Work Text:
On Monday, Draco goes to work.
It’s a dreary sort of day, cloudy and wet with leaves sticking to the ground in splashes of red, orange, and brown. London’s loud, but the sounds blur around him, and he focuses on the squish of his shoes against the pavement, doing his best to avoid any puddles.
At lunch, he’s sitting in the canteen. Casie drones on and on, bless her, but the crackers are stale, and the soup is bland.
Green eyes meet his across the room. The sounds are a blur again, and Harry’s eyes never leave his.
“He’s always staring,” Mackenzie muses. “It’s like he wants to talk to you.”
Draco shakes his head and looks away. “I’m right here. The pleasure’s all mine.”
When he gives his tray to the witch at the cleaning booth, she smiles at him. He smiles tightly back, then startles when he turns around and sees Harry.
“Hey,” he says. His hair’s a mess, dark curls tumbling everywhere. Draco tilts his head.
“Hello.” He fumbles with his cufflinks. They’re from his mother.
Harry opens his mouth again, but no sound comes out. He gives him a short nod, and then he’s leaving, weaving through the crowds to catch up with someone else. Draco turns and leaves the opposite way.
*
On Wednesday, Draco goes for a walk.
The autumn air is crisp, and he inhales deeply as he settles down on the park bench. There are kids running around him, their little feet tripping and skipping as they giggle. They chase each other with a sort of exuberant joy Draco enviously wishes he could feel. A little girl stumbles over for a moment, glancing at him with curiosity. He gives a small wave, and she smiles shyly.
As much as one would think, Draco doesn’t mind children. They can be a bit of a bother, yes. Meddlesome in a way that sometimes starts up that twitch in the lower corner of his left eye, but it’s not as if he has to deal with them much, anyway. He supposes he’s simply grateful for the lack of distrust they place in him, their interactions void of any war-based prejudice, anger, thirst for vengeance, and whatever else Draco finds himself subject to these days.
He sits there and nurses his coffee, wrapping his scarf tighter around himself. But then it's like a sixth sense, a sort of alarm going off in his head. He glances to the left to see Harry, but he’s not alone. There’s a girl on his arm, brunette and pretty. Draco recognises her from the DIMC.
She laughs at something he says, and Draco watches as he smiles sheepishly, green eyes glittering.
He takes another sip of his coffee, but it’s cold on his tongue. Harry doesn’t notice him.
*
On Thursday, Draco speaks to him.
“I saw you at the park,” he starts. It’s awkward, and he doesn’t know what else to say.
Fortunately, Harry is an awful blabbermouth and infinitely more awkward than him.
“The park? Oh, the park! Yes. When? Oh. Wednesday. Where were you? I didn’t see you.”
“I know.” He taps a careful rhythm against his folder. Nervous tick. “You were with your girlfriend?”
“Girlfriend?” Harry’s eyebrows wrinkle. “Oh, no. I suppose it looked like that. Annabelle’s just a friend.”
Stupid relief swirls through Draco, unwarranted, and he nods. “I see.”
“Haven’t really found the one,” Harry laughs quietly. “Nobody really sees me for who I am anymore. And the ones I want I can’t have.”
His fingers tap harder.
“Don’t be daft. You could have anyone. You’re the damn Saviour.”
“That’s the thing,” Harry looks down. He says nothing else, but the silence is loud.
Draco finishes his sentence for him in a ridiculous, somewhat dramatic, and probably a bit disarming way, by the way Harry’s head jerks up in response.
“You’re the Saviour, but who saves you?”
Harry’s green eyes are bright.
*
On Friday, Draco doesn’t walk alone.
Harry walks with him, and they talk about fickle things. Harry laments about the awful weather. Draco doesn’t bring up how he loves it. Harry says he’s learning French. Draco says he’s glad, and every so often, their arms brush, and his heart aches. They get to the canteen door, and Draco reaches his hand out, but the door is already whipped open.
“Go ahead,” Harry gestures.
“Oh. Thank you,” Draco stutters out. Chivalrous Saviour; he almost wants to laugh.
He walks in, turns around, and takes a deep breath. He knows that the next words are the ones he’s been dying to say, and the adrenaline rushes through his veins.
“I can never read you,” he starts.
But Harry is already walking away, having spotted Ron across the room. Draco worries his lip and goes silent. He can’t change it, he knows. He can’t save someone when he’s what they need saving from.
*
On Saturday, Draco goes out.
The club is crowded and loud, overstimulating and far too rowdy for Draco’s liking, but he bites his lip and weaves through, anyway.
He orders two shots of vodka at the bar, downs them, and surveys the crowd – startling when he sees a familiar mess of jet-black hair and broad shoulders. Harry’s dancing with a girl, who’s dressed revealingly, her curves accentuated in a tight black dress as her hips sway. Draco watches as Harry’s hands grip her waist, tight.
He shouldn’t go over there. It’s for the better.
But he’s never done things the easy way, nor has he ever cared about the better. He’ll carry the consequences to his grave, he supposes.
It’s almost as if, on impulse, Harry spots him. His gaze is piercing through the dark of the room, and Draco’s legs are moving faster now, hands shoving as he makes his way to the other man.
“Didn’t expect you to be here,” Harry murmurs. His eyes drop down to Draco’s lips, then his open shirt, taking in his sliver of exposed chest.
“Me neither,” Draco says, and Harry grins. “Thought I’d try the muggle scene.”
If his mother could see him now, she’d be repulsed. He can still hear her voice in his ear, not fit for company, dear. He thinks humourlessly about how if it weren’t for the war, and its subsequent outcomes, he would rather be caught dead than in a Muggle bar – but there are no pretences, no wealthy, pureblood appearances and reputation to keep up, now.
Harry hums, seeming to echo his thought. “No one cares, here.”
In more ways than one, Draco supposes, this dingy establishment serves as a place of escape for someone tired of keeping up fronts.
Harry’s closer now, and there’s a strand of hair that falls right into his eyes, balancing out the jagged, rough lines of his scar and fluttering restlessly against his eyelashes. Draco’s hand twitches.
He nods. “No one knows us. No one would see.”
See what, he doesn’t clarify. Maybe he doesn’t know, but Harry does. Maybe Harry knows from the way Draco is stepping closer, every inch of his body electrified, every cell on fire with the way Harry’s eyes rove down, up, left, right, but never straying from him. The green is darkened now, like the shades of a forest right before rain pours down, like the remnants of Avada Kedavra settling in the corners of the manor, killing Draco now in its own right.
“Mm,” Harry whispers, “No one would care.”
And his breath is hot on Draco’s cheek, but there’s a sudden shove, and he grunts, shattering everything as a drunk man stumbles by, mumbling a stuttered apology.
Harry is looking at him anew, the colour of his eyes just as bright as they had been that Thursday afternoon. His eyebrows are furrowed, figure pulled back, and Draco’s chest tightens.
“I’m drunk,” Harry mutters. “What did you do to me?”
The strobe lights flash red, and a gust of wind blows in as someone enters the club. Harry looks stricken; Draco shivers.
“I didn’t do anything,” He whispers.
His stomach hurts and the bass is far too loud; he can’t tell what is his heart and what is the music. Harry just shakes his head and shoves away.
Never mind that in the hazy aftermath of that moment, Draco is leaning against the bar, terribly drunk and nauseous, aware that he had lost the time hours ago, but even more aware that Harry is making out with some guy across the club. Briefly, Draco starts in surprise, wondering when the Chosen One’s great gay awakening could have been, but the thought is swept away as he observes how his eyes are wide open and staring straight at Draco as the man grinds against him. Draco feels a lurch in his stomach as he turns around and beelines for the nearest bathroom.
He hurls all over the gross, sticky tile. He keels over, panting, and not for the first time in his life, wishes he could have vomited his heart out, too.
*
On Sunday, Draco writes a letter.
Harry,
How are you?
That’s a pathetic question. I see you every day now. But I suppose I talk to you far less. Although there are a lot of things I want to ask you. What did you want? Was it the same thing I did? Do you still hate me? Or have you forgiven me, and whatever had happened last night was only the knife ripping open the freshly healed scars on all your wounds?
I’m sorry if it was. I don’t apologise much, if at all. You would know that. It’s my Achilles heel, I think.
But you don’t either, and no one would ever bother you about it. You’re you, and I’m me. Silly comparisons won’t do.
Do people truly understand you? Maybe no one really sees you, ever. I do, though. At least I think. With how much it hurts and how hard it feels, sometimes I think you’re the only thing I ever see.
Yours,
Draco
The window is open. Athena waits, her yellow eyes glowing and sharp. She snips her beak impatiently, but Draco’s fingers resume their steady rhythm.
Tap, tap, tap.
The ink drips onto the sealed envelope. He waves her away, closes the window, and never finishes Harry’s name.
*
On Monday, Harry approaches him.
He gives an apology for Saturday, and it's short and blunt, straight to the point. Draco just nods, offers one in return, and wishes his jittery leg would stop.
“No hard feelings, right?” Harry grins timidly. He holds out his hand.
Draco stares at it for a moment, noting the scars that run along it and up his arm, hidden behind his shirt sleeve. Similar actions in First Year had led to a lifetime of pining and hurt. He’d rather not.
“Yes,” he says instead and shakes his hand. “No hard feelings.”
He watches Harry’s retreating form, waiting until he is out of sight before returning to his reading. A Unified Arithmantic Formalism for Nonlocal Wand Resonance. The fine print of the article title gives Draco a growing headache. He does his best to concentrate, wishing his thoughts to return to the whirlwind that is arithmetic framework, wand cores, and magickal resonance, but after five minutes, he realises he had been underlining the same word over and over again, until his quill tip had torn through several sheets of paper.
He groans, leaning back in his stupidly expensive ergonomic chair. He rubs his eyes, willing the headache to go away, but all he sees when he closes his eyes is a pair of bright green ones, framed by long, dark lashes, sparkling with a sort of radiant defiance.
He ends up leaving early that evening, hoping to soothe his anxious mind with a warm bath and comforting dinner. But he tosses and turns in bed, and when he finally does fall asleep, his dreams are plagued by the owner of those green eyes, like a shadow he can never escape from, complete with the ominous rumbling of an incoming storm.
*
On Wednesday, Draco realises, and accepts, that he is in love.
“He’s staring again,” Mackenzie notes.
He doesn’t need to look up to know who Mackenzie is referring to. He just picks at his food and shrugs.
“Doesn’t matter. We don’t talk.”
Casie raises an eyebrow, but they stay silent. Draco swallows and tries to tamp down the humiliating, wriggling mess in his chest that is feelings.
That afternoon, the Ministry announces an upcoming bonding event. Something about inter-departmental cooperation and camaraderie, and Theo drags him along, rambling excitedly about cookie decorating and recreational quidditch. He begs him to sign up as seeker for the DoM, but he hesitates, knowing that Harry would be the one for the DMLE.
“It’ll be fun,” He pouts.
Draco sighs.
“Your version of fun borders on intolerable,” He rolls his eyes. But his friends know he’d never admit when he loved something, anyway.
*
On Friday, Draco spends the night in a stakeout.
They’re huddled together, all four of them – two Unspeakables, Draco and Casie, alongside two Aurors, Harry and Hedgeforth – camped out in the gardens behind a large manor, not unlike that of what Draco grew up in. It’s a Death Eater sympathiser hideout, and Draco feels the heavy chill of dark magic lurking around, steeped into the atmosphere and stagnant on his skin.
He had been surprised when Head Unspeakable Lennox had approached him, handing him the file and walking away without another word. In customary Unspeakable fashion, Draco had only caught a glimpse of his eyes underneath the darkness of his hood, twinkling with omniscience. He always suspected Lennox had disliked him, or at least was apathetic to him and his work, but he had placed a heavy hand on Draco’s shoulder prior to this mission and given him a solid nod. It was rather ironic, Draco thought, assigning the ex-Death Eater on a mission targeting current neo-Death Eaters.
But he accepted, of course, rather eagerly. It’s not often that Unspeakables get assigned to active, on-site cases. It’s risky, given the limited amount of personnel currently manning the DoM. The number of active, listed Unspeakables had dwindled greatly after the war – never mind that the DoM, historically, has remained the smallest of the ministry departments due to its demanding intellectual rigour and expectations of confidentiality. But Draco was nothing if not ambitious, and if his willingness to participate was further encouraged by the appearance of Harry’s name on the stakeout file, well; no one had to know.
It’s past midnight now, and the coolness of the evening air has long turned into something that makes Draco’s teeth chatter embarrassingly, so he casts another warming charm over the four of them, watching as Casie sighs happily in her sleep as it settles over them like a weighted blanket. The silent house continues to radiate a sinister sort of aura, and Draco finds himself methodically running through the case details in his head, hoping the night doesn’t end in another draw.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Harry whispers, seeming to read his mind. “This is our sixth attempt. The house stays quiet from sundown to sunrise.”
Draco had read so in the file, but still turns to him curiously. “Why aren’t we switching to another post?”
Harry shrugs.
“Got no other leads.”
“It’s partially why we’re here, isn’t it?” Draco guesses. “They wanted the DoM to provide another lens.”
“Yeah. Sometimes all you can do is play the long game, I guess.”
Draco swallows.
“Yeah,” he replies pathetically.
They go silent for a moment, where the only noises are the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind and the quiet sound of their partners’ breathing as they sleep. When Harry speaks up again, it feels like eternity has passed, and Draco’s keenly aware of the growing ache in his tailbone.
“You’re not seeing anyone, are you?”
His head snaps up. “No. Why?”
“Oh, er, no reason,” Harry mumbles. “I guess I sometimes just feel like I can’t settle down. Like I have to keep running, but running where, I don’t know.”
Draco hums. “I understand that.”
Harry looks thankful that he does. “And it’s like, everyone I meet, they don’t get that. They don’t understand the rush. It’s the war, I think. They don’t know what it’s like to live through the front lines of that.”
But I do, Draco desperately wants to say. He thinks about the nights spent curled up in bed, his mind far from any realm of sleep, listening, ears strained, for the slow thump of footsteps coming up the stairs, the slow slither of Nagini’s underside against the marble floors, the inevitable screaming that was to come. He recalls the flash of Harry’s green eyes, and the sharp, pained hold of his father’s hand on his shoulder. He can still feel the warmth of his breath in Draco’s ear as he mumbles that this could be their chance, this could be the moment they redeem themselves, their opportunity to finally secure the ticket to stay alive in this dreadful, horrid, tainted situation, the Hell that they had fallen into, in which falling asleep to a world ran by nightmares felt like a sweet reprieve.
“They can’t sympathise?” He asks.
“It’s not enough,” Harry replies. “I still feel like two broken halves. None of these people ever make me feel whole. Do you ever…is that why?”
“Why, what?”
“Why you’re not seeing anyone.”
“Oh,” Draco frowns. “I suppose. There’s more reasons than one, though.”
He wonders if Harry would ever be able to guess the others.
Harry nods. “I see. It’s just that, you’re so, you, I guess I just thought, I don’t –”
He’s back to the social awkwardness Draco had mentioned earlier, flailing hands and stuttering words. It’s cute, but Draco doesn’t know whether to laugh or to cry at the notion that Harry might not have changed his perception of him after all, that he hadn’t forgiven Draco, that in his eyes, he was still so –
“So me? So what? Dark? Irreparable? Repulsive?” He tried not to sound offended. After all, Harry’s not the only one who still thought that way, but he’s the only one that actually mattered, the only one whose opinion Draco still, embarrassingly, held on a pedestal.
But Harry surprises him, jumping in with a startle.
“No! No, of course not, nothing like that. You’re just so,” he trails off again, and it’s now that Draco notices the faint dusting on his cheeks that he had failed to observe earlier.
“So what, Potter? Spit it out.”
“You’re smart. You’re so quick, talented. You’re respectful and polite, and whether you want to admit it or not, kind,” Harry rambles, oblivious to Draco’s gaping expression at the outburst.
“What,” he starts, but Harry isn’t finished.
“You care. I’ve seen the way you help the junior Unspeakables, even though you’ve never really met them. You’re good with kids. Andromeda tells me about how you treat Teddy. And you’re tall; you’ve got good hair. You’re, er, not bad on the eyes.”
Draco finally gets his voice back, a little shook.
“Wow, compliments from the great Harry Potter,” he drawls, watching Harry’s lips quirk up into a smile. “Never in a million years could I have anticipated this. The Chosen One thinks I’m hot. How could I ever repay you?”
“Shut up,” Harry groans. “That’s not what I said.”
Draco laughs before bringing himself down from the brief mercurial high. “Don’t worry, I’m well aware.”
Harry just rolls his eyes.
“But I understand you,” he brings them back to their previous topic. “It’s difficult for others to comprehend, I guess. But it’s something that has changed us so fundamentally. The War, I mean. It can’t be so easily erased. We learn to live with it, and its consequences, but it’s another thing altogether to drag someone else into our mess.”
Harry looks back at him, a slight smile on his face and unreadable emotion in his eyes.
Draco swallows and looks away. The atmosphere around him is weighted again, heavy with something he doesn’t want to describe. He knows it’s nothing, but he can’t help but hope, anyway.
*
On Sunday, the makeshift team goes to the pub for a night out.
“There’s no one relevant,” Harry slurs, eyes shut and head lolling. “That I know. That’s our age.”
Draco swallows and looks away. “Relevant, by what do you mean?”
Harry shrugs. “I don’t know. Good, I suppose. That fits me. And what my family – well, Ron’s family – but Molly’s always been like a mother, I don’t know. What they would like.”
“Oh,” Draco mumbles, and feels the telltale tremble in his hands, blinking away the sudden sting in his eyes.
It must be a product of the alcohol, or something; he’s sure of it, he would never let himself waver to something as trivial as emotion – but underneath it all, he knows the truth. He knows who he really is, and why that critical, scalding, torturous understanding of himself is like a gut-punch to the heart. He’s not good; he’s never been. He’s far from it. That part of his soul had collapsed years ago, under the burning torches of Hogwarts halls and the calloused gossip of the Slytherin dorms. It had shrivelled, crumpled inside of him when he had stood in front of the vanishing cabinet, when he had betrayed any last ounce of good in him the same way he betrayed the castle.
“Maybe I’m just fucking lonely,” Harry groans, and Draco feels like laughing now, hysterical and sad.
“Aren’t you?”
“Yeah.” Harry shifts in his seat. “Hope for the best but expect the worst.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” Harry mutters. Pauses, takes a sip of his beer, then turns toward Draco. “Truth is, I’d have anyone that wanted me.”
“Your standards are so damn low,” Draco chokes out.
But even then, he knew that wasn’t true. Harry wouldn’t have anyone. He would never have Draco, even if Draco wanted him more than anyone else in the world did.
Fifteen minutes later, Harry is on the dance floor, Draco’s staring down at his drink, and Casie has come to take a seat next to him.
She exhales, not unhappily, tossing her hair over her shoulder and fanning her face. She’s glowing with tipsiness and sweat, and Draco bites back a smile, feeling fondness erupt at the image of his friend. She grins back, then calls for several tequila shots.
“What did he want?” She gestures at Harry, illuminated by the dim, warm lighting of the dance floor. The pub’s crowded at this hour, having turned into more of a club than a traditional tavern, and the pixies in the wall scones keep changing colour at an alarming rate that’s making Draco nauseous.
“I can’t have him,” he mumbles. He doesn’t answer her question directly. Because Harry is far away – he’s across the room – but he’d never even looked at Draco once. Because Harry had always been too far, always out of reach, yet he was never out of sight and out of mind like Draco had wished him to be.
Because Harry is gorgeous and amazing in every single way. Because he’s so kind, smart, and strong, and Draco’s a weak, weak man. Because he’s so good – he’s always been so good, it’s written in every fibre of his being, but Draco has the symbol of a Death Eater carved into his skin and soul. He fell from grace a long time ago. He’s too far in Hell to even stand back up.
“What are you talking about?” She touches his arm.
“He doesn’t love me. How could he?”
Casie tilts her head, her gaze scrutinising and keen. She doesn’t question his dramatic shift; she knows him too well by now to know it can’t be helped.
“But you love him.”
He whips his head towards her. “How did you know?”
She just smiles. It’s a bit sad, and he can tell she’s known for a while. Longer than he has.
“How did you not?”
I know now, he wants to say.
He thinks he’s known for years; honestly, he just never wanted to admit it to himself until a week ago.
“Because it's an impossible thought to even entertain,” Draco replies quietly. “Nothing can ever come out of this. Nothing good, anyway.”
*
On Thursday, Draco writes another letter.
Harry,
I think you like to learn about stupid, random things. It seems like something you would enjoy.
You’re stupid. Even though you’re one of the smartest people I know. Where did you come from? I should hate you. I’ll tell you something I bet you didn’t know.
Have you ever heard the phrase, “I love you, I’m sorry”? There are two ways to say it. Inexplicably different. There’s “I love you, I’m sorry”, like saying “I messed up, I’m sorry. But I still love you.”
Then there’s the other, I love you, I’m sorry. It’s saying I love you, and I’m sorry that I do. I love you, and it will forever be my face of repentance, the ultimate sin I have to atone for.
Yours, in this lifetime and every one beyond,
Draco
He stares at the envelope, blank, bar for the hurried scrawl of Harry’s name in the centre, like some sort of death wish. Belatedly, he realises how messy the handwriting is – the tail of the ‘y’ a scraggled, desperate line, instead of the swooping cursive he typically favours. If his mother were here, and if he were but fifteen years younger, she would have scolded him about it, emphasising the strict importance of penmanship and its resulting display of dignity.
So this is unusual for Draco, true. As had the last months – years – of his life been. He supposes that’s all normal and dandy with Harry Potter in your life. He comes in and upends everything, flipping tables like a righteous God. And Draco would let him, no doubt. Gosh, Draco would let him do anything.
That thought alone is pathetic enough to drive Draco back to reality, and, hence, misery. He tucks the letter away, places it in a drawer on top of the one he had written weeks ago, waves Athena away, and trudges to bed.
*
On Thursday, Draco looks away first.
It’s always the same eye contact, halfway across the Ministry atrium and hitting Draco straight in the core. It’s always the same look in those green eyes, sharp, strange, and heavy.
Harry stares. Draco stares back.
Draco looks away first.
When he turns back, Harry is still staring. It irks Draco to no end; he doesn’t know what the other man wants, but he loves him, so it’s okay.
Harry walks away. He glances back one, two, three times.
Draco turns around and leaves, too, right back to where he came from.
*
On Monday, Draco falls a little bit harder.
Harry has always been awkward. Socially, he was shy until he wasn’t – all stuttered words and flushed cheeks. Physically, he was in a way that rocked Draco to his core – tripping over his own feet with messy curls that tumbled around in the cold, autumn wind – but broad-shouldered, tall, and the prettiest eyes Draco had ever seen. He’s smitten, he knows, whipped into something that must resemble the topping of a Key lime pie from that one bakery in Marylebone.
He’s talking to Mackenzie when Harry stumbles over, and as their eyes meet, Draco feels a stupid little leap in his heart.
“Hey,” Harry grins. Draco flushes. He hates it. He hopes Harry doesn’t notice.
“Hello. How are you?”
Harry shrugs and leans back against the table. “Okay. Weather’s terrible, and work is work, you know how that is.”
“Yeah.” Draco can’t look away.
“You?”
Terrible, he wants to say. Horrible, because I love you. Because you couldn’t care less about me, but –
“Never been better.”
“Good to hear,” Harry nods, looks around, and then right through Draco’s soul. “I’ve been improving on my French.”
“And how’s that going?”
Harry smiles sheepishly. “I can’t memorise half of the vocabulary. But they’re not necessary, anyway, because the ones I need to learn for now I do know. It’s just that sometimes I let the other ones slide, but Hermione says that’s not a good habit to have –”
“Do you need help?” Draco interrupts his ramble. It’s adorable, but he’d be damned if he didn’t take advantage of the situation.
“No!” Harry flushes. “I know you’ve been so busy, too. I’d feel bad.”
“It’s okay,” he says. I love you, remember?
Harry shakes his head. “It’s not urgent.”
Nothing’s urgent because it’s too late. I love you. I’d do anything for you, anything you asked.
“Okay,” Draco just replies. “That’s okay, too.”
*
On Wednesday, Draco visits his mother.
The chrysanthemums are in full bloom now, bursts of colour against the dying fields of grass. Narcissa’s gravestone is as clean as always, polished smooth until the sun glints against the corners like a mirror. Draco crouches down, wrapping his coat tighter around himself in an effort to ward off the cold.
He inhales deeply, then sets down the roses.
“Mother.”
His voice carries with the wind. It’s cold against his cheeks like the touch of his mother’s hands had been. The thought comforts him, and he runs a rough hand through his hair.
There are letters she had written to him. Written in the East Parlour, while Voldemort had been in the West Wing. In the dining room, when Voldemort had been in the cellars. Right after the Battle, when Draco had been on his knees on the floor of the Ministry courtrooms, head hung and hands chained. On her deathbed, when he had been working through the sleepless nights and anticipated promotions.
Guard your heart, she wrote. Protect your heart, for all else flows from it.
At the bottom, a small scribble.
Proverbs 4:23
Love is the law, but you are your own.
He’s heard of the Proverbs. The Bible, the beliefs in Christ, of a saving force. He wishes he was religious for once. He wishes he had something to pray to because Lord knows he has too much to pray for.
He clutches the note in his hand, squinting through the bright rays of sun. He never understood her, sometimes. But it was her dying wish, so he’d do well to at least try.
*
On Tuesday, Draco and Harry go for a walk.
“There’s this one girl,” Harry says, and Draco feels his heart shatter.
He goes quiet, looks away, and lets the hurt wash over him, the familiar feeling of tight desperation clawing at his throat. But it’s alright, he tells himself, like a prayer, a mantra, the two words he will live his life by until it hurts a little less.
Of course there’s already someone. And of course it’s a girl.
“She works at the familiars store down the street,” Harry continued. “I met her while browsing kneazles for Teddy. I was going to look for an owl for him, but Clarise was the one who came up to me and suggested a kneazle or a toad. He’s too young, anyway, won’t be off to Hogwarts till a couple years, and Andromeda already has an owl. Even if he’s old, a little worse for the wear. ”
The meet-cute is so stupidly sweet that Draco feels it on his tongue, saccharine, nauseating, like the dizzying fog of the Imperius curse, courtesy of his Aunt Bella.
“That’s amazing, Harry,” he stumbles through his words mechanically. “I’m happy for you.”
If he doesn’t go to Hell for all the war crimes he’s participated in, he might as well go for his lies.
Harry just smiles sheepishly.
“Thanks. She might really be the one.”
Merlin, Draco might really throw up. He hopes he doesn’t come off as peaky as he feels.
“Praying for you,” he offers a smile, but it might come out as more of a grimace.
He was never really religious anyway.
*
On Friday, Draco talks to Hermione Granger.
It’s later that evening, under the pretence of nice wine and full stomachs, that he admits the one thing he swore he’d never say out loud. They had talked about everything under the sun: the Ministry, international relations, and magical politics. About work and about the Muggle Prime Minister candidates, about travels, Patagonia and deserts. Hermione is a good listener; she always has been – it doesn't matter how close she is to Harry.
“I love him,” Draco says abruptly, for the first time. It’s like a breath of fresh air, like a release of a weight he had been holding onto for far too long.
It interrupts their conversation, steering it in a completely different direction, but Hermione doesn’t look surprised, nor does she need to ask who it is. It’s as if she’s been waiting, and Draco doesn’t complain.
“It’s okay,” she responds, swirling her drink. Her tone is casual, indifferent, but her brown eyes are warm. “It’ll pass.”
Draco swallows and looks away, trying to hide how desperately he wishes she is right.
*
On a Tuesday, a month or so down the line, Draco sees a fox.
It’s a whip of brown and orange fur, startling Draco as he steps out of his flat. Its sharp, beady black eyes glance at him with a sort of furtive hurt, pausing for a moment before it runs.
He slows to a stop, hands clutching the warm styrofoam of his cup as he stares. There’s a hole in the bushes where it left, only a minor sign of the disturbance, barely noticeable throughout the bustle of London life.
It’ll pass, Hermione had said.
And it did.
It was no sudden turn, no flash and changing of events. There were no meteor showers, no shooting stars. The trees had shivered and shook in the cold November wind before the leaves had scattered in a falling of burgundy and maroon. Draco had dusted off the lapels of his coat and walked on.
Harry still smiled at him. He still laughed with crinkled eyes that held all the stars that made up every soul, and Draco still ached for something he could never have. The only difference was that ache was a little less harsh, the burning a little less hot. He learned to live with it, and if that’s the best that he can do, he’ll let himself be. Give himself that grace.
Mackenzie still held his arm, Casie still talked his ear off, and the chrysanthemums still bloomed around his mother’s grave. The city was still loud, his stairs still creaked, and the old lady at the corner shop still offered him free bouquets on Wednesdays. The only difference was the first snowfall. And then the passing of Christmas with the hanging of string lights and the singing of carolers, where his gift to Harry didn’t feel like a knife wound stabbed into his heart. Then came the fireworks on New Year's and the clink of champagne glasses, where for the first time in ages, his heart felt as light as the laughter surrounding him.
And when he stumbled to the bathroom that evening, high on the taste of cheap wine and cigarette smoke, he found a girl crying, shrunken into the corner with her head in her hands.
He bites his lip, watching her for a second before he slides down beside her. He’s never been good at comfort, but he hands her his open bottle. She glances at it briefly before downing what’s left in one go. Draco understands far more than he should. The liquor leaves your tongue, but the burn is still heavy in your throat.
“You love them?” He murmurs.
She looks at him with haunted eyes, dark and reminiscent of something Draco had seen months ago. Mascara runs down as she nods.
“How did you know?”
“Lucky guess,” he murmurs sadly. He offers her a rueful smile. Doesn’t mention how he can see the exact parts of him mirrored in her, pain shared like cruel death by the same wand.
“I don’t know what to do.”
The words are quiet, hopeless, and empty. So he replies the best he can, with the same mantra he repeats to himself every day.
“It’ll pass.”
The girl just closes her eyes, swallows, and turns away.
“How long?”
Draco shrugs and traces the rim of the bottle. “‘Dunno. Days? Years. Months, hours, minutes.”
She sighs. “Never?”
“Maybe. Maybe we never learn to forget; we just learn to accept.”
“What if it takes my entire life?”
“Then it’ll have been the love of a lifetime. Worth every cent, huh? Not many have loved like that. To have loved is one thing; to have loved and have lost, another.”
She laughs wetly. “You can tell that she doesn’t love me back.”
“She doesn’t have to. It’s okay. You loved, regardless.” He hesitates for a moment, then continues, “The truth is, if he would still have me, I’d be waiting my whole life.”
The girl finally turns to him, eyes sparkling with something unknown, akin to fear, but still full of an understanding Draco has never received before.
“That’s how it’s going to be, isn’t it?” she says wearily. He nods.
“But that doesn’t mean it won’t pass,” He says slowly, words quiet as cheers suddenly echo outside. “It’s simultaneous, mutually compatible. Because they won’t have you, regardless, so you’ll just be waiting on forgotten oaths and empty promises. So it has to pass. It has to.”
He has no idea who he’s trying to convince now, but he says it twice, hoping some part of it will last to remind the stubborn heart.
She nods, the motion feeble and tired, but still here.
“For it to pass, you have to be willing to let it go first.”
She shakes her head. “I have no idea how.”
“I don’t either. But your heart knows, and for the first time, it’ll do something before your mind does.”
“Do you still love them?”
“Of course,” He answers, and it’s quick and sure, automatic with conviction. “Always have, always will.”
“It just hurts a little less,” She concludes.
He laughs. “A lot less. I let it go. It passed. Yours will, too.”
*
On Friday, he writes another letter.
Harry,
How are you? It’s funny I ask that, because I feel like I never do when I write you. I think I’m too blunt. Straight to the point, if you don’t know what blunt means. (Joking!)
I just want you to know that I’ve never felt like this for anyone else, ever. I have never before and never will, ever again. I’ll never have you; I’ve never had you; you’re not mine. But I’m all yours, I promise.
How’s Clarise doing? I like her. She’s sweet, pretty, and kind. I hope, no, I know she makes you happy. Molly likes her too, no? As does Ron, and I know Hermione does too. We go out sometimes, did you know? That woman’s got a shocking sense of humour and a sharp mind. Dare I call her the brightest witch of our age?
Anyway, you’ll undoubtedly get married someday. If not to Clarise, then to some nice, beautiful girl, who’ll give you nice, beautiful children, and it’ll remain all I’ve ever wished for and all I’ve ever wanted. Tell me if she takes you far. I hope she does because every time I cross paths with you, it hurts, burns like the fire from Hell I went to for loving you.
They say it feels like fate at first, but that it will fade. So I’m waiting till the ten months pass, and it won’t be fate anymore; it will just be the most brutal, hurtful, and ruinous moment in my history.
Pardon my informal language. I’ve simply run out of any polished semblance of affection, any proper way to profess my cliché, undying love for you. I hope you’re happy. I’d learn to pray every day for you if it ensured that.
Love,
Draco
*
On Saturday, Draco meets Harry at the bar.
There aren’t many people there yet. Most of the wedding attendants are still preoccupied with the dance floor. So he drinks double the amount he usually would, consequences be damned. Harry’s getting married, after all! Cause for celebration.
He’s giggling into Theo’s shoulder when Harry walks over. Theo promptly rights him (albeit gently) and leaves him with he-who-shall-not-be-named, and Draco sighs. He feels melancholic again, and certainly more so when he turns to look at the newlywed. They stare at each other for a moment.
“Congratulations,” he tries, but his grin feels unnaturally wide. He sucks at this. He must officially be the World’s Worst Friend.
“Thanks,” Harry murmurs quietly before taking Theo’s abandoned seat.
It comes out of nowhere, before he even realises what he’s saying.
“It all changed for me and I told you.”
“What are you talking about?” The confusion in Harry’s eyes is crystal clear, bright and sparkling in the evening light. His bride is somewhere in the crowd; Draco tries not to think about her.
Draco downs the rest of his drink and hiccups. “Nevermin’. Fuck. I didn’t tell you, never even sen’ those.”
“You’re drunk.” Harry worries his lip.
“Never said I wasn’t.”
He suddenly feels the urge to laugh. He’ll be getting over him his whole life. On some days, it hurts a little less. On others, he feels he’d rather die. Today is one of those, he supposes. Comes when the love of your life marries his.
“‘M happy for you.” Feeling a sense of déjà vu at the phrase, he studies the bottom of his drink. It’s pink and shimmery, like the shade of rose-tinted glasses, or of a nostalgic, sweet summer day, the first day he realised Harry had forgiven him.
“Thanks,” Harry says quietly, and Draco knows he’s imagining the hurt in his eyes.
“You were saved in the end,” he offers a cheeky grin.
“No, I really wasn’t. But it’s too late now. It’s okay.”
“Mm.”
“Sometimes I wish it were different,” Harry whispers. “Do you?”
Draco exhales and forces himself to hide the truth. His head hurts. His vision swims.
“No. It’ll pass.”
Harry winces. Draco sets his drink down and walks away.
He stumbles home after that and promptly passes out. In the morning, when he wakes, he’ll convince himself it was all just a dream. Until Harry’s face shows up in the newspaper with his bride beaming on his arm, unlike the mark on his own, dull and faded like the ink on the parchment.
Draco will turn the page and read on.
But it’s okay, he supposes. It’ll pass.