For Dorrito’s Every Flavour Mood Beans.

*****

Crappy

He should have known he’d lose her, she who had allowed him satisfaction at last, some dignity, long-deserved. There was something poetic about it all, he’s sure some nitwit would say, which was, of course, exactly why he hated that useless rot. He greeted the new year with a scowl, avoiding the professors more than ever, not that they ever sought him out. Their joy and relief permeated the castle like a stink. The students eyed him with a new disrespect. Even Mrs. Norris was a laughing stock.

He moved through passages in the dark, cursing and pleading for magic.

For Dorrito’s Every Flavour Mood Beans.

*****

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.