I lock the phone and place it back under my pillow.

I hadn't answered to Draco like I had promised him. I had read them. And listened to the voicemail. But I didn't reply.

I couldn't.

I felt numb. Alone. Empty almost.

My fathers funeral was worse than I had imagined, a teary blur of "he was a good man" and "I'm so sorry for your loss."

But they didn't understand the hallowed out ache in my heart. With every beat my heart would bleed, and I would cry.

My mum would appear out of her room periodically, bringing me food with a chiselled out rehearsed smile. Puffy eyes and her hands shaking as she would place the plate down on my bedside table.

"You need to eat dear. Why don't you then go for a walk after that?" She would say, repeating the line every day since the funeral.

And I would reply with a "maybe" and wouldn't touch the food.

I missed Draco. I missed his smile and his laugh. I missed his safe hugs and his lips.

And as much as I enjoyed every single second of our night together.

I couldn't bring myself to reply. I felt too sad.

And he didn't deserve that. Not after everything he told me.

And I think the time alone, however soul sucking it was. Is good for me.

To process. That he is a death eater.

I still stand by my first fact. I was not and never would be scared of Draco Malfoy. And I also would never judge him for what The dark lord had mapped out for him.

But a part of me couldn't help be upset that he was part of the group who killed my father.

I roll onto my back, staring at my ceiling, the pink walls hurting my eyes.

My room was unchanged, and had stayed the same Hot pink colour since I got it redecorated when I was 10. Thinking that hot pink meant...well, hot?

It didn't. It screamed Virgin. Especially if you were over 18. And I was.

It also didn't help that my bed covers had remained in their everlasting "Groovy chick" stage. And despise the stupidity of it all, it felt comforting being back in somewhere that I knew held memories where my father was alive, and my biggest concern was that I had sweet corn on my dinner plate and not turkey twizlers.

How things have changed.

Nothing could have prepared me for the feelings after the funeral.

Like I was in a rollercoaster at the funeral, and then left with a "what now" mindset, almost like the ride had stopped and I had to leave the ride.

I hadn't left the house in days, wandering to and from my room to use the bathroom ignoring the mirrors and shower.

I knew I looked a mess. I knew that my hair was matted and that I smelt really bad.

But I just couldn't force myself to do anything. Especially anything that involved helping myself. And as silly as it sounds, I don't want to help myself.

I just wanted to lie. And think. And cry. And feel nothing.

I know I'm depressed. I know for a solid one hundred percent fact. I just don't want to do anything remotely energising.

I get up and pad towards my window, pulling up the blind and then hissing when light shines through, pulling it down lightening speed.

My arm knocks against a photo frame and it collides with the floor as glass explodes from the frame.

I pick it up, glass splintering my fingertips and I look at the captured memory.

My Father. And me. And my mum. Smiling at the camera, my fathers hands looped around me and my mum, her smile bright and happy. My smile, lopsided and goofy and I stare up at my father, the stubble in his beard showing through.

I wipe a tear from my eye, and soon another falls.

I'm so fed up of crying all the time.

I put the frame down and hug my body as more tears fall down my face, wetting my cheeks as a sob escaped my lips and I grip onto my arms tighter hoping to hold myself together enough to suck the sobs and tears back into my body.

I don't.

Another sob escapes and soon I'm crying uncontrollably, snot running down my nose as I try and breathe, emotions crash around me as the waves of pain wash over me, drowning me in salt and despairs.

God fucking damn it.

I sob again letting go of myself and turn to my windowsill that the frame was on. I pick up a candle that lay in the corner, dust littered over the wax.

I throw it as hard as I can muster at the wall, watching the glass crack into a thousand pieces and cascading down the wall onto my bed.

I cry and cry and cry. Not knowing what else to do. The pain of the past few months clustering into one big sob, like someone had shook me so hard and this was me now popping.

I wiped my eyes, and grabbed my phone from under the pillow. Punching in the password.

I can't do it anymore.

I type out a quick message. Send it and then sit on my bed.

I ignore the glass nipping at my legs.

I just need to feel safe. And he can give me it.