See, I still write stuff
How to Fall Apart - 6000 words, H/D, PG-13, minor character death, angst - this is how it ends.
“That’s mine,” Harry said.
Malfoy - oh God, when had Draco become so hard to say, when had he lost the rights to it? - stopped in the middle of the room, his mouth tight and the planes of his face tighter and Harry remembered Malfoy’s sweet, crooked smile like it was yesterday. Except it hadn’t been yesterday, no, it had been much, much longer than that.
“Granger gave it to me,” Malfoy said stiffly, fingers curled around the spine of the book, and he was holding himself tense, an arrow that had an unerring talent for finding the soft fragility between Harry’s plates of armor. Three months ago he’d counted Harry’s ribs with kisses and today he knew how to shove his fingers under those ribs, how to pull. “Therefore it’s mine.”
“It was meant for both of us,” Harry said, and the anger was a violent thing, because he didn’t care about the book, only that Malfoy was carrying it out like it belonged to him, because he was tired of Malfoy taking everything like it belonged to him. And part of him just wanted to see Malfoy go taut, wanted to see the spitting anger in the hard curves of his mouth, in the tight crinkling of his eyes.
It was like this addictive game, action and reaction. Harry’d lash out and revel in the way Malfoy ached and Malfoy would lash back because that was Malfoy, unable to just take something without blindly scrambling, without throwing himself headlong into the fight, and it was okay if Malfoy got bloodied, as long as he could hurt Harry back.
Malfoy stared back and it was just like being back at Hogwarts again, and Harry had never thought he’d see that snarl on Malfoy’s face again, the one that drained the color from his face, the one that had made Harry hate him hate him hate him.
“You never read it,” Malfoy said coldly. “You’re just trying to pick a fight with me because you can.”
“No,” Harry said, and he leaned forward and wrenched the book out of Malfoy’s hands. “No, that was you.”
Malfoy’s fingers curled in Harry’s shirt, warm through the cotton, and it was a mockery, this, because three months ago Malfoy’s smile would have gone lazy and bright, and his head would’ve tilted and their mouths would’ve fit together. And Malfoy would’ve used his teeth because he’d never learned how to kiss properly and Harry wouldn’t have minded.
Except now Malfoy’s smile showed too many teeth and at some point Harry had started thinking of him as defanged, tame, and he’d been wrong, hadn’t he? “Really,” Malfoy said. “Because I’m not the one-”
Harry turned his face away because Malfoy’s breath was sour with whisky and it was too much, having Malfoy this close and not being able to do anything except spill vitriol. He couldn’t stop himself, though, had never been able to do things halfway with Malfoy, so he curved his hand around the nape of Malfoy’s neck, and Malfoy was trembling up close, even if from afar he looked calm and steady and angry. And this was just how Harry liked him, imperfect and messy and a little bit filthy.
“No,” Harry said. “You’re just the one who can’t even bear getting too close-”
“Oh, that’s rich,” said Malfoy, fingernails digging into Harry’s shoulder. “Coming from you, who told your coworkers that I was just the charity case you were investing in since Shacklebolt asked you to.”
That’d been wrong, Harry knew that, and Hermione and Ron had told him as much, and Malfoy hadn’t talked to him for a week and he knew that it had been wrong, and he knew it now, except there was something in the hollowness of Malfoy’s face that Harry liked because Harry Potter had always needed Draco Malfoy, and if he couldn’t make him feel love, he’d settle for hate.
And it was too easy: he grabbed at Malfoy’s wrist, and Malfoy made a soft sound, one of the ones Harry’d got addicted to, the trembling of Malfoy’s throat right before Harry kissed him, but Harry wasn’t going to kiss him now. No, he shoved up Malfoy’s sleeve and there it was, angry black against white skin, and he held up Malfoy’s arm and sneered.
“You were never anything but a charity case, Malfoy,” and it wasn’t true and they both knew it wasn’t true, not when there’d been lazy Sunday mornings under cool white sheets and Malfoy’s mouth warm and slick and the sun peering through the blinds. Except the truth had got muddled, hadn’t it, and now it was less about believing what was true and more about believing what felt right in that moment and a year ago Harry had fiercely told him that he didn’t care, that it was over, that Malfoy was different now.
And now he just wanted to see Malfoy crumble.
Malfoy reeled back and Harry let him go because he had the book and he’d won this round. Malfoy’s eyes were flashing fire and Harry’s smile was a maniacal thing, and he couldn’t stop, didn’t want to, because if Malfoy was going to leave and tear this whole thing down, burn it until there were just ashes and anger and maybe a sliver of regret, until Harry’s memories became fuzzy, glassy, broken shards, well - Harry could do that too.
****
Harry upended the drawer and desperately clawed through the mess of letters and photos.
“Where’s the photo book?” he said.
He’d not heard Malfoy come in because Malfoy was like that, sly and manipulative, moving silently enough when he wanted to, but then Malfoy was fiddling with the door because he had something to say and he wanted Harry to hear it and Harry knew then, and this was like the war, wasn’t it, except last time it had just been Voldemort and his insanity and this time it was much, much worse.
And it was worse because Malfoy was wearing one of those white shirts that shouldn’t have worked against his pale skin and paler hair, except it did and Malfoy had always had to have the shirt mended over the years because Harry was forever tearing the buttons off in an effort to get Malfoy naked. To flatten his palms against the thin shell of Malfoy’s skin, to feel Malfoy’s ribs under his palms.
“What photo book?” Malfoy said, and this was his sort of cruelty, devastatingly casual, delivered with an absent sort of smile, because he didn’t even have to concentrate if he wanted to hurt Harry.
“We-” and oh, once that simple word had filled Harry with the simplest delight, but those days were over-“have only one photo book.” And it was filled with everything that made them HarryandDraco, and they’d fought over it at the beginning because Harry didn’t feel that Malfoy’s family pictures belonged anywhere near pictures of Sirius and his parents but Sirius was a Black and so was Narcissa, and anyway, Malfoy had always got a crazed, determined sort of look when it came to things like family and he’d insisted that they were a family now, he and Harry, and so those pictures of his Harry’s parents might as well stop glaring at the pictures of Lucius and Narcissa, because they were damn well going to stay there.
Malfoy slid a hand across the doorframe. “I took it. I figured it was fair, since I had about five times as many photographs as you do.” His eyes were wide in a way that should have looked silly on anyone who was older than five and Malfoy wasn’t guileless or innocent.
Harry couldn’t breathe because Malfoy couldn’t have. “Fine,” he said, the panic curdling in his chest. And he could ignore the heavy because you don’t even have parents, Potter that hung between them, unsaid because they weren’t eleven anymore, except this was Malfoy and it was about the book, wasn’t it, Hermione’s book that belonged to him because Hermione was his.
“You can just send me my photos, then,” Harry said, breaths coming fast and short.
And Malfoy, who’d been watching with interest, shrugged his thin shoulders under his delicate shirt and said, “Can’t do that, Potter. You see, I’ve already tossed your photos out.” He smiled and Harry would’ve leapt at him if he wasn’t kneeling on the ground, if the world around him hadn’t gone black, narrowing until all that he could see was Malfoy, stark white against a black background and of course Malfoy hadn’t just tossed the photos out, he’d probably burned them too, the only pictures Harry had of his parents and Sirius and Remus, and they were all gone, and he’d kill Malfoy, he wanted to and he should have, except Malfoy was looking pleased and leaving and Harry collapsed face-first into the floor.
Malfoy’s voice came from the hallway, knife-sharp. “You really should’ve let me keep the book.”
****
He’d left the letter from Ginny out on the coffee table with the sort of unsubtle cruelty that he’d always favored. Malfoy was almost too subtle with his cruelty; it had taken Harry a week to think of looking for the photo book, without any push from Malfoy. No, Malfoy liked his cruelty to simmer, liked to do things in advance, liked Harry to discover it on his own because it was much, much worse that way.
Back when it had been good, when he’d loved Malfoy and dreamed of the gleam of his eyelashes and the way his jeans slipped down to reveal too much hipbone when he’d lost too much weight after a particularly trying week at the Ministry, Malfoy’d always teased him about his lack of subtlety. When they’d first got together, Harry had been pushy because he didn’t really know any other way to be when it came to something he wanted. He’d blackmailed Malfoy into their first date, kissed away Malfoy’s reasons for not going on a second one. Foreplay had always felt superfluous, because kissing and touching were nice, but Harry had wanted to feel Malfoy up against him, all hard ribs and bony knees, had wanted to bury himself in Malfoy because it had always been Malfoy in the end.
And hating Malfoy was the same way. Harry threw himself into it because the lease expired in a month and they’d each paid half and Malfoy refused to move out because it was bad business because he’d paid for his share of living space and Harry refused to move out because he needed Malfoy like he needed air, and if all he could clutch at was hate, then that’s what he’d do.
And he thought that Malfoy, for all his insisting that the apartment was half his, felt the same. Every so often, he’d be rattling around in the kitchen and Malfoy would come in and they’d look at each other. then look away. Harry would be fussing with the stove and Malfoy would be sitting at the dining table with some tea and Harry would turn around suddenly for a spoon or a whisk and he’d catch Malfoy looking at him, his face sad and lost.
It was stupid, really, the both of them staying here because they were terrified of a world where Harry Potter meant nothing to Draco Malfoy. Love was easier than hate, but hate was nothing when compared to indifference.
There were still moments when Malfoy stopped being Malfoy and became Draco again: like when Harry had come out of the shower two days ago and was walking across the flat with just a towel tucked around his hips. He’d run into Malfoy in the hallway and Malfoy’d let his eyes drop to the fine hair leading down down down and then he’d looked away, startled, and they’d passed each other without saying anything because they couldn’t, because there was nothing to say when they’d already fallen apart. Even if they’d been close enough that the fine hairs of Malfoy’s arms had ghosted across Harry’s skin. Even if Harry had wanted so badly to say that Malfoy could have the damn book and everything else, just so long as he didn’t leave.
And maybe he was going about it all wrong, fighting and clawing and i Malfoy but Malfoy was doing it all wrong too and this wasn’t an inevitable train crash because the train had already crashed and it was done and broken and done with. And Malfoy was still leaving and if he wanted to go, then he could go, and Harry would make Malfoy miserable for it. Because he needed Malfoy and Malfoy was trying not to need him.
So he left Ginny’s letter on the coffee table. It was old, from five years ago, glittering with endearments and the happiness of two people in love. She’d written an entire paragraph on her wedding dress and her letters curled, round and buoyant and joyous, and Harry remembered receiving that letter, remembered planning for three children, naming them, remembered being happy. Ginny and he had never been like this, had never ached to get under each other’s skin, had never yearned to hurt each other just for the sake of it.
It had been nothing like with Malfoy. Nothing had ever been like it was with Malfoy.
Malfoy got jealous when people looked too long at Harry or when they spoke to him or when they were within five feet because that’s just how he was, protective and possessive, and Harry had hated it at first, but that’s just how Malfoy was. Malfoy loved his family and once he’d decided Harry was his, he’d gone about trying to preserve that, trying to make Harry happy, even if he drove himself into misery trying to do so. And he’d been jealous of Ginny even though everything was all right there now, except it was a different kind of jealousy: Malfoy always fell quiet when Ginny was around, always stole furtive glances at Harry as if afraid that if he looked away for too long, Harry would be gone.
Like he was waiting for Harry to leave. Like he was sure Harry would.
And so Harry left Ginny’s letter on the coffee table. And if the guilt was crushing, it was fine, because Malfoy had binned all the photos Harry had ever had of his parents, his real family, not this mockery of a one that Draco had constructed and then dared to leave.
He waited all day for Malfoy to find it, because it was on the coffee table and Malfoy’d grown addicted to the television approximately three years ago after demanding to know why the people on the screen weren’t speaking back to him when he spoke to them. But Malfoy didn’t spend much time out of their - his, now - bedroom when he was in the flat, and so it wasn’t until four o’clock in the morning that Harry’s door flung open.
“What,” Malfoy spat, waving the letter around, “is this?”
Harry was exhausted because all this hate was tiring, and he hadn’t meant to bother with pretending that he didn’t know what Malfoy was talking about, but it was early, and any carefully constructed plans fell apart at the seams.
“Oh, that,” he said sleepily, and tucked the blankets around his hips because Malfoy was just wearing pajama bottoms and it was - distracting, and he’d never quite figured out how Malfoy’s skin seemed to glow, even in absolute darkness. “That’s mine,” he said.
Malfoy’s face - and it was impossible to keep his armor on at night, wasn’t it, because Harry remembered how sweet Malfoy’s mouth tasted, how perfectly Malfoy’s face tucked into the crook of his shoulder, how his body fit against Harry’s when they went to sleep - went through five complicated steps before it finally settled on disgust. “And this is how you think you’ll get me back?” he demanded. “This is why I hate you, Potter, because you think you can just shove all my insecurities back at me, like, like you-”
“You burned all that was left of my parents!” Harry shouted. “What do you expect-”
“No I didn’t!” Malfoy yelled, and the walls felt like they were rattling with Malfoy’s venom, but that was impossible, and they certainly weren’t closing in on Harry even if it felt like it. “How can you - do you even know me? God, Potter, this is so like you! Everyone thinks you’re some kind of savior-” and oh, it was so ironic that Malfoy was going to bring up that insecurity while accusing Harry of manipulating Malfoy with his insecurities-“when both of us know you’re just a pathetic, needy little child. You can’t bear the thought of someone leaving you, how impossible it is, that someone wouldn’t absolutely adore Harry Potter, and so you - you do this.” He tore up the letter, let the pieces of paper sprinkle around him.
Harry watched them fall.
Malfoy was breathing hard, like he’d just run a marathon. “Do you know I’m leaving?” he said, softer, harder. “Because I’m sick of you. Because you expect me to give and give and give and you do nothing but take. You don’t want me, you want what you think I should be, and whenever I toe all the absurd lines that you’ve drawn, you get angry and you wave your perfect Ginny in my face and talk about how it was always better with her. You think you’re above me, that I should be grateful to you. That charity case thing? You fought with me because even though you felt guilty, that’s how you feel. You think you’re better than me. Even Granger and Weasley know that’s how you feel. You think this-” and he held up his left forearm, and even if Harry didn’t want to look directly the Dark Mark, he knew it was there, had felt its outlines with his tongue-“makes you better than me.”
That wasn’t it at all; as usual Malfoy was wrong, it had never been about that, Harry would never think that about anyone, he’d never think that he was better than anyone. It had always been about Malfoy being so prickly and irritating and cruel, and of course Malfoy was going to turn this around on him with the stupidest examples, with reasons that didn’t make any sense, and what did it matter, anyway, because Malfoy was still leaving.
So Harry said: “That’s because I am better than you.”
Malfoy went eerily still, still as a corpse. And then he bit out, “After this month is out, I never want to see you again.”
Harry hadn’t thought that there was anything else left, that everything was already broken. So he was surprised when he felt his chest burn, like the last piece of his heart had cracked, had shriveled.
But all he said, very coolly, was, “Close the door on your way out.”
****
After that, they avoided each other. It was easy because Malfoy went out early and came back late, and sometimes the early overlapped with the late and he didn’t come back at all. They lived their lives carefully and separately, making sure the edges never brushed. Malfoy started to wash his dishes, a chore he’d always left to Harry, and Harry stared at Malfoy’s clean mug in the cupboard. It was sort of like Malfoy was erasing himself from Harry’s life, dirty dishes and all.
He tried not to wonder what Malfoy was doing, and spent twelve hours a day trying. It was sleep that ruined things for him, because Malfoy seeped into his dreams and nightmares and there were nights when he could hear Malfoy restless in the master bedroom, so very close and so far away.
Shacklebolt sent him to France for a few days near the end of the month, and Harry went gratefully. He left a note on the coffee table that he didn’t bother to sign. The job in France wrapped up in two days rather than four, and he returned to an apartment that was noticeably emptier than before. The coffee table was gone, and the windows had been stripped of curtains that Malfoy didn’t need since they’d been specially ordered for the windows in this flat, but Malfoy had always been spiteful like that.
Harry sat down on the couch and shut his eyes, and then he was scared to open them in case those few minutes had actually been days. In case he opened his eyes to find that Malfoy was finally and emphatically gone.
But the bedroom door opened before Harry could decide whether to just fall asleep here on the couch or not, and Harry looked at Malfoy, who said, “I thought you weren’t going to be back until Thursday.” He said it with polite disinterest like they were just old schoolmates who’d run into each other on the street, and had to exchange pleasantries for the sake of it.
“Job finished early,” Harry said shortly and he was about to look away but then he noticed the deep purple on Malfoy’s collarbone and he was staring at it because there was something about Malfoy’s collarbones that he’d loved: the sharp juts of them, maybe, the way they protruded from his skin. He’d left purple marks all over Malfoy’s body once, on his stomach and thighs and neck and collarbones because Malfoy had been his and the anger rose in him, unbidden and furious because Malfoy was still his. At least until the month was up.
Malfoy blinked confusedly and then slowly realized what Harry was staring at.
“It’s none of your business,” said Malfoy sharply, and that was it, wasn’t it, it wasn’t any of Harry’s business because they’d ended last month and Malfoy was free to do as he liked and a week ago, Harry would’ve fought with him, would’ve called him a slut or worse, would’ve asked who Malfoy had moved on to, if the Boy Who Lived wasn’t enough. He’d have asked Malfoy if he’d set his sights on Shacklebolt, because a Malfoy looking for status and money couldn’t really go any higher than the Minister himself. Malfoy would’ve hit him and they’d have skulked back to their respective corners in the flat, unhappy but pleased because that’s how it was. Because it was enemies or lovers - and God, the word was so inadequate but it’d have to do because nothing quite encompassed what Harry and Malfoy were to each other - and anything else was unacceptable.
But Harry was tired, because of France, because the thought of Malfoy with someone else hurt worse than the damn book or photo book or anything Malfoy could ever say.
So he just said, “You’re right; it’s not,” and shut his eyes and tried not to cry because he was thirty years old and it was over and the thought of Malfoy being touched by someone else shouldn’t have hurt because if it hurt then he didn’t know what he was going to do, except go quietly mad. It was just the thought of Malfoy making those soft sounds, whimpers and please and more and Harry for someone else, of Malfoy smiling that private, silky only-for-him smile for someone else, that made him want to throw up, that hurt. And that was reasonable, Harry told himself. And Harry would get over it.
That was all he could do, really.
****
Dean Thomas died on the twenty-ninth of the month. He’d jumped in front of an Avada Kedavra meant for Harry by some crazed person who still called himself a Death Eater and he had died before he’d hit the ground, all graceful limbs and unnervingly peaceful face.
He’d been Harry’s partner for ten years.
There was a funeral and a ceremony over which Shacklebolt presided. And Harry hadn’t wanted to go to any of it, hadn’t wanted to stand in front of Dean’s devastated parents and offer stupid condolences because none of them meant anything because Dean was dead and condolences were worthless to parents who never should have had to experience their children’s deaths. There were reporters, of course, and of course there were because sure, Dean Thomas the Muggleborn had died, but he’d died saving Harry Potter and that was more important. Because Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived was much more impressive in papers than Dean Thomas.
Harry went home, disconnected the phone, locked up the Floo, and tucked himself into bed. He didn’t lock the door, because, really, there was no one here. Living with Malfoy was like living with a ghost, an especially polite and considerate ghost who didn’t actually make his presence known.
Except the door opened right as Harry was drifting off to sleep, into nightmares of Dean’s twisted body falling falling falling, and Malfoy came in, looking uncertain, like he thought he was supposed to give his condolences. Harry woke properly and he opened his mouth because he didn’t want to hear anything that Malfoy was going to say; he didn’t want sorrys and it’s going to be okays from someone who was leaving him in thousands of little, invisible pieces, and Harry knew with perfect clarity that he’d never be able to glue everything back together again.
He opened his mouth to say something about the fading purple on Malfoy’s collarbone but then Malfoy was there, arms around him, and Harry hadn’t meant to cry, because he didn’t cry, hadn’t since he was seventeen years old and the war had taken everything, everyone, but then he was sobbing. And he’d kept all his defenses up with Malfoy these past two months because he knew Malfoy to his very bones, knew that a hurt Malfoy would use everything he could get his hands on to hurt Harry back, and crying like a child was one of those things Harry couldn’t let Malfoy see.
But now it was useless because Dean was dead and Draco was leaving and Harry dug his fingers into Draco’s shoulder blades and cried some more.
Draco was whispering nonsensically into his ear, shh maybe, and it’s all right, Harry, let it out and Harry did, saying Draco, Draco, God, I’m so sorry.
They curled up in this bed and evening turned to darker night, and then to pale morning and Harry woke to Draco beside him. And it didn’t make sense, it was wrong, but Harry didn’t care because Dean’s death hung heavy across his shoulders and today was the thirtieth and Draco would be leaving and today it was over.
So Harry kissed him, kissed him until Draco’s mouth yielded, until he was awake, and then Draco said, “Harry,” in a low voice, and then they were kissing properly and God, how Draco fit under him. He kissed the fading purple on Draco’s collarbone, the dip of his stomach, the crease of his hip into thigh, the funny knobbiness of his knees. And Draco pulled him up by the hair, smiling a pained sort of smile, and said, “Hey, I know,” and then he kissed him again.
Afterward, it felt right and Harry knew what it would sound like, because Dean had just died and it was the thirtieth and Draco was leaving, but he said it anyway. “I love you.”
Draco’s breath was a hissing intake of air, and Harry waited for something, for Draco to say something terrible, but Draco’s teeth just slid around his ear. “Hey,” he said unhappily. “Don’t do that.”
And like that, it was done with. Harry stared up at the blank ceiling, feeling blank, blank and lost and he’d never felt like that, shouldn’t have felt like that, with Draco lying unmoving next to him. “Sorry,” he finally said. “I just - I do.” And there was more and he had to say it because in a few moments, Draco would move, would pack up the last of his things and leave. “I love you and I know I haven’t - I’ve done everything wrong and I’ve hurt you and I can work on all that, just please-”
Draco moved and Harry reached out but he was too late. “Don’t,” Draco said, grabbing for his pants. “This was just - this was just comfort, Potter. You can’t just wait until the end and then throw this at me, it’s not fair. And you don’t even mean it; your partner just died and you’re scared of being left alone, but you’re not: you’ve got Weasley and Granger and the whole bloody world. You don’t need me.”
Oh, and how wrong he was, and when had they stopped understanding each other? They’d always understood each other, you had to understand someone if you understood how to hurt him. Draco always knew what Harry was thinking and Harry always knew when Draco was up to something. Except Draco didn’t know now, did he, and even if Harry told him, Draco wouldn’t believe him.
“It’s not that,” Harry said shakily. “I love you. I’ve loved you for years. It has nothing to do with Dean, I went mad when I saw - when I thought of someone touching you and that’s-”
“That’s not love,” said Draco in a strange voice. “That’s just jealousy.”
God, why did Draco not understand? “Tell me,” Harry demanded. “You can go out that door-”
“I’m going out that door anyway,” said Draco, doing up his shirt with barely trembling fingers.
“-and you can forget about me and get on with your life. But just tell me that you don’t love me.”
Draco’s fingers stilled and his hands dropped to his sides. His shirt was still undone and three months ago Harry would’ve dragged him back to bed and got the rest of the shirt undone and slid his hands all over all that warm and smooth skin.
“You’re scared of change,” Draco said kindly, in the sort of voice he rarely used with anyone, except for maybe Pansy. “It’s all right, everything will be all right, I promise.”
“Draco,” Harry said, low and pained.
Draco shut his eyes. “We hurt each other.”
“We like being hurt by each other.”
“That’s not love.”
“It is,” Harry insisted. “Maybe it’s not everyone else’s idea of love, but that’s how it is with us.”
“That’s not how I want it to be, then.”
Harry tilted his face up, into where the sunlight was streaming through the windows. “Tell me you weren’t happy.”
Draco made a childish sort of face, and Harry wanted to reach out and touch Draco’s mouth and eyelids, amazed by all of Draco’s expressions. He knew all the cruel ones, but there were also sweeter ones, beloved ones that he dreamed about, that he wanted to taste. “I was,” he allowed. “But I’m not now. And one night - one morning - isn’t going to change that.”
Harry’s fingers curled into the sheets. “Tell me,” he said hollowly. “And I’ll let you go. I’ll carry your boxes for you, even.”
Draco reached out, curved his fingers around Harry’s jaw, and in that moment, Harry couldn’t even hate him, not when his mouth was sad and his voice was soft: “I don’t love you anymore, Harry.”
Harry turned his face away from Draco’s hand and he looked fiercely towards the wall. “Thank you,” he said flatly. “That’s all I needed to hear.”
“Harry,” said Draco plaintively.
“Please,” said Harry.
There was a long silence and then Draco’s retreating footsteps. The door closed and Harry Potter fell apart.
*
Epilogue
He was paying for his coffee when a warm hand settled on his shoulder. “Harry.”
Harry turned and stared and he would’ve dropped his coffee cup had Draco not reached out a hand, curled it around Harry’s wrist to steady it. “Draco,” he said, and he hadn’t said the name for so long that it sounded like a foreign word from some long-lost language. “Draco,” he said again, a bit dumbly, and then he tried a smile and was pleased when it came.
“How are you?” Draco said, warm and easy, and Harry had imagined this moment every single day for the last thirteen months, and it had gone so many different ways: they might pass each other with only a wary, terrified shared glance, or they might snarl at each other, pick up a months-old fight like it had only been days ago. Maybe Draco would be with someone else, someone more handsome and better suited to Draco than Harry had ever been, and Harry would be sick with jealousy and wanting Draco, with love that had never quite died.
It was bearable, now. But it was still there.
But this seemed okay, and Draco let out a stuttering breath, tentatively saying, “God, it’s been - over a year, hasn’t it? We must’ve missed each other at that Ministry ball in April.” He looked happy, Harry thought, and it was nice to think that without hating him for it. He looked like he’d gained a bit of weight and probably his ribs weren’t so visible through his translucent skin anymore. He was wearing his hair a touch longer, so that it curled around his ears, and Harry had always liked it at that length. Harry had always liked threading his fingers into the hair at the crown of his head.
“Yeah,” Harry said, “I couldn’t make that one. Had some work in Italy.”
“I didn’t realize the Auror life was so glamorous,” Draco said, smiling, and Harry had never seen him like this, calm and pleasant and it wasn’t the Draco that he remembered, sitting in bed with him going through cartons of bad Chinese food, dirty with sweat and desire. This Draco was a stranger and that should’ve hurt except it didn’t because in that moment, Harry realized that that person he’d loved didn’t exist anymore. This Draco was all there was, and this Draco had never been Harry’s Draco.
And that was okay.
“I am certainly glamorous,” Harry solemnly agreed, and then smiled and it was ridiculous, really, standing there with Draco in a small coffee shop, smiling and not throwing things at each other, not snarling at each other. It was ridiculous, going on with a life that didn’t have Draco in it, but there it was and for better or for worse, Harry was okay.
“Oh, really,” Draco said, and then glanced at his watch.
Harry followed his gaze, curious.
“Well, I can’t cast Tempus all the time, now can I?” Draco said with mock indignation and maybe a bit of embarrassment. There was probably a story there, but Harry wasn’t part of Draco’s life anymore and he had no right to it.
It ached a bit, but it was duller than it would’ve been a year ago. And things were all right with him too, and anyway, he had no right to begrudge Draco his happiness.
“You always hated my watch,” he said lightly.
“That’s because your watch is ugly,” Draco said promptly.
They smiled at each other again and it was just a friendly sort of smile and Harry probably shouldn’t have felt so warm and light, shouldn’t have felt so relaxed, because when Draco had left, he’d thought that nothing would ever be okay again. But it was okay now and his chest felt like it was going to burst with goodwill towards everyone, and he was happy and Draco was happy, and that was all that mattered in the end. That’s what love was about.
“We should catch up sometime,” Harry said before he could consider whether it was appropriate or not.
But Draco grinned back and said, “I’ll Owl you, shall I?” and then he checked his watch, biting his lip, and Harry could tell he’d not quite mastered it. He announced to the coffee shop that he was late, beaming brightly in the way of one who wanted to show off his watch, and Harry was reminded of when Draco had discovered Harry’s television, but then he pushed the thought away because it wasn’t leading anywhere.
Draco left and Harry watched him throw himself onto the pavement, a bundle of never ceasing energy, and when he turned back to his coffee he smiled a bit, sat down at a table, and looked around for his date.
He’d forgotten how nice happiness felt.
*
“That’s mine,” Harry said.
Malfoy - oh God, when had Draco become so hard to say, when had he lost the rights to it? - stopped in the middle of the room, his mouth tight and the planes of his face tighter and Harry remembered Malfoy’s sweet, crooked smile like it was yesterday. Except it hadn’t been yesterday, no, it had been much, much longer than that.
“Granger gave it to me,” Malfoy said stiffly, fingers curled around the spine of the book, and he was holding himself tense, an arrow that had an unerring talent for finding the soft fragility between Harry’s plates of armor. Three months ago he’d counted Harry’s ribs with kisses and today he knew how to shove his fingers under those ribs, how to pull. “Therefore it’s mine.”
“It was meant for both of us,” Harry said, and the anger was a violent thing, because he didn’t care about the book, only that Malfoy was carrying it out like it belonged to him, because he was tired of Malfoy taking everything like it belonged to him. And part of him just wanted to see Malfoy go taut, wanted to see the spitting anger in the hard curves of his mouth, in the tight crinkling of his eyes.
It was like this addictive game, action and reaction. Harry’d lash out and revel in the way Malfoy ached and Malfoy would lash back because that was Malfoy, unable to just take something without blindly scrambling, without throwing himself headlong into the fight, and it was okay if Malfoy got bloodied, as long as he could hurt Harry back.
Malfoy stared back and it was just like being back at Hogwarts again, and Harry had never thought he’d see that snarl on Malfoy’s face again, the one that drained the color from his face, the one that had made Harry hate him hate him hate him.
“You never read it,” Malfoy said coldly. “You’re just trying to pick a fight with me because you can.”
“No,” Harry said, and he leaned forward and wrenched the book out of Malfoy’s hands. “No, that was you.”
Malfoy’s fingers curled in Harry’s shirt, warm through the cotton, and it was a mockery, this, because three months ago Malfoy’s smile would have gone lazy and bright, and his head would’ve tilted and their mouths would’ve fit together. And Malfoy would’ve used his teeth because he’d never learned how to kiss properly and Harry wouldn’t have minded.
Except now Malfoy’s smile showed too many teeth and at some point Harry had started thinking of him as defanged, tame, and he’d been wrong, hadn’t he? “Really,” Malfoy said. “Because I’m not the one-”
Harry turned his face away because Malfoy’s breath was sour with whisky and it was too much, having Malfoy this close and not being able to do anything except spill vitriol. He couldn’t stop himself, though, had never been able to do things halfway with Malfoy, so he curved his hand around the nape of Malfoy’s neck, and Malfoy was trembling up close, even if from afar he looked calm and steady and angry. And this was just how Harry liked him, imperfect and messy and a little bit filthy.
“No,” Harry said. “You’re just the one who can’t even bear getting too close-”
“Oh, that’s rich,” said Malfoy, fingernails digging into Harry’s shoulder. “Coming from you, who told your coworkers that I was just the charity case you were investing in since Shacklebolt asked you to.”
That’d been wrong, Harry knew that, and Hermione and Ron had told him as much, and Malfoy hadn’t talked to him for a week and he knew that it had been wrong, and he knew it now, except there was something in the hollowness of Malfoy’s face that Harry liked because Harry Potter had always needed Draco Malfoy, and if he couldn’t make him feel love, he’d settle for hate.
And it was too easy: he grabbed at Malfoy’s wrist, and Malfoy made a soft sound, one of the ones Harry’d got addicted to, the trembling of Malfoy’s throat right before Harry kissed him, but Harry wasn’t going to kiss him now. No, he shoved up Malfoy’s sleeve and there it was, angry black against white skin, and he held up Malfoy’s arm and sneered.
“You were never anything but a charity case, Malfoy,” and it wasn’t true and they both knew it wasn’t true, not when there’d been lazy Sunday mornings under cool white sheets and Malfoy’s mouth warm and slick and the sun peering through the blinds. Except the truth had got muddled, hadn’t it, and now it was less about believing what was true and more about believing what felt right in that moment and a year ago Harry had fiercely told him that he didn’t care, that it was over, that Malfoy was different now.
And now he just wanted to see Malfoy crumble.
Malfoy reeled back and Harry let him go because he had the book and he’d won this round. Malfoy’s eyes were flashing fire and Harry’s smile was a maniacal thing, and he couldn’t stop, didn’t want to, because if Malfoy was going to leave and tear this whole thing down, burn it until there were just ashes and anger and maybe a sliver of regret, until Harry’s memories became fuzzy, glassy, broken shards, well - Harry could do that too.
****
Harry upended the drawer and desperately clawed through the mess of letters and photos.
“Where’s the photo book?” he said.
He’d not heard Malfoy come in because Malfoy was like that, sly and manipulative, moving silently enough when he wanted to, but then Malfoy was fiddling with the door because he had something to say and he wanted Harry to hear it and Harry knew then, and this was like the war, wasn’t it, except last time it had just been Voldemort and his insanity and this time it was much, much worse.
And it was worse because Malfoy was wearing one of those white shirts that shouldn’t have worked against his pale skin and paler hair, except it did and Malfoy had always had to have the shirt mended over the years because Harry was forever tearing the buttons off in an effort to get Malfoy naked. To flatten his palms against the thin shell of Malfoy’s skin, to feel Malfoy’s ribs under his palms.
“What photo book?” Malfoy said, and this was his sort of cruelty, devastatingly casual, delivered with an absent sort of smile, because he didn’t even have to concentrate if he wanted to hurt Harry.
“We-” and oh, once that simple word had filled Harry with the simplest delight, but those days were over-“have only one photo book.” And it was filled with everything that made them HarryandDraco, and they’d fought over it at the beginning because Harry didn’t feel that Malfoy’s family pictures belonged anywhere near pictures of Sirius and his parents but Sirius was a Black and so was Narcissa, and anyway, Malfoy had always got a crazed, determined sort of look when it came to things like family and he’d insisted that they were a family now, he and Harry, and so those pictures of his Harry’s parents might as well stop glaring at the pictures of Lucius and Narcissa, because they were damn well going to stay there.
Malfoy slid a hand across the doorframe. “I took it. I figured it was fair, since I had about five times as many photographs as you do.” His eyes were wide in a way that should have looked silly on anyone who was older than five and Malfoy wasn’t guileless or innocent.
Harry couldn’t breathe because Malfoy couldn’t have. “Fine,” he said, the panic curdling in his chest. And he could ignore the heavy because you don’t even have parents, Potter that hung between them, unsaid because they weren’t eleven anymore, except this was Malfoy and it was about the book, wasn’t it, Hermione’s book that belonged to him because Hermione was his.
“You can just send me my photos, then,” Harry said, breaths coming fast and short.
And Malfoy, who’d been watching with interest, shrugged his thin shoulders under his delicate shirt and said, “Can’t do that, Potter. You see, I’ve already tossed your photos out.” He smiled and Harry would’ve leapt at him if he wasn’t kneeling on the ground, if the world around him hadn’t gone black, narrowing until all that he could see was Malfoy, stark white against a black background and of course Malfoy hadn’t just tossed the photos out, he’d probably burned them too, the only pictures Harry had of his parents and Sirius and Remus, and they were all gone, and he’d kill Malfoy, he wanted to and he should have, except Malfoy was looking pleased and leaving and Harry collapsed face-first into the floor.
Malfoy’s voice came from the hallway, knife-sharp. “You really should’ve let me keep the book.”
****
He’d left the letter from Ginny out on the coffee table with the sort of unsubtle cruelty that he’d always favored. Malfoy was almost too subtle with his cruelty; it had taken Harry a week to think of looking for the photo book, without any push from Malfoy. No, Malfoy liked his cruelty to simmer, liked to do things in advance, liked Harry to discover it on his own because it was much, much worse that way.
Back when it had been good, when he’d loved Malfoy and dreamed of the gleam of his eyelashes and the way his jeans slipped down to reveal too much hipbone when he’d lost too much weight after a particularly trying week at the Ministry, Malfoy’d always teased him about his lack of subtlety. When they’d first got together, Harry had been pushy because he didn’t really know any other way to be when it came to something he wanted. He’d blackmailed Malfoy into their first date, kissed away Malfoy’s reasons for not going on a second one. Foreplay had always felt superfluous, because kissing and touching were nice, but Harry had wanted to feel Malfoy up against him, all hard ribs and bony knees, had wanted to bury himself in Malfoy because it had always been Malfoy in the end.
And hating Malfoy was the same way. Harry threw himself into it because the lease expired in a month and they’d each paid half and Malfoy refused to move out because it was bad business because he’d paid for his share of living space and Harry refused to move out because he needed Malfoy like he needed air, and if all he could clutch at was hate, then that’s what he’d do.
And he thought that Malfoy, for all his insisting that the apartment was half his, felt the same. Every so often, he’d be rattling around in the kitchen and Malfoy would come in and they’d look at each other. then look away. Harry would be fussing with the stove and Malfoy would be sitting at the dining table with some tea and Harry would turn around suddenly for a spoon or a whisk and he’d catch Malfoy looking at him, his face sad and lost.
It was stupid, really, the both of them staying here because they were terrified of a world where Harry Potter meant nothing to Draco Malfoy. Love was easier than hate, but hate was nothing when compared to indifference.
There were still moments when Malfoy stopped being Malfoy and became Draco again: like when Harry had come out of the shower two days ago and was walking across the flat with just a towel tucked around his hips. He’d run into Malfoy in the hallway and Malfoy’d let his eyes drop to the fine hair leading down down down and then he’d looked away, startled, and they’d passed each other without saying anything because they couldn’t, because there was nothing to say when they’d already fallen apart. Even if they’d been close enough that the fine hairs of Malfoy’s arms had ghosted across Harry’s skin. Even if Harry had wanted so badly to say that Malfoy could have the damn book and everything else, just so long as he didn’t leave.
And maybe he was going about it all wrong, fighting and clawing and i Malfoy but Malfoy was doing it all wrong too and this wasn’t an inevitable train crash because the train had already crashed and it was done and broken and done with. And Malfoy was still leaving and if he wanted to go, then he could go, and Harry would make Malfoy miserable for it. Because he needed Malfoy and Malfoy was trying not to need him.
So he left Ginny’s letter on the coffee table. It was old, from five years ago, glittering with endearments and the happiness of two people in love. She’d written an entire paragraph on her wedding dress and her letters curled, round and buoyant and joyous, and Harry remembered receiving that letter, remembered planning for three children, naming them, remembered being happy. Ginny and he had never been like this, had never ached to get under each other’s skin, had never yearned to hurt each other just for the sake of it.
It had been nothing like with Malfoy. Nothing had ever been like it was with Malfoy.
Malfoy got jealous when people looked too long at Harry or when they spoke to him or when they were within five feet because that’s just how he was, protective and possessive, and Harry had hated it at first, but that’s just how Malfoy was. Malfoy loved his family and once he’d decided Harry was his, he’d gone about trying to preserve that, trying to make Harry happy, even if he drove himself into misery trying to do so. And he’d been jealous of Ginny even though everything was all right there now, except it was a different kind of jealousy: Malfoy always fell quiet when Ginny was around, always stole furtive glances at Harry as if afraid that if he looked away for too long, Harry would be gone.
Like he was waiting for Harry to leave. Like he was sure Harry would.
And so Harry left Ginny’s letter on the coffee table. And if the guilt was crushing, it was fine, because Malfoy had binned all the photos Harry had ever had of his parents, his real family, not this mockery of a one that Draco had constructed and then dared to leave.
He waited all day for Malfoy to find it, because it was on the coffee table and Malfoy’d grown addicted to the television approximately three years ago after demanding to know why the people on the screen weren’t speaking back to him when he spoke to them. But Malfoy didn’t spend much time out of their - his, now - bedroom when he was in the flat, and so it wasn’t until four o’clock in the morning that Harry’s door flung open.
“What,” Malfoy spat, waving the letter around, “is this?”
Harry was exhausted because all this hate was tiring, and he hadn’t meant to bother with pretending that he didn’t know what Malfoy was talking about, but it was early, and any carefully constructed plans fell apart at the seams.
“Oh, that,” he said sleepily, and tucked the blankets around his hips because Malfoy was just wearing pajama bottoms and it was - distracting, and he’d never quite figured out how Malfoy’s skin seemed to glow, even in absolute darkness. “That’s mine,” he said.
Malfoy’s face - and it was impossible to keep his armor on at night, wasn’t it, because Harry remembered how sweet Malfoy’s mouth tasted, how perfectly Malfoy’s face tucked into the crook of his shoulder, how his body fit against Harry’s when they went to sleep - went through five complicated steps before it finally settled on disgust. “And this is how you think you’ll get me back?” he demanded. “This is why I hate you, Potter, because you think you can just shove all my insecurities back at me, like, like you-”
“You burned all that was left of my parents!” Harry shouted. “What do you expect-”
“No I didn’t!” Malfoy yelled, and the walls felt like they were rattling with Malfoy’s venom, but that was impossible, and they certainly weren’t closing in on Harry even if it felt like it. “How can you - do you even know me? God, Potter, this is so like you! Everyone thinks you’re some kind of savior-” and oh, it was so ironic that Malfoy was going to bring up that insecurity while accusing Harry of manipulating Malfoy with his insecurities-“when both of us know you’re just a pathetic, needy little child. You can’t bear the thought of someone leaving you, how impossible it is, that someone wouldn’t absolutely adore Harry Potter, and so you - you do this.” He tore up the letter, let the pieces of paper sprinkle around him.
Harry watched them fall.
Malfoy was breathing hard, like he’d just run a marathon. “Do you know I’m leaving?” he said, softer, harder. “Because I’m sick of you. Because you expect me to give and give and give and you do nothing but take. You don’t want me, you want what you think I should be, and whenever I toe all the absurd lines that you’ve drawn, you get angry and you wave your perfect Ginny in my face and talk about how it was always better with her. You think you’re above me, that I should be grateful to you. That charity case thing? You fought with me because even though you felt guilty, that’s how you feel. You think you’re better than me. Even Granger and Weasley know that’s how you feel. You think this-” and he held up his left forearm, and even if Harry didn’t want to look directly the Dark Mark, he knew it was there, had felt its outlines with his tongue-“makes you better than me.”
That wasn’t it at all; as usual Malfoy was wrong, it had never been about that, Harry would never think that about anyone, he’d never think that he was better than anyone. It had always been about Malfoy being so prickly and irritating and cruel, and of course Malfoy was going to turn this around on him with the stupidest examples, with reasons that didn’t make any sense, and what did it matter, anyway, because Malfoy was still leaving.
So Harry said: “That’s because I am better than you.”
Malfoy went eerily still, still as a corpse. And then he bit out, “After this month is out, I never want to see you again.”
Harry hadn’t thought that there was anything else left, that everything was already broken. So he was surprised when he felt his chest burn, like the last piece of his heart had cracked, had shriveled.
But all he said, very coolly, was, “Close the door on your way out.”
****
After that, they avoided each other. It was easy because Malfoy went out early and came back late, and sometimes the early overlapped with the late and he didn’t come back at all. They lived their lives carefully and separately, making sure the edges never brushed. Malfoy started to wash his dishes, a chore he’d always left to Harry, and Harry stared at Malfoy’s clean mug in the cupboard. It was sort of like Malfoy was erasing himself from Harry’s life, dirty dishes and all.
He tried not to wonder what Malfoy was doing, and spent twelve hours a day trying. It was sleep that ruined things for him, because Malfoy seeped into his dreams and nightmares and there were nights when he could hear Malfoy restless in the master bedroom, so very close and so far away.
Shacklebolt sent him to France for a few days near the end of the month, and Harry went gratefully. He left a note on the coffee table that he didn’t bother to sign. The job in France wrapped up in two days rather than four, and he returned to an apartment that was noticeably emptier than before. The coffee table was gone, and the windows had been stripped of curtains that Malfoy didn’t need since they’d been specially ordered for the windows in this flat, but Malfoy had always been spiteful like that.
Harry sat down on the couch and shut his eyes, and then he was scared to open them in case those few minutes had actually been days. In case he opened his eyes to find that Malfoy was finally and emphatically gone.
But the bedroom door opened before Harry could decide whether to just fall asleep here on the couch or not, and Harry looked at Malfoy, who said, “I thought you weren’t going to be back until Thursday.” He said it with polite disinterest like they were just old schoolmates who’d run into each other on the street, and had to exchange pleasantries for the sake of it.
“Job finished early,” Harry said shortly and he was about to look away but then he noticed the deep purple on Malfoy’s collarbone and he was staring at it because there was something about Malfoy’s collarbones that he’d loved: the sharp juts of them, maybe, the way they protruded from his skin. He’d left purple marks all over Malfoy’s body once, on his stomach and thighs and neck and collarbones because Malfoy had been his and the anger rose in him, unbidden and furious because Malfoy was still his. At least until the month was up.
Malfoy blinked confusedly and then slowly realized what Harry was staring at.
“It’s none of your business,” said Malfoy sharply, and that was it, wasn’t it, it wasn’t any of Harry’s business because they’d ended last month and Malfoy was free to do as he liked and a week ago, Harry would’ve fought with him, would’ve called him a slut or worse, would’ve asked who Malfoy had moved on to, if the Boy Who Lived wasn’t enough. He’d have asked Malfoy if he’d set his sights on Shacklebolt, because a Malfoy looking for status and money couldn’t really go any higher than the Minister himself. Malfoy would’ve hit him and they’d have skulked back to their respective corners in the flat, unhappy but pleased because that’s how it was. Because it was enemies or lovers - and God, the word was so inadequate but it’d have to do because nothing quite encompassed what Harry and Malfoy were to each other - and anything else was unacceptable.
But Harry was tired, because of France, because the thought of Malfoy with someone else hurt worse than the damn book or photo book or anything Malfoy could ever say.
So he just said, “You’re right; it’s not,” and shut his eyes and tried not to cry because he was thirty years old and it was over and the thought of Malfoy being touched by someone else shouldn’t have hurt because if it hurt then he didn’t know what he was going to do, except go quietly mad. It was just the thought of Malfoy making those soft sounds, whimpers and please and more and Harry for someone else, of Malfoy smiling that private, silky only-for-him smile for someone else, that made him want to throw up, that hurt. And that was reasonable, Harry told himself. And Harry would get over it.
That was all he could do, really.
****
Dean Thomas died on the twenty-ninth of the month. He’d jumped in front of an Avada Kedavra meant for Harry by some crazed person who still called himself a Death Eater and he had died before he’d hit the ground, all graceful limbs and unnervingly peaceful face.
He’d been Harry’s partner for ten years.
There was a funeral and a ceremony over which Shacklebolt presided. And Harry hadn’t wanted to go to any of it, hadn’t wanted to stand in front of Dean’s devastated parents and offer stupid condolences because none of them meant anything because Dean was dead and condolences were worthless to parents who never should have had to experience their children’s deaths. There were reporters, of course, and of course there were because sure, Dean Thomas the Muggleborn had died, but he’d died saving Harry Potter and that was more important. Because Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived was much more impressive in papers than Dean Thomas.
Harry went home, disconnected the phone, locked up the Floo, and tucked himself into bed. He didn’t lock the door, because, really, there was no one here. Living with Malfoy was like living with a ghost, an especially polite and considerate ghost who didn’t actually make his presence known.
Except the door opened right as Harry was drifting off to sleep, into nightmares of Dean’s twisted body falling falling falling, and Malfoy came in, looking uncertain, like he thought he was supposed to give his condolences. Harry woke properly and he opened his mouth because he didn’t want to hear anything that Malfoy was going to say; he didn’t want sorrys and it’s going to be okays from someone who was leaving him in thousands of little, invisible pieces, and Harry knew with perfect clarity that he’d never be able to glue everything back together again.
He opened his mouth to say something about the fading purple on Malfoy’s collarbone but then Malfoy was there, arms around him, and Harry hadn’t meant to cry, because he didn’t cry, hadn’t since he was seventeen years old and the war had taken everything, everyone, but then he was sobbing. And he’d kept all his defenses up with Malfoy these past two months because he knew Malfoy to his very bones, knew that a hurt Malfoy would use everything he could get his hands on to hurt Harry back, and crying like a child was one of those things Harry couldn’t let Malfoy see.
But now it was useless because Dean was dead and Draco was leaving and Harry dug his fingers into Draco’s shoulder blades and cried some more.
Draco was whispering nonsensically into his ear, shh maybe, and it’s all right, Harry, let it out and Harry did, saying Draco, Draco, God, I’m so sorry.
They curled up in this bed and evening turned to darker night, and then to pale morning and Harry woke to Draco beside him. And it didn’t make sense, it was wrong, but Harry didn’t care because Dean’s death hung heavy across his shoulders and today was the thirtieth and Draco would be leaving and today it was over.
So Harry kissed him, kissed him until Draco’s mouth yielded, until he was awake, and then Draco said, “Harry,” in a low voice, and then they were kissing properly and God, how Draco fit under him. He kissed the fading purple on Draco’s collarbone, the dip of his stomach, the crease of his hip into thigh, the funny knobbiness of his knees. And Draco pulled him up by the hair, smiling a pained sort of smile, and said, “Hey, I know,” and then he kissed him again.
Afterward, it felt right and Harry knew what it would sound like, because Dean had just died and it was the thirtieth and Draco was leaving, but he said it anyway. “I love you.”
Draco’s breath was a hissing intake of air, and Harry waited for something, for Draco to say something terrible, but Draco’s teeth just slid around his ear. “Hey,” he said unhappily. “Don’t do that.”
And like that, it was done with. Harry stared up at the blank ceiling, feeling blank, blank and lost and he’d never felt like that, shouldn’t have felt like that, with Draco lying unmoving next to him. “Sorry,” he finally said. “I just - I do.” And there was more and he had to say it because in a few moments, Draco would move, would pack up the last of his things and leave. “I love you and I know I haven’t - I’ve done everything wrong and I’ve hurt you and I can work on all that, just please-”
Draco moved and Harry reached out but he was too late. “Don’t,” Draco said, grabbing for his pants. “This was just - this was just comfort, Potter. You can’t just wait until the end and then throw this at me, it’s not fair. And you don’t even mean it; your partner just died and you’re scared of being left alone, but you’re not: you’ve got Weasley and Granger and the whole bloody world. You don’t need me.”
Oh, and how wrong he was, and when had they stopped understanding each other? They’d always understood each other, you had to understand someone if you understood how to hurt him. Draco always knew what Harry was thinking and Harry always knew when Draco was up to something. Except Draco didn’t know now, did he, and even if Harry told him, Draco wouldn’t believe him.
“It’s not that,” Harry said shakily. “I love you. I’ve loved you for years. It has nothing to do with Dean, I went mad when I saw - when I thought of someone touching you and that’s-”
“That’s not love,” said Draco in a strange voice. “That’s just jealousy.”
God, why did Draco not understand? “Tell me,” Harry demanded. “You can go out that door-”
“I’m going out that door anyway,” said Draco, doing up his shirt with barely trembling fingers.
“-and you can forget about me and get on with your life. But just tell me that you don’t love me.”
Draco’s fingers stilled and his hands dropped to his sides. His shirt was still undone and three months ago Harry would’ve dragged him back to bed and got the rest of the shirt undone and slid his hands all over all that warm and smooth skin.
“You’re scared of change,” Draco said kindly, in the sort of voice he rarely used with anyone, except for maybe Pansy. “It’s all right, everything will be all right, I promise.”
“Draco,” Harry said, low and pained.
Draco shut his eyes. “We hurt each other.”
“We like being hurt by each other.”
“That’s not love.”
“It is,” Harry insisted. “Maybe it’s not everyone else’s idea of love, but that’s how it is with us.”
“That’s not how I want it to be, then.”
Harry tilted his face up, into where the sunlight was streaming through the windows. “Tell me you weren’t happy.”
Draco made a childish sort of face, and Harry wanted to reach out and touch Draco’s mouth and eyelids, amazed by all of Draco’s expressions. He knew all the cruel ones, but there were also sweeter ones, beloved ones that he dreamed about, that he wanted to taste. “I was,” he allowed. “But I’m not now. And one night - one morning - isn’t going to change that.”
Harry’s fingers curled into the sheets. “Tell me,” he said hollowly. “And I’ll let you go. I’ll carry your boxes for you, even.”
Draco reached out, curved his fingers around Harry’s jaw, and in that moment, Harry couldn’t even hate him, not when his mouth was sad and his voice was soft: “I don’t love you anymore, Harry.”
Harry turned his face away from Draco’s hand and he looked fiercely towards the wall. “Thank you,” he said flatly. “That’s all I needed to hear.”
“Harry,” said Draco plaintively.
“Please,” said Harry.
There was a long silence and then Draco’s retreating footsteps. The door closed and Harry Potter fell apart.
*
Epilogue
He was paying for his coffee when a warm hand settled on his shoulder. “Harry.”
Harry turned and stared and he would’ve dropped his coffee cup had Draco not reached out a hand, curled it around Harry’s wrist to steady it. “Draco,” he said, and he hadn’t said the name for so long that it sounded like a foreign word from some long-lost language. “Draco,” he said again, a bit dumbly, and then he tried a smile and was pleased when it came.
“How are you?” Draco said, warm and easy, and Harry had imagined this moment every single day for the last thirteen months, and it had gone so many different ways: they might pass each other with only a wary, terrified shared glance, or they might snarl at each other, pick up a months-old fight like it had only been days ago. Maybe Draco would be with someone else, someone more handsome and better suited to Draco than Harry had ever been, and Harry would be sick with jealousy and wanting Draco, with love that had never quite died.
It was bearable, now. But it was still there.
But this seemed okay, and Draco let out a stuttering breath, tentatively saying, “God, it’s been - over a year, hasn’t it? We must’ve missed each other at that Ministry ball in April.” He looked happy, Harry thought, and it was nice to think that without hating him for it. He looked like he’d gained a bit of weight and probably his ribs weren’t so visible through his translucent skin anymore. He was wearing his hair a touch longer, so that it curled around his ears, and Harry had always liked it at that length. Harry had always liked threading his fingers into the hair at the crown of his head.
“Yeah,” Harry said, “I couldn’t make that one. Had some work in Italy.”
“I didn’t realize the Auror life was so glamorous,” Draco said, smiling, and Harry had never seen him like this, calm and pleasant and it wasn’t the Draco that he remembered, sitting in bed with him going through cartons of bad Chinese food, dirty with sweat and desire. This Draco was a stranger and that should’ve hurt except it didn’t because in that moment, Harry realized that that person he’d loved didn’t exist anymore. This Draco was all there was, and this Draco had never been Harry’s Draco.
And that was okay.
“I am certainly glamorous,” Harry solemnly agreed, and then smiled and it was ridiculous, really, standing there with Draco in a small coffee shop, smiling and not throwing things at each other, not snarling at each other. It was ridiculous, going on with a life that didn’t have Draco in it, but there it was and for better or for worse, Harry was okay.
“Oh, really,” Draco said, and then glanced at his watch.
Harry followed his gaze, curious.
“Well, I can’t cast Tempus all the time, now can I?” Draco said with mock indignation and maybe a bit of embarrassment. There was probably a story there, but Harry wasn’t part of Draco’s life anymore and he had no right to it.
It ached a bit, but it was duller than it would’ve been a year ago. And things were all right with him too, and anyway, he had no right to begrudge Draco his happiness.
“You always hated my watch,” he said lightly.
“That’s because your watch is ugly,” Draco said promptly.
They smiled at each other again and it was just a friendly sort of smile and Harry probably shouldn’t have felt so warm and light, shouldn’t have felt so relaxed, because when Draco had left, he’d thought that nothing would ever be okay again. But it was okay now and his chest felt like it was going to burst with goodwill towards everyone, and he was happy and Draco was happy, and that was all that mattered in the end. That’s what love was about.
“We should catch up sometime,” Harry said before he could consider whether it was appropriate or not.
But Draco grinned back and said, “I’ll Owl you, shall I?” and then he checked his watch, biting his lip, and Harry could tell he’d not quite mastered it. He announced to the coffee shop that he was late, beaming brightly in the way of one who wanted to show off his watch, and Harry was reminded of when Draco had discovered Harry’s television, but then he pushed the thought away because it wasn’t leading anywhere.
Draco left and Harry watched him throw himself onto the pavement, a bundle of never ceasing energy, and when he turned back to his coffee he smiled a bit, sat down at a table, and looked around for his date.
He’d forgotten how nice happiness felt.
*