Fifty.

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...

His silence is almost worse than the scene he caused on the street.

I get to the apartment shorty after he does and find the bedroom door shut tightly.  My heart is still beating fast and I don't know whether to leave him be like I normally would or to knock.  He might need some time to cool off, but because this is my doing I don't want to let him stew in his thoughts.  I'd rather set everything straight as soon as possible.

I'm still standing outside the door, staring at its plain white surface with indecision.  If I could see through the door I'm sure I'd find him with his face buried in his journal and chewing on his pencil.  I can see his furrowed eyebrows and his lip pulled between his teeth in concentration.  The bright green eyes that I see are dull and pained, not how I would ever want them to be.

Seeing him hurt and actually showing that emotion surprised me out on the street.  Usually he would put his guard up until he was alone with his journal and thoughts.  I wasn't prepared to see the pain I had inflicted on him, that I never meant to inflict on him.  It's safe to say I've only seen that look once; right after I told him I was going to LA.  It cut me so deeply then and it hurts even more now if that's possible.

He's done nothing but be everything I've ever wanted him to be, and I hurt him. 

Without another thought I lift my hand and knock lightly on the door, my hand shaking ever so slightly.  There's no answer, so I hold my breath as I turn the doorknob and push the door open a crack.  I poke my head in and sure enough Harry has his journal out, but it's sat beside him on the bed with the cover closed.  His coat is laying on the floor next to the bed along with his boots that have created a puddle of slush.  He's leaning against the headboard with his legs extended in front of him and crossed at the ankles.  He's staring across the room and out the window where the night sky and city lights are on display.

I take a deep breath and walk into the room.  I sit on the edge of the bed but he doesn't say anything or turn to look at me.  My throat closes and I can feel the frown on my face knowing I must have really hurt him to have him ignore me like this.  I pull off my coat and kick off my shoes, not caring about the floors in this moment.  All I care about is him.

"Harry," I say softly, my voice not much more than a whisper.  Still he doesn't say anything or make any sign to show me that he even knows I'm here.  My insides collapse and I bite my tongue, knowing I can't cry because this is my fault. 

I take a deep breath and try again.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.  He swallows and looks down at his hands, breathing deeply.  He turns to look out the window again and I sigh, my breath shaking.  "Harry, I'm sorry I didn't tell you... I was - I was afraid of how you'd react and this was really important to me.  I knew I had to do it and - and I -" I fumble over my words and I'm at a loss for breath by the end, panting and begging for his attention.  "I'm sorry I hurt you."

My words hang in the air and he sits still as if I've said nothing at all.  I need to pull him back, I need to make everything better.  I look at the ceiling, hoping I'll find an answer somewhere to make this right.  How did he always pull me back to him so easily when I was hurt or angry?  Maybe I wasn't firm enough.  A lot of good it did me going back to him each time.

"Say something," I whisper, pleading, "please."

He slowly turns his head away from the window and I hold my breath as his eyes meet mine.  Green and guarded, the way I've always known them to be.

"Anything.  Harry, I need something."

"Why him?"

My heart relaxes and waves of relief wash over me, his voice alone helping me catch my breath.  Even though it's void of emotion, deep and dry, it's a start and I'm so thankful he's even looking at me.

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