Chapter Text
[Had no connection, no faith or direction, no
Searching and searching for someone to save my soul, ooh
I was swept up in a wave, swept up in a wave
Then I heard you say my name
Lost, I was lost, I was lost 'til you loved me
Now I'm found, now I'm found, now I'm found]
(It was meant to get better.)
***
(Sometimes it is better.)
[April 10th, 2004]
Draco smiles at him, and it’s blinding, it fills his chest with warmth. He smiles back, and Draco dips his head to catch his lips in a kiss.
“You taste like sugar.” Draco says, intertwining their fingers together. He runs his hand through Harry’s hair, cups his cheek, brushes his thumb over his lips.
(Soft, gentle, sweet.)
“I had a piece of cake before coming over.” He replies, and Draco nods, leaning in to kiss him again, pushing him in against the bed. The blankets are soft, and the room is warm, and Draco’s smiling and it’s all so impossibly perfect.
(It feels unreal, impossible.)
(Focus, Harry.)
“You okay?” Draco asks, running those smart fingers of his up and down Harry’s chest, tracing along the design on his shirt.
(But it must be true, because Draco is right here, and he’s touching Harry, and they’re kissing and holding hands and it’s bloody terrifying.)
(Focus, Harry.)
“Yeah.” He whispers, and he doesn’t know why he’s getting all choked up all of a sudden. “Yeah, I am.” He says anyways, because he is.
Draco’s smile falters, and that won’t do. Harry threads his fingers in his hair behind his head, uses the grip to pull him in in another kiss.
(Draco tastes like cigarettes and mint toothpaste, familiar and addicting like it always is.)
“Really.” He whispers against Draco’s lips, feeling Draco’s breath hitching. “I’m- I’m happy. That’s all.”
(Unsteady and uncertain and too good to be true.)
(Focus, Harry.)
Draco pulls back, grinning, his eyes so, so soft.
“You’re a sap.”
“You like it.”
“Yeah, I do.”
It makes his blush, and Draco laughs, and the sound rings in his ears, melodic and bright.
(Breathe.)
Draco kisses him next, and breathing really isn’t that important anymore.
***
(Sometimes it’s even good .)
[April 18th, 2004]
“What are you doing?” He asks, and Draco just smiles.
“Nothin’.” He replies, which is a lie, but Harry doesn’t mind.
Draco is settled between his legs, they’re sprawled on Draco’s bed, and it’s dark outside, it’s warm inside the room, under Draco’s body.
Draco dips his head to press a soft kiss on his lips, then lower along his jaw. His fingers are running along his sides, tracing invisible runes on his skin.
He smiles to the ceiling, letting himself sink in the pillows. He lets his eyes close, bringing his hands up to bury them in Draco’s hair. It’s already all messed up, from their earlier activities, and the strands are soft in his fingers.
“Draco.” He whispers, and he feels Draco’s smile against his neck.
“Just relax, darlin’.”
“But what are you doing?” Draco hums, runs his hands across Harry’s chest, presses soft kisses in the curve on his left shoulder, lower on his clavicle.
“Relax.” He repeats, and Harry huffs out a laugh, but he doesn’t protest. He lets Draco map a trail of kisses down his body, across scars and bruises.
Draco touches him gently, but firmly. He draws lines and symbols, chases his fingers with his tongue and lips, and it’s dizzying, slow, intoxicating.
“Draco.” He says at some point, and his voice cracks a bit.
(Focus, Harry.)
“Relax, Harry.” Draco repeats, and when he looks up, Harry’s heart does backflips in his chest.
(There’s adoration in the way he touches Harry, veneration, holiness.)
(There’s warmth in his eyes, affection, painfully obvious, and something else too, something deeper, brighter.)
(Focus, Harry.)
Draco looks at him openly, earnestly, and he’s still smiling, and Harry can’t breathe at all.
“Kiss me.” He says, because he can read it all over Draco’s face, and he knows it’s because Draco wants him to know.
(He knows his face is doing the same exact thing.)
(I love you.)
Draco kisses him, it tastes sweet, like sugar.
(Draco kisses him like he needs him to breathe.)
Draco’s hands curl in his hair, and the kiss is slow, deep, it sets his inside of fire.
“Harry.”
(It tastes like love.)
(Focus, Harry.)
When they pull back, Draco’s still smiling, and Harry smiles back.
(They don’t say the words, but they don’t really need to either.)
***
(Sometimes it’s all he’s ever wanted.)
[April 20th, 2004]
“And you know what? I’ve been telling him for forever.” Pansy’s words are slurred, her drink tilted precariously as she gesticulates.
“I know!” Hermione replies, yelling, and Harry feels blush come up his face. “It was starting to be truly ridiculous!”
“Don’t tell me, girl, Draco spent like a year pining.”
“No I didn’t!” Draco cuts in, and Harry grins, sliding an arm around his waist to pull him closer. He almost topples off from his stool but he doesn’t give a shit. The bar is crowded, and he’s well past tipsy, they all are, sitting around a round table far too tiny for all seven of them.
“Aw, babe you were pining?” He croons against Draco’s shoulder, and Draco turns to glare at him, pushing him off.
“No, I wasn’t!” He screams, and Harry laughs.
(Draco’s eyes are bright, his face flushed, the top two buttons of his shirt undone.)
(Focus, Harry.)
“Shut up, mate, it’s not like you were any better!” Ron says, laughing.
“What?”
“Oh, come on, ever since Robards put the two of you together, all you’ve been talking about is him!”
“Ron!” He yells, feeling his face go bright red. He turns back to Draco, finds him grinning. “That’s not true.”
Draco just laughs, leaning over the table to look over at Ron, on Harry’s other side.
“Really, Weasley? Tell me more.”
“Ron-
“It’s been seven months of Malfoy’s hair, and Malfoy’s shirts, and Malfoy’s work ethic-
“Work ethic?” Blaise asks, and Draco elbows him to get him to shut up.
“What else?”
“Ron, shut up!”
Ron grins back, looking over at Hermione and Ginny. Blaise and Pansy cheer from the other side of the table, and Harry hides his face in his hands.
“He’s always like, ‘oh, Malfoy looks so damn fit when he fights’ and ‘Malfoy’s always so perfect, it’s crazy’ and-
“Enough!” He screams, slapping a hand over Ron’s mouth. “I didn’t say any of that.”
“Sure you did, Harry.”
“Ginny, not you too!”
“Oh, yes, me too.”
“Betrayed.” He says, sitting back on his stool. He lets Ron’s face go, and takes a swing from his beer instead.
(The first drink he’s had in over a week.)
(Gotta be some sort of record.)
(Focus, Harry.)
“C’mon, I’ll get us another round.” Ron says, patting his shoulder. Harry nods at that, and then the table finally stops laughing at him as Ron gets up.
A hand presses into his back, and he turns to look at Draco, finds him smiling.
“So, you think I’m fit when I fight?”
“Tosser.” He grumbles, and Draco laughs, and suddenly he can’t even pretend to be mad anymore. He smiles back, and he looks at the table, at their friends, his family, all sitting together around a tiny table in a crappy bar, and his chest is flooded with warmth.
(Focus, Harry.)
He takes Draco’s hand under the table, intertwining their fingers together, and Draco squeezes it.
(I love you.)
Harry looks up at him, and Draco leans in to press a quick kiss on his lips, and he swears his heart could burst with joy.
(He doesn’t remember the last time he’s felt this happy.)
***
(It wasn’t meant to last.)
[April 23rd, 2004]
“Harry, talk to me.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re drunk!”
“I’m not drunk.”
“For Salazar’s sake, tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“You look like you haven’t slept in a week, you’re not eating, and you’re drinking in the office, Harry.”
“Shut up.”
“Does it sound like nothing’s wrong to you?”
“Drop it.”
“Not unless you talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about, Draco.”
“Where are you going now? Harry-
“I’m going home. I’ll- I’ll- uh- see you tomorrow.”
“Harry.”
He’s already Disapparated.
***
[April 28th, 2004]
Time passes inexorably, and Harry’s hands won’t stop fucking shaking.
The invite to the Ministry ball for the anniversary sits on his desk, in Sirirus’ room, and Harry wants to set it on fucking fire.
(The air smells like smoke, electricity dances under his skin.)
He flexes his fingers, tightens his grip on his wand in one hand, on the bottle in the other. He’s meant to get work. He’s really meant to get up.
(The room spins wildly around him.)
(He hasn’t been this drunk in a long time.)
(Focus, Harry.)
He takes a few more sips, the Firewhiskey burns in his throat, in his stomach, and it numbs the ugly thoughts in his head, the bloody images behind his eyelids.
There’s post downstairs. There’s an owl at his window, in fact, Draco’s owl. There was Draco himself, last night, knocking on the door of Grimmauld’s place.
He drags himself out of bed, trips over the clothes on the floor, blinks against the harsh morning light.
(His head hurts, spinning, his hands are shaking and he can’t make them stop.)
(Focus, Harry.)
He grabs a piece of parchment from the desk, ink.
For the first time in six years, Harry calls out of work.
At noon, he passes out of the bedroom floor.
At 2 p.m., he throws up in the sink.
At 3 p.m., he opens another bottle.
at 5 p.m., there’s a knock on his door.
“Harry! Harry, open the fucking door!”
He shakes his head, even though Draco can’t see him, obviously. It doesn’t really matter.
He sits on the floor by the front door, pulls his legs close to his chest and hides his face between his knees.
He can’t breathe, the room is dark, too dark.
(Focus, Harry.)
“Harry, I know you’re in there.” Draco’s voice is softer, whispered across the door between them. “Please let me in.”
Tears burn in his eyes and he wipes them away angrily.
(He doesn’t want Draco to see this mess.)
(Focus, Harry.)
He runs his hands through his hair, over his face, his head hurts. He reaches for the bottle next to him, takes another long sip.
“Harry.”
He thinks he’d like to open the door. He thinks he’d love to, even. He thinks he’d love for Draco to come in, wrap him up in his arms. He thinks he’d like for Draco to kiss him, kiss it all away, tell him everything’s going to be okay in that soothing voice of his. He thinks he’d like that very much.
(He knows he couldn’t take Draco leaving him forever.)
(Focus, Harry.)
“Go away.” He says, and his voice is hoarse, raw.
“No.”
(Stubborn and impossible, and too good to be true.)
“Open the door, Harry.”
He shakes his head, and stumbles to his feet.
The house is haunted, his head is, and every time he closes his eyes, images flash in front of them. The air smells of blood, rings with the screams of the dying, and the floor trembles under his feet.
He can taste it too, metallic and rusty, it fills his nose, sticks to his lungs, stains his hands crimson.
(Draco’s voice echoes through the corridors, beginning, pleading.)
(It’s not easy, walking away.)
(He knows it’s better this way.)
(It wasn’t meant to last.)
***
[April 29th, 2004]
“Harry, it’s us.”
“Let us in, mate.”
“Go away.” He says, again, his voice hoarse.
“Harry, you can’t do this.” Hermione says, and he can hear the tears in her voice.
“Mate, is this about the anniversary?” Ron asks, and Harry laughs, empty and hollow, he feels sick.
The anniversary.
The anniversary. The bloody anniversary. A goddamn celebration. A fucking ball.
(Focus, focus, focus, focus, focus-
“Harry, please.”
He brings the bottle to his lips again, and the liquor stings, burns, the room spins, and the images won’t go away.
(Focus, focus, focus, focus, focus-
Explosions ring in his ears, his chest hurts, tight, too tight, he can’t breathe.
“Harry, c’mon!”
He looks at his hands, and they’re covered in blood, and when he looks up, Hogwarts’ courtyard is filled with dead bodies, staring at him with empty eyes.
(Focus, focus, focus, focus, focus-
“Harry, please, let us in!”
There are screams in the air, smoke and hexes, colorful, sparkly, deadly. His chest hurts, it hurts so bad, caving in against Voldemort’s Avada Kedavra. It cracks his ribcage open, crushes his heart, rips it apart.
(Focus, focus, focus, focus, focus-
He wants it all to stop, he’s never wanted this, he’s never wanted any of it, he wants out-
(I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-
When Ron and Hermione leave, a couple of hours later, Harry has been passed out for a while.
***
[April 30th, 2004]
The house is cold.
It seeps past his clothes, sticks to his bone, and his hands won’t stop shaking.
He pulls the blanket tighter around himself, sinking deeper in the couch. He hasn’t moved in a while. He doesn’t remember the last time he ate something. It doesn’t really matter either.
(Focus, Harry.)
He wishes he could leave.
(Your fault.)
He wishes Grimmauld wasn’t so haunted. He wishes he didn’t see dead bodies all around him. He wishes the air didn’t smell like smoke and blood.
(I’m sorry.)
He wishes Draco were here. He wishes Hermione and Ron were too.
(Your fault.)
He wishes he weren’t such a mess. He wishes he could move on like the rest of them. He wishes he could eat. He wishes he could sleep. He wishes he could breathe.
(Focus, Harry.)
He knows Draco is outside, sitting on the doorsteps. He wishes he could bring himself to get up and open the door. He wishes he wasn’t so fucked up. So fucking broken.
He laughs, and it echoes through the empty hallways. His hands are shaking.
(Focus, Harry.)
It feels like falling, like jumping from a cliff and splattering on the pavement. His ribcage is caving in, his lungs constrict, about to pop like balloons.
(Focus, Harry.)
His hands are shaking and he feels sick, he can’t breathe. He presses his hands into his eyes, and bodies drop in front of him, the air fills with smoke and dust, blood in his mouth, on his hands, warm and slippery.
(Focus, Harry.)
He can’t breathe.
(Focus, Harry.)
He doesn’t know how to do this. He’s never known.
He stumbles to his feet, and electricity cracks in the air, down his spine. His chest is tight, too tight, and his skin itches, burns, pulled taut over his bones, he can’t fucking breathe.
(Focus, Harry.)
It wasn’t supposed to be like this, after the War.
It was supposed to end.
(He should have stayed dead.)
(Focus, Harry.)
He throws the empty bottle at his feet and it crashes against the opposite wall of the living room, against a cabinet. Glass explodes everywhere, the sound shrill and high-pitched, loud, his head throbs, but the pressure relents in his chest.
(Just for a second.)
(He’ll take anything.)
(Focus, Harry.)
A mirror blows up next, the air smells of fire and smoke, he doesn’t need his wand. He can feel his magic twist in his chest, dark and heavy. He throws another bottle, and the lights flicker in the room, in the whole house. He screams and a fire burns on the fireplace, the flames licking up at the floor.
(Focus, focus, focus, focus, focus-
(He can’t breathe.)
A wind picks up in the room, the shadows in the corner look solid, much more real than he feels, and they circle the room, sucking out all the light, the wind is sharp, biting at his skin.
(Your fault, your fault, your fault, your fault, your fault-
“I’m sorry.” He chokes out, and he doesn’t know who he’s telling it to.
He’s alone, afterall.
The wind drops, the fire goes out, the shadows melt back against the wall.
He sinks on the floor.
(He’s alone.)
(Focus, Harry.)
He knows Draco is outside, and it would be easy. All he has to do is open the door.
(He knows Draco will leave when he sees this.)
(Focus, Harry.)
He holds his hand out, and a bottle flies in it.
(Better this way.)
***
[May 1st, 2004]
“Harry, I know you’re there, please, just let me in.”
Harry leans his head against the door, lets his eyes close, just for a second.
(His head hurts so bad.)
(Focus, Harry.)
He hears Draco exhale on the other side, and there’s some shuffling. Draco’s sitting down, leaning against the door, just on the other side.
Harry wraps his own arms around himself.
(He’s so fucking cold.)
(Focus, Harry.)
“Weasley called me today, you know?” Draco says, muffled. “He wanted to know if I’d spoken to you.”
He doesn’t answer, he hears Draco exhale.
“They’re worried about you. I understand you don’t want to talk to me, but they’re your family.”
Tears burn in his eyes, and he doesn’t know how to do this.
(It’s too much, it hurts too bad.)
“I miss you, Harry.”
(I love you.)
He feels tears roll down his face, and he lets them, digging his fingernails into his palms.
(Poison.)
“I miss you, I really do. Who would have guessed, right?” Draco huffs a laugh, but it sounds sad. Like maybe he’s crying too. “I miss the coffee you bring me every morning. I miss- I miss the way you roll your eyes at me. I- I- I miss your smile. Your stupid jokes. Your ugly shirts.”
(I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-
“I miss your eyes.” Draco says, quiet, and his fingers tap against the door. “I miss holding your hand, and I miss kissing you.”
(Focus, focus, focus, focus, focus-
“I- I didn’t- Harry, I- I don’t know how to do this without you anymore.” Draco’s voice cracks, and Harry’s heart with it. “I’m- I’m a mess, really. I can’t sleep, I can’t work, it’s- I can’t breathe half the time, like there’s no air in the room.”
(Focus, focus, focus, focus, focus-
“I miss you.” He’s crying, Harry knows he is. He can hear it. “I miss you, and I need- I need you to open this door, Harry. I know it’s hard, alright? I know. But we can do this together, Harry, I’m- I don’t know what your stupid brain is telling you, but I’m not leaving. Ron and Hermione aren’t leaving.”
(Focus, focus, focus, focus, focus-
“You just need to open the door, darling. Let me in. We’ll do it together, alright? Whatever it is, we’ll do it together. Please.”
Blood stains his palms, and when he sobs, no sounds come out. He presses his forehead against the door, cool under his burning skin. He swears he can hear Draco’s breathing on the other side.
(Focus, Harry.)
“Harry?”
(I love you.)
“Harry, please.”
(Your fault.)
Another knock, quiet, a brush of fingers. Draco’s getting up.
“Alright, then. You- you know where to find me.” Draco says, whispers, Harry barely hears it really.
(It’s like ripping his own heart out.)
He can imagine Draco walking away, and can feel his heart trying to jump out of his chest, follow after him.
He stands, his legs wobbly under him, and he presses his hand against the wall.
(Focus, Harry.)
(All he has to do is open the door.)
(I love you.)
“Harry?”
The light outside is bright, after days spent in darkness. Draco’s smile is blinding.
“I’m sorry.” He says, and his voice is hoarse from disuse. “I’m so- I’m so sorry.”
Draco hugs him.
(He smells of cigarettes and mint.)
(Safe.)
“It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m right here, I got you.”
Somehow, that’s too much.
Tears fill his eyes, and he hides his face in the crook of Draco’s neck, and he cries.
“It’s okay, Harry, it’s okay, I’m right here, I’m right here, I got you, darlin’, I got you.”
They sink to the floor, Draco pulls and pulls and pulls, and he goes, until he’s practically sitting in his lap, and it doesn’t matter. Draco’s hands are steady where they hold him, on his waist, on his back, tight and real and grounding.
(Focus, Harry.)
Harry leans on him, and Draco doesn’t waver, solid and so fucking real.
“I’m sorry.” He says again, and Draco shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair, and it’s been days since Draco’s touched him last, and he didn’t realize how much he missed it, how bad he’d been feeling without it.
He cries against Draco’s chest, sobs ripping past his lips, and he’s making a mess of Draco’s shirt, and it’s maybe a little gross too because he hasn’t showered in days, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking matter.
He cries and the world doesn’t end. He breaks and he doesn’t die.
(Focus, Harry.)
Draco talks, his voice like warm honey on his fried nerves.
“It’s okay, darling, it’s alright, I got you. You’re okay, you’re safe, it’s over, it’s all over, I got you. I got you.”
(Focus, Harry.)
He doesn’t know how long they stay there, tangled into each other, on the floor of the hallway. It doesn’t really matter.
Harry cries and Draco holds him and it feels good.
(Focus, Harry.)
When he does stop, eventually, Draco doesn’t let go. He holds Harry tight, pulls him close, closer, until there isn’t an inch between them. He holds Harry like he never wants to let go.
“I’m sorry.” He mumbles in the end.
“Don’t apologize.” Draco whispers back. “Please.”
“I am, though.” He pulls back enough that he can look Draco in the eyes. He takes his face between his hands, his skin cold. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t have locked you out. Literally.”
Draco just smiles, small and watery, but a smile nonetheless. He brushes his thumb over his cheeks, pushes a strand of hair behind his ears.
“I- I just- I don’t know how to do this.” He says, and his voice cracks. “I- I’m- it’s been six years, I’m- I should be over this-
“Harry-
“The War is over, and I should be over it, but I’m not.” His voice catches and he has to stop. Draco’s grip on his waist tightens, and Harry blinks away the tears in his eyes, digs his fingers in Draco’s white shirt, smears blood on his shoulders.
(Focus, Harry.)
“I can’t breathe. I can’t sleep. Every- every time I close my eyes I see- I see the fuckin’- the fucking courtyard, at Hogwarts, and I can’t- I can’t do it anymore, Draco, I can’t.”
He pulls his hands back to run them over his face, digging into his eyes.
(His head hurts.)
(Focus, Harry.)
“I don’t- I’m fucking tired, and every day I get up to fight some more and I can’t- I- I- I can’t do it anymore, Draco. I can’t keep watching people die, I can’t-
“Harry, it’s okay.”
“I’m
tired,
all the time, all the fucking time, I’m tired, I’m
so
tired.”
Draco hugs him again, pulling him in, and Harry goes, lets more tears fall down his face, and it feels good.
“Harry.”
“I don’t- I don’t want to be an Auror anymore, Draco.” He says, and it feels like his chest is collapsing. “I don’t know how to do anything else.”
“Harry, you’re more than- than a soldier.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” Draco’s hands are soft, delicate.
(They touch him with care, handle him like he’s something priceless.)
(Focus, Harry.)
“You’re everything, Harry, you’re everything.”
“Draco.”
“You’re sweet, and kind. You’re so kind, and people- people have tried to take advantage of that, of you, and somehow you haven’t let them. You’re so bright it hurts to look at you, sometimes.”
“Draco,
please.”
“You’re kind, and generous, and smart. You’re so beautiful. You’re- you’ve been through so much, and you’re still here, and I-
“Draco.”
“I love you, Harry.” Draco’s voice cracks, and when Harry pulls back to look at him, there are tears in his eyes.
(Focus, Harry.)
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.” Draco says, around a laugh, eyes flicking nervously all over his face. “Harry, I-
Harry kisses him.
It’s wet, and salty, and it tastes like blood and cigarettes, and it’s perfect. Draco melts against him, in the kiss, takes his face to tilt his head so he can deepen the kiss, slide his tongue inside to lick into his mouth. It’s messy and desperate and it sets him on fire from the inside out.
“Harry, fuck.”
He nods, doesn’t open his eyes, leaning in to kiss Draco again, and again, and again, until they can’t breathe anymore, and then Harry kisses him some more.
(His heart feels like it’s about to burst.)
(Focus, Harry.)
“I love you too.” He says then, the words tumble out of his mouth before he can really think about it, but it doesn’t really matter, because they’re true anyway. Draco’s face breaks into a grin, and Harry smiles back, and then he laughs. He laughs, and Draco laughs with him, because it’s insane they’re here, after all this time, but somehow they are, and it feels so fucking good.
Draco stands, pulling him up too, leans in to steal another kiss from him.
Harry takes his hand, intertwines their fingers together, tastes the smile on his lips.
“Stay?” He asks, and Draco nods, smile.
“Always.”
***
[May 2nd, 2004]
He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but they must have, because they’re in Sirius’ bedroom, on his bed. His head is on Draco’s chest, and their legs are tangled under the blankets, and there’s sunlight streaming from the window.
The room and the house are a mess, he’s a mess, but it doesn’t matter right now.
(Draco’s heart is beating regularly under his ear.)
He looks at him, at the light painting his skin in warmth and golds, face relaxed, eyelashes resting on his cheeks.
(Beautiful.)
(He’s lucky, he knows he is.)
Draco’s skin is cool under his fingers, and Harry traces them along the Sectumsempra scars, over the Dark Mark on Draco’s arm. He runs his hands across his sides, up his neck, along the sharp line of his jaw, over his cheeks.
(I love you.)
He thinks about the War.
It’s been six years.
(Focus, Harry.)
Today, Fred Weasley died. Remus and Tonks Lupin died. Lavender Brown and Colin Creevy died. So many more. Today, he died.
He died, and he came back.
(Focus, Harry.)
He runs his fingers over his own heart, over the Avada Kedavra scar on his skin, the edges uneven, raised.
“Harry?” Draco’s voice is rough with sleep, as he blinks against the morning light. His fingers trace up Harry’s side, pull him closer, and Harry lets him, hides his face in Draco’s chest, feels the steady rhythm of his heart. “Harry.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
He looks up at Draco, looking at him with love in his eyes, and he thinks that maybe it really is okay.
(Focus, Harry.)
He cries, silently, like he’s always done, and Draco lets him, holds him through it.
He cries for the people that died, his friends, his family. He cries for the people he lost. He cries for all the pain and the suffering that didn’t have to happen. He cries for Draco, all the ugly things he’s seen, and the one’s he’s done too.
And he cries for himself too.
(He doesn’t know how to do this.)
(Focus, Harry.)
He stares at his figure in the mirror, his body wrapped in fine, expensive materials. He looks good.
(Bloodshot eyes and dark bags.)
(Focus, Harry.)
He has to go, he knows he does.
(He feels sick.)
(It’s fucking stupid, so many people died today and they’re gonna drink champagne about it?)
(Focus, focus, focus, focus, focus-
“Harry.”
(He can’t quite breathe right.)
He knows he has to.
He has to give a speech. Kingsley expects him to be there. The entire Wizarding World expects him to be there. He has to be there.
(His skin is itching, pulled taut over his bones, he wants to rip it off, peel it from his body, tight, too tight, he can’t breathe-
“Harry? Harry, hey, look at me, darling.”
There will be so many people at the Ministry Ball. So many people wanting to shake his hand, point at his scar, ask him about Voldermort. They want their Saviour, put him on a bloody shrine and let him rot under the lights.
(It feels like slipping.)
(His hands itch for a drink, for the whole bottle:)
(Focus, Harry.)
“Harry, you’re breathing too fast, you have to slow down.”
(He can’t, he really fucking can’t.)
His legs feel shaky under him, the ground unsteady, he feels sick.
“Draco?”
“Yeah, it’s me, sweetheart, it’s me, you’re having a panic attack.”
He laughs.
Really, out loud, it bubbles out of him unwanted and hysterical, hollow, and he laughs, and he feels sick, he feels fucking crazy.
He’s being ridiculous, he knows he is. It’s just a stupid ball, he’s been to so many of them, it’s what it’s always been expected of him, and Harry’s nothing if a soldier, he fought for Dumbledore first, and then he fought for the whole Wizarding World, and now he’s fighting for the Ministry and he’s so fucking tired.
(Focus, Harry.)
“Harry!”
His legs give out under him, knees making hard contact with the floor, and he clutches his chest desperately, willing his heart to slow down before it jumps right out of his ribcage.
(Focus, focus, focus, focus, focus-
“Harry, look at me, please, Harry-
He can’t breathe.
(He’s going to die.)
(He wishes he’d stayed dead.)
“Draco, Draco, I- I can’t- I can’t-
“Yes, yes, you can, darling. You can.”
He shakes his head and tears burn in his eyes, his chest caves in, and a sob tears past his lips.
(It feels like drowning.)
(Ice-cold and comforting and familiar-
“Harry, look at me.”
(Focus, Harry.)
“Match me, Harry.” Draco presses one of Harry’s hands over his own chest, and Harry can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest under his fingers, the heat of his body.
(Real.)
“Draco- I-
“Match me, Harry, c’mon, you can do this, I know you can- yes, that’s good, that’s very good, darling, perfect, again, c’mon, that’s good, again, excellent, brilliant- c’mon, Harry, breathe for me.”
(Anything, everything.)
Harry breathes.
(Focus, Harry.)
“Perfect, just perfect, Harry, you’re so good.”
“Draco.”
“I’m right here, darlin’, I’m right here, I got you.”
Draco pulls and Harry goes. He lets Draco wrap him up in his arms, hides his face in the curve of his neck, inhales the scent of him.
(Cigarettes and mint.)
(Safe.)
“Sorry.” He mumbles, hands shaking and leaving red droplets of blood on Draco’s crisp, white shirt. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not.” He says, because it isn’t. He’s a goddamn mess.
(Focus, Harry.)
“No, it’s not. But it’ll be.” Draco whispers, presses a soft kiss on his temple.
(Focus, Harry.)
Tears burn in his eyes, and he swallows them down, digs his fingers in Draco’s shoulders, strong and steady under him.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do, actually.”
“How the fuck do you know?”
“Because it’s you, Harry, and you’re the strongest person I know.” Draco’s voice quivers just a bit, and his hands tighten around Harry’s back, hold him close, hold him together.
“Draco.”
“If anyone can get through this, it’s you.”
“I’m tired.”
“I know.” Draco kisses him then, and Harry lets him. He parts his lips to let Draco lick into his mouth, and this- this feels good. It feels right. “We’ll do it together.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
They don’t go to the Ball.
(They don’t go, and he receives several letters from Kingsley and other people pissed at him, but the world doesn’t end.)
(Focus, Harry.)
He falls asleep to Draco’s steady heartbeat under his ear.
***
[May 3rd, 2004]
He puts in his resignation at Robard’s office.
“Good for you, kid.” It’s all the man says. “You deserve it.”
(If he cries himself to sleep, at least Draco’s there to hold him.)
***
(Sometimes, you can only keep going.)
[May 4th, 2004]
“Harry.” Hermione’s scent envelops him when she hugs him.
“It’s good to see you, mate.” Ron says, wrapping him into a tight hug too.
(Familiar and gentle and good.)
“We missed you.” Hermione says, with tears in her voice.
“I missed you too. Sorry.”
“It’s alright, mate. Just happy to see you’re okay.”
They look around when they come in. Neither of them has been to Grimmauld since they left it to go rob Umbridge, all those years ago. No one has. It hasn’t changed.
They sit in the living room on the ground floor, where they used to sleep back then. Draco is there too, next to him, comforting and real.
“How’s your family?” He asks Ron, and he sighs. Hermione takes his hand.
“Better. George is- well, you know.”
(He does.)
(He can see it over Ron’s face too, the rimmed eyes and the paleness of skin.)
“I should- I should have visited.” He says, because he should have. The Weasleys are his family.
(Sometimes Harry hates himself.)
(Focus, Harry.)
“It’s okay, mate. I told mum you were sick.” He says, with a slight grin. “She told me to tell you to get your ass out of the house and over there.”
It rips a smile from him too.
“I will.”
“Good, or I swear she’ll come pick you up by the ear.” He says, and it’s good, it’s sweet and funny and it makes him smile and it feels almost normal.
(Almost.)
“And, uh- Robards told me you quit.” Ron adds, eyes darting between him and Draco, and then over to Hermione.
“Yeah.” He says, throat suddenly tight. “Yesterday.”
Something over Hermione’s face cracks, and tears well up in her eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell us, Harry?” She asks then, and he looks away, clenching his fists until he draws blood.
“I didn’t know how.” He chokes out, and he can’t quite look at them in the eyes. “I’m sorry.”
The words are barely out that he almost topples over, crushed by the force of their combined hug.
“Oh, Harry.”
“We’re sorry, mate.” Ron says, holding both him and Hermione tightly, and suddenly Harry can’t breathe, but now it’s for a different reason, a good reason. “We should have known, helped you somehow- I- fuck, mate, I’m sorry-
“Ron, no-
“He’s right, we should have known, we did know, we should have done something-
(Focus, Harry.)
“You didn’t know.” He says, voice hoarse. “You couldn’t- I- I didn’t want you to.”
They let him go, but don’t go too far. Hermione keeps holding his hand and Ron keeps an arm around his shoulders and this feels good, so good he almost cries.
(Focus, Harry.)
“I’m- I haven’t been okay in a while, I think.” He whispers.
(Maybe ever.)
(Focus, Harry.)
“I didn’t want- it wasn’t your problem, I didn’t want it to be a problem at all, but I- I can’t- I can’t keep going like this.” He says, and he feels sick, and he’s scared, he’s so bloody scared.
(Focus, Harry.)
“I’m sorry.”
Hermione hugs him again, presses a kiss into his hairline.
“You don’t have to apologize, Harry. We- we love you, you’re our family, we’ve got your back. Whatever you want to do now, we’ve got your back.”
(Focus, focus, focus, focus, focus-
(He doesn’t deserve them.)
“Christ.” He says, and a smile pulls at his face, tears pool in his eyes. “You guys-
His voice cracks, and Ron squeezes his shoulder, smiles too.
“We know. It’s alright, Harry.”
And when they hug him again, and Draco squeezes his hand, he thinks that maybe Ron is right.
Maybe it really is alright.
***
[May 7th, 2004]
“I love you.” Draco whispers, pressing soft kisses into his neck. Harry smiles to the ceiling, breathing when his chest tightens. Draco’s fingers trace the uneven edges of his scars, follows after them with his tongue.
“Draco.”
“You’re so beautiful, Harry.”
(It’s hard, it’s almost too much.)
(Draco looks at him with so much love in his eyes that sometimes he has to look away.)
(Focus, Harry.)
“Hey, look at me, darling.” Draco says, and when Harry does, there’s a hint of a smile on his pretty face. “There you are.”
The light is filtering through the window of Sirius’ room, paints Draco’s alabaster skin in gentle pinks and soft silvers, he looks ethereal, too beautiful to be true.
But he is.
He’s real, and Harry gets to touch him, run his hands over the hard expanses of his chest, the soft skin of his back, the pretty curve of his neck and sharp line of his jaw. He gets to lean up and press his lips against Draco’s. He gets to squeeze his hand, intertwine their fingers together.
(He gets to touch and hold and kiss, and it feels like a miracle.)
(Focus, Harry.)
“I love you.” He says, and Draco smiles and it settles something deep in Harry’s chest, begins repairing something that was broken long ago.
“I love you too.” Draco whispers, private, just for him. He kisses Harry, kisses his cheeks and his chin and down his neck and over his shoulders and chest. Kisses old scars and faded marks, bites new ones in Harry’s skin, lip-shaped bruises that hurt so good, that reminds him of where he belongs, who he belongs to.
(Focus, Harry.)
“I love you.” Draco says again, and Harry lets his eyes close, lets the warmth of Draco’s fingers and mouth pull him in.
(It’s easier like this, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can be happy too.)
***
[May 10th, 2004]
The days are hard.
The day is when Draco works, when Ron and Hermione do too, and so he’s alone.
(It’s always harder when he’s alone.)
Draco poured all the alcohol he had in the house down the drain, and now, sitting in the darkness of the living room, with his head pounding, he itches for it.
He could go out.
He could go out, face the myriads of people that have been wondering where he’s been since he stopped coming into work, since he missed the Anniversary Ball. He’d have to withstand their gaze, but he could make it to a minimart of some sort, and buy something to drink.
Maybe he could go to a Muggle one and get something that isn’t Firewhiskey, and then no one would know him at all.
(Focus, Harry.)
It really would be easy.
(Focus, Harry.)
The house is dark, cold, even in May, when the spring is in full sprint. It sticks to his bones, the memories fill his head. The left-over traces of Dark Magic still pulse in the very foundations of the building.
(Focus, Harry.)
He stands, walks to the closet at the entrance. He throws it open.
The broom is still there, when he brought it over when he first moved in. The weight is familiar in his hand, the Firebolt still looks as good as news, even though it’s been years since he rode it.
(He misses it.)
(The wind in his hair, the world at his feet.)
He could, he really could. It’s not like anything is stopping him. He can do whatever he wants.
(And really, he knows that, of course, but somehow it’s an earth-shattering realization.)
(He can do whatever he
wants.)
(Focus, Harry.)
He knows he’s grinning, as he steps in the back garden of Grimmauld Place for the first time ever, and hops on the broom. It seems to shake in his hands, like maybe it’s happy to see him again too. He lets out a chuckle, looks up.
It’s a bright day, the sky clear and blue.
And so, Harry throws on a quick Disillusionment Charm, and then he kicks off the ground.
(Focus, Harry.)
He forgot.
He really forgot.
It’s exhilarating, the Firebolt is just as fast as it was back then, responding to his intentions before he even has time to formulate then. The wind is sharp against him, presses against his body, and it’s real and strong and he feels alive.
(Focus, Harry.)
He laughs, as he picks up speed, screams when he dives, meters and meters above the city. He twists in the sky, dips and dives, screams and laughs and it feels so bloody good.
He can’t believe he forgot.
(Focus, Harry.)
He flies all over London, twisting and turning. He goes as fast as he can, opens his arms against the wind and yells to the sun, every fiber of his being brimming with energy.
(Alive, alive, alive, alive, alive-
(He’s alive.)
***
[May 18th, 2004]
“We should renovate this place.”
“What?”
“It really needs it.”
Harry hums at that, and Draco keeps stroking his arm. They’re curled in bed, in Sirius’ room, and outside is dark, but the room isn’t.
“I haven’t touched anything when I moved in.”
"Clearly." Draco says, with a scoff. “Great-aunt Walburga had a questionable taste at best.”
“Really? I thought this would be just right up your alley, Mr. I-dress-like-Dracula.”
“What’s a Dracula?”
“It’s- you guys don’t have Dracula? He’s a vampire.”
“Is it a Muggle thing?”
“I guess so.”
“That explains why I have never heard of him.” Draco says, and Harry huffs a short laugh. “Wait, you’re saying I dress like a vampire?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“I’ll hex you.”
“I thought you loved me.”
“I can still hex you. I’ll be gentle.” He says, and Harry laughs, can’t quite help it, swatting him on the chest. Draco laughs too, and it lights up his features.
(Pretty.)
“Dickhead.”
“You like it.”
(Focus, Harry.)
He leans up to kiss Draco, and Draco kisses him back, fingers tangling in Harry’s curls.
“You’re lucky I do.” He replies on Draco’s lips, tastes the sweetness of his smile in their next kiss.
He leans back down on Draco’s chest, and Draco resumes running his fingers on Harry’s skin.
(Symbols of protection.)
(It makes Harry’s heart squeeze every time.)
(Focus, Harry.)
“Would you help?” He asks.
“With what?”
“Renovating.” He replies, and Draco hums, pulling him tighter against himself. Harry lets him, smiling.
“I’d bloody take charge.” He says, and Harry scoffs. “You have terrible fashion sense, I dread imagining what your idea of interior design might look like.”
“You really suck.”
“I love you too, dear.”
(Focus, Harry.)
Draco presses another kiss on the top of his head, and Harry takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of him.
(Mint and cigarettes.)
(Home.)
He pulls himself up again, glancing at the picture of the Marauders taped to the wall.
He looks back at Draco, finds him staring back.
He looks beautiful in the warm light of the room, his skin golden and soft, his eyes bright.
(It’s as simple as breathing.)
“Would you move in too?”
Draco’s eyes widen, his hand stills on Harry’s side.
“What?”
“Move in with me.” He repeats, heart racing. He reaches over to Draco’s hand, brings it to his lips to press a kiss into his palm, over his knuckles, his wrist, the Dark Mark. Draco sucks in a sharp breath, but Harry doesn’t stop.
“I love you.” He whispers against Draco’s skin, feeling the slight shiver of Draco’s hand. “I love you, and I- I want to spend as much time with you as possible. Move in with me. We can- we can rebuild this place together.”
He looks up at Draco, and Draco’s staring at him with wide eyes and parted lips.
“Really?” He asks, voice trembling slightly, and Harry smiles. “Is- you really want me to?”
“I want nothing more, Draco.”
Draco kisses him.
It’s messy and hungry, and barely a kiss at all because they’re both smiling and laughing too much to really kiss. It’s perfect.
“Salazar, Harry.” Draco whispers directly on his lips. He takes Harry’s face between his hands, holding him close, so close that Harry can feel his warm breath on his skin. “You’re- you’re bloody ridiculous. I love you. You’re crazy. I love you so much.”
“I love you too.” He replies, letting a laugh bubble out of him, and Draco’s grinning, and Harry’s too and this- this is good.
This is good.
(Alive.)
***
[June 2nd, 2004]
“Man, I’m exhausted.” Harry says, plopping himself on the small garden outside Grimmauld.
“Here.” Draco hands him a glass of lemonade, before sitting down next to Harry on the grass. And with minimal hesitation too. It makes Harry smile, reaching across the space between them to take his hand.
Draco smiles at him, using his free hand to light up a cigarette. The smoke curls in the warm summer air in front of them, makes pretty curls against the sunset.
“Isn’t magic supposed to make this easier?” He asks, and Draco shrugs. They’re both covered in sweat, from a long day of renovations. There’s two of them, and Hermione and Ron come around often enough to help, but still. The house needs a lot of work.
(It’s okay.)
(Harry likes it, manual and repetitive and grounding.)
(It feels good.)
(Harry’s not entirely sure what a home is supposed to look like, but he’s going to find out.)
(Focus, Harry.)
“We got a lot done today.” Draco says with a satisfied smile. He looks odd, wearing a stained t-shirt and sweatpants. He still looks good.
(The day Draco malfoy doesn’t look good, is the day the world ends.)
He smiles, nodding.
The sunset paints the sky in pinks and oranges, throws golden light over them both. It softens Harry’s edges into something blunter, less sharp, less dangerous. Something that fits comfortably against Draco’s side, in this small patch of world they’ve carved for themselves.
“You okay?” Draco asks him then, and Harry exhales, nods.
“Yeah.” He says, leaning his head on Draco’s shoulder. “I’m- I’m happy.”
(Alive.)
Draco smiles, soft and bright. He kisses him, and Harry meets him halfway.
“I’m glad.”
“I didn’t- I never thought we’d make it here. I thought I’d be dead by now.” He whispers, quietly, to Draco and to the stars, a secret. “But I’m happy I’m not. I’m happy I’m here, with you.”
(Alive.)
“I love you.” It’s all Draco says in return, and Harry nods.
“I love you too.”
He breathes, and they’re alive.