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It’s raining miserably by the time Draco makes it to Harry’s street. He’s not entirely certain it is Harry’s street—Harry may have moved. That thought occurs to him just as he’s rounding the corner, holding onto the wrought iron fence in a desperate bid to keep the world from swaying. The rain doesn’t help with that. Wind keeps whipping it into wavering sheets, driving the pooled water down the pavement until it looks like the concrete is melting. Draco wonders briefly how Harry manages to walk home along such an unstable road every night, before he remembers that Harry might be walking home along a different road now.
Or Draco might be lost. Which is also entirely probable. Probable enough that Draco has to stop and swallow the lump that rises in his throat at the thought of not seeing Harry tonight, of this in fact being the wrong street. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if that’s the case. He’s not sad—really, he isn’t. It’s just that there’s a deep pain lodged in his chest, and it only grows stronger when he thinks about how it used to feel to have Harry hold him. But he’s alright, really, he’s perfectly fine. And the street is blurry in front of him, but that—that’s just the rainwater.
A fox scurries across the road at that moment. It pops out of the bushes right in front of Draco, shimmying between the rods of the fence, its normally bushy tail wetted down with mud. Although it’s not enough to make him jump (in this state, there’s not much that would), it does serve to remind him that he’s been standing still for a good few minutes. Draco starts walking again.
He thinks about knocking on Harry’s door—about doing it four months ago, when Harry would press him into the wall and kiss him slowly enough that his legs turned to jelly and his mind went blank. Draco loved that. He loved the feeling of Harry’s arms on either side of him, the way Harry tilted his head and blocked out the rest of the hallway so all Draco could see, could feel, was him.
It’s not his favorite part, of course. His favorite part was when Harry would pull back and whisper into his hair.
I missed you.
Draco’s not been missed very often. He wonders if Harry misses him now. Probably not.
Oh.
Because Harry doesn’t miss him, because they don’t do kisses by the door anymore. Draco pauses for a moment to be sick into a rosebush, but when he bends over, the only thing that comes up is a sob. It still makes his gut heave, twists heavy around his lungs, burns behind his eyelids. But it’s a different, soul-deep sickness, and he wishes for a moment that he could throw up.
We’re just fucking.
When he looks up, he’s at Harry’s gate. The latch is open, as it usually is, and the wards fizzle against his wet skin as Draco makes his way towards the front door.
Green for Slytherin?
Green for you, Draco.
He doesn’t want to knock anymore. But he also wants it more than anything in the world. Wants Harry to throw the door open and pull him inside, press awful wine into his hand and sit him down at his kitchen counter. Merlin, he just wants to watch Harry cook, he just wants to see the scars on his hands while he chops onions, he wants those hands on his face, he wants it so much it hurts—
We’re just fucking.
Draco doesn’t have to make any sort of decision, because the door beats him to it. It creaks open, and light spills out into the rain. He watches it land on the steps, watches it tumble over his soaked shoes. He’s not sure he wants to look up now. But that decision is also made for him.
“Draco?” Harry’s voice is too open, too kind—a side effect of his surprise, no doubt—and while Draco’s always been a bit of a masochist, he’s also quite selfish. Something in Harry’s tone reminds him of deja vu, and for a few precious seconds it’s as if four months haven’t passed. It’s enough to have him glance up.
Harry’s cut his hair. It’s the first thing Draco notices, in his sloshed state, and it feels like a knife through his insides. Harry’s cut his hair.
It’s shorn short against the sides of his head, and it makes him look unbelievably handsome. Draco can’t catch his breath. He knows he’s crying. He hopes the rain hides it. He’s cut you out of his life , something insidious inside him whispers.
“Draco,” Harry repeats, but it’s gained an edge to it now. “What are you doing here?”
“I—” Draco starts. He can’t breathe. There’s something unravelling inside of him. An incomparable sense of loss that only grows as he takes Harry in. Takes in the curve of his mouth, the rough edge of his jaw, the dip where his scar cuts into his eyebrow. He feels desperate and wild, like a toddler about to throw a tantrum, but he has no one to scream at but himself, and all he wants is Harry, Harry, Harry .
“I’m drunk?” Draco tries. He’s still crying, he thinks. The rain is still pattering down, but his eyes burn.
For a moment, Draco thinks Harry’s going to close the door in his face. But in the next second he seems to deflate a little as he steps back to let Draco through.
“I’ll grab you a Sobering Potion, then you can be on your way,” he says briskly. It hurts, because now Draco’s stepping into the hallway, and he’s dripping on Harry’s floors, and Harry’s not kissing him against the wall.
We’re just fucking.
And Draco wants. He wants so badly, he feels torn apart by it. He wants Harry up against him, pressing him into the coats hanging by the door until he feels whole again. Wants it so badly that he can’t understand why Harry doesn’t feel it. Draco’s screaming in his head, and Harry’s just turning away to go get a Sobering Potion for him.
Unbidden, his fingers snag the corner of Harry’s sleeve.
It’s enough to make Harry look at him. Draco stares at a button on his shirt.
“I missed you,” Draco whispers. His favorite part.
Harry pulls his arm free firmly but not unkindly. “I can’t do this,” he says, and leaves Draco in the hall.
Draco stares after him in shock. He’s not supposed to be shocked. He knew how this would go. But there’s a small, pathetic part of him—the majority—that had built a different picture every night as he’d fallen asleep alone. He sinks back into the coats hanging on the wall, wrapping his arms around his middle. He feels like he’s about to shake apart.
“Oh, Draco, I didn’t mean…” Harry’s back, with an open vial in his hands, and Draco finally registers the worry on his face. He presses the Potion into Draco’s hands, and Draco has to take a few breaths before he can swallow the dose.
The world rights itself in a series of sickening lurches, and when Draco refocuses, the first thing he notices is Harry’s hands on his shoulders.
“Better?” Harry asks gently, and Draco can’t even shake his head yes, because he’s ruined his own life and there’s nothing to numb the icy regret that’s coursing through him.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and it sounds bad to his own ears, choked and breathless. “Drank too much, couldn’t apparate. I walked here from St. James’ Park.”
Whatever hatred Harry no doubt harbours towards him, it evaporates in the wake of his pigheaded heroism, because the concern in his eyes is clear as day.
“That’s a half-hour’s walk,” he says. “Draco, baby, are you ok?”
Baby . That word lances through him, a stinging comfort, and Harry no doubt notices the way he flinches, because he quickly backtracks.
“I’m sorry, that was uncalled for, I know you don’t want—”
“No!” Draco cries out. Perhaps a bit too loud, because it’s Harry’s turn to flinch. He just can’t stand to have Harry remind him of what they are to each other now (nothing, nothing ). They stare at each other for a moment, and when Draco doesn’t elaborate beyond a few shuddering breaths, Harry finally speaks again.
“You’re just scaring me a little,” he says in that same soft tone he’s been using, like Draco’s a frightened animal and not a piece of shit. “It’s nearly two in the morning, and you’re soaking wet, which—” Draco feels a powerful wandless drying charm blow through his clothes, and he’s suddenly ten times warmer “—and Draco, you’re crying.”
He is.
“I just, I want—Harry, please, please ,” Draco gasps out, because he feels like he’s dying inside, like something’s been torn out of him and he’ll never get it back, and he can’t fucking speak like this, he just can’t. He needs something before he collapses in on himself like a dying star.
But in the next moment Harry’s arms come up around him. Draco’s not sure what’s happening. All he knows is the press of Harry’s chest against his, the smell of his shirt, the warmth of his neck as he tucks Draco into his body and shields him from the emotional chaos of the open hallway.
“Hush,” Harry whispers. Draco nods.
Bliss. It breaks his heart all over again.
They stand that way for long moments (minutes or seconds, Draco can’t tell). In the quiet of the empty house, Harry’s heart beats clear through his chest, through the ear Draco has pressed against his shoulder. He’s never heard a sound more precious.
“I love you,” he whispers against Harry’s throat.
Harry stills. His heartbeat picks up.
“I know I’m not allowed to say that,” Draco adds after a moment, equally quiet. His words are steady, however, and he’s grateful for that at least.
“Because you broke my heart?” Harry asks, far too sweetly for the way Draco’s treated him.
“I didn’t know I—did that.” It’s a lie. They both know, it just hurts more to have Harry admit it.
“Draco, I asked you to marry me, and you told me we were just fucking.” This is the first time Harry sounds truly firm. It’s still not enough. Draco deserves to hear him yell. “Of course you broke my heart.”
“Oh god,” Draco says. “Harry, I fucked up. I fucked up, and I can’t fix it.”
Of all the things he’s said and done so far, that’s what makes Harry pull back. Draco whines at the loss of his shelter and warmth, but Harry keeps his arms around him, even as he fixes Draco with a piercing stare.
“What on earth do you mean, you can’t fix it?”
Draco sniffles, confused. Is it not self-evident that complete destruction of everything that’s ever made him happy is a permanent sort of mistake?
“I broke your heart?” he says, half question, half explanation.
“You did,” Harry nods. “And I’m still very angry with you for it. But I would always, always , rather be angry with you, than angry without you. If that’s why you’re here?”
Draco stares at him. It takes a moment for him to understand. But when he does, when the hope starts blooming in his chest, it’s nearly as painful as the loss. Painful because after everything he’s done to Harry, Harry’s still this fucking kind, this worthy of love and care, this deserving of everything Draco’s denied him. Painful because Harry asked him to marry him and Draco said no.
“I love you,” he blurts out. “So much, you have no idea, Harry. It’s just, it’s in me, all the time, and I can’t think , I just love you, and I—you’re the most wonderful person, and I’ve wanted you back every day. Please forgive me. I think I’ve ruined both our lives.”
Harry pulls him back in against his chest. This time, Draco holds onto him, desperate for everything he’s been denying himself. He slips his hands under the edges of Harry’s shirt and presses his palms against his warm skin.
“You’re not forgiven,” Harry says, the hitch in his voice just noticeable enough. “Four months is a long time to wait. You’d better be planning on paying me back with four months more.”
Draco nods frantically. Anything. Four months is a joke—eternity with Harry wouldn’t be enough for him.
“How are you this calm?” Draco asks. There’s no use pretending he himself is fine. Harry can feel him shaking.
Harry snorts. “I’m trying really hard not to lose my mind, actually, because I’m just so happy to see you again,” Harry says into Draco’s hair. And then— “I missed you. Fuck, I missed you.”
“Oh,” Draco says, and then he’s crying again. Big, tearful sobs that rip their way out of his chest until Harry kisses him quiet.
He keeps crying into Harry’s mouth. It’s wonderful, and Draco tries his best to kiss back, but he thinks this is what death must feel like—shaken apart by the staggering weight of joy, burning up from the inside out with hope. Harry presses kisses to the corners of his mouth, to his cheeks, his nose, his eyelids, and all Draco can do is feel .
“Darling,” Harry whispers when Draco can’t stop crying. “Don’t you know I’ll always wait for you?”
He’s so sure and steady, and Draco loves him. He loves him. Loves him so much that he doesn’t know what to do with the pain of it. The pain of what he’s put Harry through.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he manages. But Harry shakes his head slightly, gentle in the way he presses their foreheads together.
“I don’t want anything we do to be out of guilt,” he says. Tucks a strand of Draco’s hair behind his ear, whisper-soft. “Just come home to me.”
Home. Here, with Harry again.
Draco nods desperately. It’s all he’s ever wanted.