Disclaimer: Characters, settings, and themes from the Harry Potter universe are property of J.K Rowling. I make no profit from the writing or sharing of this story.

Inspired by Sam Smith's Latch- the acoustic version

A gift for AshesofLauren

Everything is normal.

His legs slide over the bed one at a time, careful not to disturb the other side of the bed. It's empty, but he doesn't want to adjust the covers again. There are some things he doesn't acknowledge; this is one of them. Bulky and awkward, his glasses are slightly more stylish than when he was younger—but only slightly. Change is difficult. Change is power.

The morning falls from his face, scrubbed away by the vigorous up and down of his palms against his eyes and—wait. There's something different about today. It's itching at the back of his neck and his fingers go up to scratch before he realizes it's not that sort of itch. His hand flails for a moment, sliding down his bare collarbone, digging into the muscle of his chest and resting there. One. Two. One. Two. In. Out. Breathing steadies him and he's back.

"What day is it?" he asks first to the empty air, then turning to the tawny owl in the corner who burbles softly at him. At her playful response, he smiles. The watch beside him lights up with an alarm he's too awake to benefit from and he looks carefully at the screen. "Well, Enid. It's Thursday. That explains it."

Out of bed, he stretches, allowing for sore muscles to work loose and his bones to settle again in their proper places. His closet is nearly empty when he walks in. He's kept back this particular set of robes for this particular occasion and he winces. The oddity of the day is wriggling its way further between his shoulder blades. He rolls his neck. No luck. It's still there and his only hope is a shower and to swallow the coals while they're hot.

After, when the water drips from his chin to land on his knee and trail down to his toes, he stares in the mirror. His wand is on the counter beside him, unused. The towel slung low about his hips comes undone as he leans forward—forgotten on the floor. Planted on either side of the porcelain sink, his hands are an angry red, but he can't seem to let go. The square of his jaw is hidden by the beard he's grown—out of laziness or an attempt to look new, he's never sure.

Perhaps what shocks him most is that the eyes staring back at him are not his own. He remembers his eyes. He remembers youthful eyes that were full of hope and wonder—eyes that looked upon Diagon Alley and Hogwarts for the first time with wonder; eyes that saw miracles; magic and dragons and so many things he can't recall. He remembers looking in another mirror and seeing another pair of eyes that haunted him—still haunt him. Grey over green over grey.

He shuts himself away from it all, turns from the mirror and—with trailing fingers—grabs at his wand.

The robes are green; fitting, he thinks. As much as he's tried, he cannot overcome the nuisance that is the tie at his throat and he casts a charm he'd been taught him at a wedding. The thought shakes him back to Thursday and his fingers fumble a little with the final snap at his front.

"That's it then, Enid." He turns to her, running a finger along the crest of her brow. She leans into the touch and looks at him expectantly. "When I get back, you can go flying." This doesn't seem satisfying to her, and she rebuffs him with a flutter of her wings. "I know, love. I know." Mollified partly, she turns back to him, but tucks her beak beneath a wing and goes back to ignoring him.

"Right."

Pocketing his wand, he moves to the front door and out into the rain. It's a soft drizzle that makes everything hazy at the edges. His glasses are no good out here and he relies on his memory, which is questionable at best most days—but never about this.

Apparation always makes him a bit uneasy, and he lurches for just a moment. His feet find purchase in the grass and he keeps his eyes closed for another moment. This is not something he can rush into. Rushing would entail a desire to be there. He doesn't want to be there. He wishes he didn't have to be.

Attempting to steady himself, he takes a deep breath. It doesn't work. He's repeating the phrase over and over to himself as he gets closer. Normal. This is normal. Another normal day. This is a normal day. Get it together. This is normal.

This isn't normal.

He knows the way, oddly enough. He doesn't remember why or how he's been there before, but his feet find the oddly-paved path and his fingers absently trail out to the side, feeling the hedges as he passes. When he turns the corner, he's alone except for… him, and he panics.

"Fuck."

The word is quiet, but there are no bodies to muffle the sound. There isn't anyone whose coat he could have whispered into or turned behind to hide himself. He's alone. He's not alone. Grey over green over grey.

He's drowning in the rain that isn't rain. Words are spoken and he sees an angry face, but the rain eats everything in its wake. It isn't until Draco's in front of him, on top of him, pushing him into the damp grass that he realizes what's happening.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Those are the first words he hears before they're overtaken by, "What right have you? Honestly, what right do you think you have?"

Something connects with the side of his face and he wonders if he's somehow managed to disassociate with his body—if he's become abstract.

"I didn't invite you here! She doesn't deserve this! She didn't deserve this!"

Rain continues to fall, but he thinks it's more than rain falling across his robes. When wide grey eyes show more than anger, hold more fear than hate, he forgets to move. There's something moving toward him and too late he sees it's a fist. Knuckles connect soundly with the side of his cheek and his neck cracks out to the side, letting fly the irritation from earlier. He sighs and allows the itch to fall from his shoulders to the ground. As Draco continues, fingers grabbing hold of his robes and pummeling his chest, he lays there—unmoving.

He has nothing to say. There's nothing that can make this easier. There's nothing that can take away the pain. No one can help him now.

He looks beyond the shoulders swaying over him to the open mausoleum. Torches line the walls and flowers are strewn about the chamber. At his complete lack of attention, Draco goes back to assaulting his face.

"What are you doing here, Potter?" Draco rocks back on his heels, not caring that he's pinning Harry to the ground and that the grass is making everything stick to him in uncomfortably.

"I had to be here."

Draco tilts his head, still heaving while blond locks fall from where they're barely tucked behind his ear.

Those drops of rain that are too thick to be rain continue to cascade down his cheeks and Harry reaches up to swipe them away.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Being a friend, Draco."

He slaps the hand away, continues slapping it away, but Harry grabs his wrist, stills it between them. Draco tries to pull away, back away—run away.

Instead, Harry does his best to sit up and wrap his arms around the other man and says, "We all need friends, Draco."

The orphan Malfoy shudders in the cavern of Harry's arms. The only words he manages are, "Why is it always you?"

Harry ignores him, looking beyond to the grey skies. Rain dodges his glasses to fall into green pools as he continues wiping tears from matching grey.