hands pushing his chest. 

Harry couldn’t keep the mask anymore. 

A mask couldn’t hide the screams Harry threw at his best friend as his heart tore into a thousand pieces. 

A mask couldn’t hide Harry’s tears as he showed up, dressed as everyone else did, in black. 

The color wasn’t dark enough to even touch how Harry felt. 

A mask couldn’t hide the ultimate grief of losing your soulmate. 

A mask couldn’t hide the tearing inside Harry’s fragmented soul. 

A mask couldn’t hide his emptiness. 

Until his emptiness became his mask. 

Blank expressions, blank eyes, blank face. 

Blank blank blank. 

Everyone tried to find it. The word that would fill in the blank. 

But it wouldn’t work. Because it wasn’t the word that mattered. It was who’s mouth the word to fill in the blank would come from. 

And until corpses could speak, neither would Harry. 

Blank smiles as his friends laughed. 

Blank eyes when everyone else cried. 

Blank expressions when others were so emotional. 

Because why did it matter if Harry went on? Everyone else had a soulmate. 

Harry had no one. 

His mind was blank, his heart dead, his soul erased. 

He was empty. 

And he tried for weeks, to find something to fill the blanks. 

Pansy finally found it for him. 

She didn’t mean to, of course. Cutting her wrists was something Pansy was used to. She covered it well, but when her hand rose in class, and her sleeve fell slightly, Harry knew. 

He knew his escape. 

Harry took a knife that night, and tore into his wrists the same way Ron had torn into his heart. 

And it was amazing. Harry watched as blood flowed and flowed. 

The pain was intense, but Harry needed it. If he couldn’t feel emotional pain, physical was the next best thing. 

So every night, Harry felt pain. 

Burns, cuts, bruises, it didn’t matter. Whatever hurt. 

Nothing hurt enough. 

So Harry dug deeper. He carved the knife deeper into his arm, desperate for release of emotions. To feel something. 

He didn’t feel anything. 

And the world faded to grey. 

And people cried, yes. They mourned, but they moved on. 

And Harry Potter became nothing more than a story. 

That was okay with him, though. Because he was finally with Draco. 

And in Heaven, they didn’t need masks.