For Dorrito’s Every Flavour Mood Beans.
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Content
It was always about want, his whole life, really— for attention, space, distinction, recognition, something special that belonged just to him. It settled in his abdomen, desperate and aching, embedding itself in the tissue around it. By fifth year, he’d nurtured it so long, he recognized it only as himself.
It happened, of course, in the tiniest moment: a Tuesday evening, cold and quiet, Hermione curled so small, absorbed in a book, stocking feet unconsciously tucked under his; Harry sprawled on the floor below, eyes bright with laughter over an hour-old joke.
He wondered that loss could feel so warm.