Tenderness in a Poem
Summary: Harry Potter has always had a knack for writing poetry. It has kept him steps away from becoming suicidal and occupied his mind when he was upset. But no one knows this side of Harry, except Draco Malfoy who accidentally finds one of Harry's favorite poems.
A/N: I don't own any of the characters or ideas behind the said characters, those are al JK Rowling's. I do however own the poems on here. They are copyrighted through myself and no one may use them or quote them unless you ask me then tell where you found them.
It was the first day of Harry's seventh and final year at Hogwarts. This year, unlike others, was the only year where Harry wasn't able to enjoy the lavish feast in the Great Hall. It had taken every ounce of his soul to step on the train back to school instead of looking for the last Horcruxes. But he couldn't do it, not without Dumbledore. Dumbledore had been his guide for the better part of Harry's six years at Hogwarts. With him gone, Harry was unsure if he could find the last Horcruxes and defeat Voldemort. He didn't have the heart to let the entire wizarding world down and drove the thought of finding the pieces of Voldemort's soul out of his mentality.
Looking around the Great Hall, Harry felt his heart drop. Faces of happy teenagers and love sick couples filled his mind. Had everyone forgotten the death of their beloved Headmaster already? It had been three months, almost to the day. Was no one still mourning his death? Was it only him? Feeling left out and abandoned, Harry excused himself early from the Gryffindor table, leaving behind many confused people.
Staring at the cold, stone floor, Harry's mind wandered from his ex-Headmaster to his dead godfather. Why did everyone he had ever gotten close to die? Was he just too much of a burden for people to bear? Would they be happier if he hadn't been chosen by Voldemort?
"Ooof!" the air rushed out of Harry's lungs. Flat on his back, Harry looked up into the fiery grey eyes of Draco Malfoy.
"Watch it Potter!" he spat, his cheeks flushed and his hair tosseled. "Next time you'll wind up with a brusied and bloody face."
Harry watched as the furious boy marched away towards the Slytherin common room located deep underneath the castle. He was still sitting on the floor when another flushed cheek, tossled hair boy walked around the corner. The boy, wearing a Ravenclaw patch on his robes, looked surprised to see Harry on the floor and picked up his pace as he made his way to the main staircase.
"No, don't help me up. I'll just sit here," Harry sarcastically said to thin air. Grumbling, Harry made the rest of his journey to his dorm room without any more occurences.
With a thump, Harry sat himself down at the small, wooden desk next to the dorm room door. It was old and scratched up from the many uses, which was why Harry loved it so. It was old and had withheld through the test of time. Opening the top left drawer, the raven haired boy removed a piece of parchment, an older quill and a half empty bottle of black ink.
These black tears I cry,
Fall from my blackened heart,
These empty wishes I have,
Come from my emptied soul,
My bruised dreams are nothing more,
Than the bruised fears I now know.
Harry read over the fresh poem as the ink dried and was satisfied with himself. Writing down his problems in the form of poetry had been an easy out for the troubled teen growing up. From a young age, Harry was known, and punished, for writing poetry. The Dursleys would not allow their strange house guest to write "Namby, pamby girly poems," it wasn't something a boy was to do. But Harry knew from the few years in a Muggle school that it was ok to write poems, even if you were a guy. He didn't stop writing down his feelings, even when he had been beaten so badly that he was black and blue for two weeks. If it hadn't been for the poems, Harry figured he would be dead now. They had saved him from going over the edge many times. It was theraputic, that flow of consciousness, from an idea to a work of art. Every poem that Harry had ever written was kept in a secret compartment in his trunk. No one knew about his passion, not even his two best friends.
"They wouldn't understand," Harry sighed, folding the piece of paper in four and putting it with his other confidential poems. Undressing and changing into his pajamas, Harry climbed into bed and closed the bed curtains, just as the rest of his dorm mates walked in.
A/N: thanks for reading this. I know it isn't long, but that's because I have to think up poems and those take the longest. I am not sure how many chapters it will be, but it does come second to my main Fic, The Rest of Our Lives. I hope you enjoy this and let me know what you think of my poems.