"Buried, almost tangible secrets filled the space between them, and so, without a second to think, she closed it."
The scars of war opened more wounds than Harry Potter thought possible. As he returns to Hogwarts for his eighth and final year, he le...
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Harry doubted he ever felt more frustrated in his life. Every morning felt like a chore; every word that came out of his mouth was a swear or a retort, even when the victim didn't deserve it. He was irritable and crabby, snapping at almost anything someone said. Hermione'd come so close to whacking him on the head with an alarmingly thick book Ron had to escort her from the library before she bashed Harry's head in.
Annabelle kept popping into his head whenever he closed his eyes. It was so frustrating Harry stared at ceilings before he slept, keeping his eyes open until they burned, for he didn't want to see her smile if he closed them. He didn't want to be reminded of his mistake when the image of her eyes flashed in his mind, full of an anger entirely his fault. The worst part was not the sleepless nights, however. It was that Harry hadn't seen the smile in days; it felt like centuries since he heard Annabelle laugh, seen her clutch her stomach in laughter, throw her arms around Hermione. Harry sat by his lonesome in the common room, feeling starved.
But being moody in common rooms wasn't helping either. Everywhere he looked, there was something reminding him of Annabelle. He couldn't sit in his favorite chair without thinking of how she'd perch on the armrest, ruffling his hair and pushing his shoulder when he said something stupid. He couldn't look out of the window without seeing the Quidditch pitch and remembering her smacking Bludgers towards Ron. He could hardly talk to Hermione or Ron without hearing all the little witty comments Annabelle would interject — without hearing her laugh like a bell that existed purely out of vengeance.
Annabelle walked briskly in the corridors and ducked into empty classrooms to avoid him. She stole Hermione for private conversations before Harry got there first. She even remained in contact with Ron, who Harry always thought she hated. Ron hadn't wanted Harry to know, but when Hermione accidentally mentioned it, Harry decided there was no way it was real. Annabelle simply couldn't be that furious with him.
As if to spite Harry, Annabelle also (despite Harry's concern) devoted herself to "fixing" Draco Malfoy. She sat with him at meals, acting as if she couldn't feel Harry's stare, and even managed to switch partners in Potions class from Harry to Malfoy.
The most annoyed Harry'd ever been was when she made Malfoy laugh. Harry had never seen Malfoy genuinely laugh before. He didn't look like himself; it was too innocent to be Malfoy, too pure. Harry hated it. He despised the powerful waves of jealousy that consumed him when Annabelle smiled at Malfoy, not once looking in Harry's direction. It was his fault — he knew that — but it didn't make it hurt any less.
She was doing that right now: smiling at Malfoy, not even looking at Harry. He was preoccupied with staring at the table, imagining an action-hero confrontation with Malfoy. He was so preoccupied, in fact, he barely noticed Ron and Hermione's wary arrival.
