Written for @drarrymicrofic prompt Weak, 520 words. I got less carried away this time. Not micro, or macro—but meso. 😂
tw for ED, even though it’s more depression than disordered eating
The scuffed dragon hide box tumbled from the top shelf of the closet. Harry cringed and quickly protected his face with his thin arms.
As if an alarm had been rung in their home, Draco appeared—seemingly calm, but with worry creasing his features—leaning on the doorjamb.
“Need help with that?” he asked nonchalantly.
Frowning, Harry shook his head. “It’s on the floor, it can’t go any lower.”
He sat down cross-legged and lifted the lid of the heavy box. Inside were the things that had belonged to Harry’s parents—the few items Draco and he had found left behind at Grimmauld Place. There wasn’t a lot, not even a quarter of the box had been filled. But Harry hadn’t wanted to see it back then; back when Draco had moved in and convinced Harry to clear out the dregs of the past. And so they’d been hidden away.
Draco crouched down beside him and planted a gentle kiss on his cheek. “Do you think you’re ready?”
Harry’s body tensed like an overtuned guitar and he squeezed the orange tartan scarf he’d pulled from the box. It smelled spicy and sweet, just like he knew his mother had smelled. Draco hadn’t been convinced when Harry had claimed it was his mother’s scarf, but one picture of Lily, Sirius, and James later as proof, and he’d eaten his words.
“No,” Harry admitted. “But Linda said it was time.”
Humming, Draco embraced him from the side, and the hand around Harry’s shoulders softly stroked his cheek and neck.
“And what does your mind-healer say about your weight?” Draco asked.
Harry brought the scarf to his nose, inhaled deeply, and imagined he was burying his face in his mother’s neck. “I’m fine,” he replied, voice muffled.
Nimble fingers pulled his face free, and Draco tilted Harry’s chin to look straight into his eyes. “You’re weak,” he corrected.
Harry’s chest burned, ready to explode.
It’d worked for a little while. Repressing, ignoring the pain, refusing to see the reminders. It’d worked for years.
But the nightmares had begun, and the dead haunted Harry. During the day he reverted to what his aunt had taught him. He refused to eat. He needed to be punished for everyone who had died because of him. A month later, he began seeing them—the people he’d let down—in the dark corners of Grimmauld Place. That was when Draco became properly worried and insisted on a mind-healer.
“You’re right.” A tear rolled down Harry's face and he snuggled into Draco’s chest.
Wrapping Lily’s scarf around Harry, Draco cradled his messy head and rocked him for a long while until Harry’s breathing calmed.
Draco leant back. “Lunch is ready. Are you hungry?” he asked carefully.
The tear tracks had long since dried, but Harry’s voice was still hoarse. “I’m starving,” he croaked out with a smile.
With one last kiss, Draco stood, and held out his hand to Harry.
Harry took it, and as they descended the stairs to the first floor, he hid his nose in his mother’s scarf and breathed deeply of her strength.
