A/N: Anna Nalick is a goddess and a closet shipper. I swear. She'll be having an interview--"Yes, I love to read, I like to read fanfiction too...slash especially and wow, did I just say that on national television?" And the H/D shippers will be awed.
Warning: SLASH. Men loving each other. IN THAT WAY. You don't like it? Then don't read it. Simple.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me. I just play with it. ;)

Wreck of the Day

I. but my god it's so beautiful when the boy smiles

Later now, five years past, and Draco smiles a lot more. It suits him, Harry thinks, to wake up in the morning and see that smile light up Draco's otherwise scowling face. Like the sun that lights the empty room, and the cherry that tops the plain sundae, Draco is an accessory to the life and times of Harry Potter. An accessory, and...a decision, and...a calamity, and...a great and terrible beauty.

II. sitting on a citadel, contemplating life, making a point to waste my time

Draco believes in punctuality, and the Malfoys always believed in being 'fashionably late', so when Harry tells Draco to meet him on the fortress by the end of the grounds, Draco's already there, but trying to act as if he is not. But Harry is not the Boy who Lived for nothing, he's sharp and knows things, and Draco's hair is light and fluttery but most of all light, so Harry approaches the wall and catches Draco from behind as he tumbles over.

"You caught me," Draco says, amazed, but with the scoffing air of a seventeen-year-old.
"I could never, really," Harry replies, and puts Draco up against the citadel again, and time is not wasted.

III. this wire around my neck ain't here for fun

Lucius Malfoy keeps his pets on a leash, and Draco has a red mark around his neck that Harry often likes to pet, or kiss, or bite. It's figurative, of course, but it symbolizes the dread of continuity and the stench of rich at the Malfoy manor, and Harry can't sympathize, so he lets Draco babble and rant and talk for hours on end, and at the end of it all, when Harry comes, he shudders in a mass of light and wire.

IV. maybe I'm not up for being a victim of love; all my resistance will never be distance enough

Often they both try to run away from each other, but distance proves useless, and they end up meeting in the heart of London at two o'clock in the morning: Draco has had three drinks and is still sober, and Harry has cried and drunk his tears and is not sober at all.

Draco says, "I'm not sorry."

Harry shakes his head. "I'm not, either."

But Draco has alcohol on his breath and a clear mind, and Harry has tears in his eyes again and his mind is foggy and nothing and everything seems to work out. Harry tries to wrap his arms around Draco, and Draco tries to turn and run away, so Harry ends up latched on to Draco's back, his face in the nape of a neck that is feathered with ticklish down, and a taxi passes by and honks, and Draco swears.

"Potter–"

"Draco," Harry says, forgetting about ignorance and cold shoulders and hatred. And Draco's hair is damp now, and Harry's arms are shaking, "Come back, please, please, come back."

Draco is not a victim of anything but Harry, and he has a feeling none of them meant it when they said they were not sorry. So Draco turns around and lets Harry fall back onto his chest, and suddenly those three glasses of alcohol rush blindly to Draco's head and he staggers, breathing hard.

"Do you," he rasps, running a reluctant hand through the head of black on his chest, "want me to come back?"

You can run; but you can't hide, and victims are only injured angels. Harry nods.

V. I'm wishing on a two-way radio

When Harry calls, Draco comes, and when Draco calls, Harry comes. Always and never, and as soon as possible and whenever they feel like it. It is the law of static physics; and more importantly, the stated-in-rock rule of Harry and Draco: always be there.

Harry is a closet romantic and Draco always wanted to be wanted. It fits.

VI. your lips next to mine make me think that heaven's where you are

Harry has never experienced an enlightenment of any kind, so kissing Draco Malfoy is as close as it will ever get.

Water surges and swells in a strange way as their lips are pressed together; and Draco always tastes like maltese orange (tangy and sour), or some sort of citrus, and Harry can't figure out why. He doesn't know what he tastes like himself–Draco always has a different answer (peppermint. chicken. wine. blood.) Their lashes brush in a butterfly tangle, and the gesture is sweet, too sweet, that it feels like they're both drunk on cheap wine. A kiss can do so much more than anything else, Harry thinks as Draco's tongue encircles his lips.

There are stairs to heaven, but they both rather think of it as an ocean.

VII. I got your love letters and I threw them all away

Lies, lies, lies. All, lies, lies, lies.

Harry finds Draco's scrawl on the wall, on his Potions notes, on the inside of his copy of Shakespeare, on scraps of paper, on the back of his hand–everywhere. Hello, Harry, the one on the pillowcase says, Guess what?; there is a notepaper on Harry's sink. I may love you, so that is why I have broken into your dormitory, says the one on the door right before Harry leaves for his morning class.

Joy or something like it rushes in violently through Harry's veins, but he curses all the notes away and walks to Transfiguration, telling himself love is for fools. He sees Draco and Draco starts talking, but Harry doesn't really listen, because he has a feeling he'll be reading the much more heartfelt version on his pillow tonight.

VIII. fall away to the sound of my heart to your beat melancholy and cool kind of bittersweet

Harry falls asleep on Draco because he can.

Not fall-asleep-on in the aftermath-of-sex kind of way, but fall-asleep-on in the exhausted, need-something-soft-to-sleep-on kind of way. Draco is sitting on Harry's favorite chair reading when Harry lets himself in, and he looks up as Harry wanders into the kitchen. He stands there, looking a little lost–what did he come in there for? Water? A lemon? The newspaper?

Draco takes a risk and throws Jane Austen at him, and Harry groans and walks over to the chair.

Long day, he murmurs, as Draco summons over Sense and Sensibility, stupid Minister, can't do a damn thing right, too many problems, Neville is a nuisance, need a new work partner. Luna lost in Albania with Ginny. Hermione promoted, again, for the fifth time in two months. Draco nods and scowls and smiles in all the right places, and finally, when Harry quiets, Draco lies there reading while he feels Harry's pulse against his arm.

"You're warm," Harry mumbles after a few minutes, and he squirms in closer, forgetting he's in his twenties and is supposed to be a decent young man. "You feel nice. C'n feel your heartbeat."

"That's nice," Draco muses, and turns a page.

Harry yawns and is near to dozing off, and before he does, he puts a finger to the bulb in Draco's neck where you can feel the blood beating with the heart. Draco doesn't take his eyes off the page, but he loosens at Harry's touch, and sort of twists so Harry has more sleeping space, and both their pulses speed up a bit.

"'His own enjoyment, or his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle,'" Draco says softly as Harry closes his eyes.

There is a small silence, and then a quick reply. "I suppose that's your way of saying I love you."

It is.

IX. and baby now you're just another song to me

After everything, Harry can remember it all by the sounds of the piano.

Draco Malfoy played the piano. It was a scary secret, really, because Malfoys don't play the piano–they don't play anything at all, really, except for the lives of the innocent. But they were at Ginny's once, and as everybody shuffled into another room during the house tour, Draco stopped dead at the baby grand and gawked, and Harry didn't think he could think of another time Draco Malfoy gawked at something.

"What's–" he started.
"She has a piano," came the mumbled reply. "Ginevra has a piano."

He only ever called her Ginevra. Harry didn't like that he couldn't just say Ginny like the rest of the world, but Draco shrugs and says it's either that or Weaselette.

"So what if she has a piano?" Harry asks, and wonders idly if he can have another drink.
"I play," Draco said, sitting on the bench, rather stiffly. "The piano," he elaborates. "I play it. I learned when I was little."
Harry stares, and the drink is all but forgotten. "Really?"
"Honestly," Draco says, and examines his fingers. "I don't know if I remember."
"You do," is the answer, though Harry doesn't know himself how he can tell. "Play something."

Draco's bangs are awry and when he looks up, Harry can't really see his eyes. But he plays something anyway, and yes, he does remember how to play. He stumbles over a few notes and curses when he can't remember a measure, but that's okay, because for some reason the moment is horribly intimate and Harry is so terribly enthralled.

The song is finished, and Harry pretends he can still breathe. "You're good."
Draco snorts, "I'm not."

So he isn't, really. His fingers can't articulate notes enough, and he can't do rhythm for shit, and he can't tell his flats from his sharps, and his tempo is barely there. But through it all, Harry finds beauty, like he always can.

"What song was that?" Harry says instead, and Draco looks at his fingers again.
"I don't remember," he frowns. "Something about water."
"Water flows," Harry says abruptly and stupidly, and Draco looks up quizzically. "That was a nice song," he adds.

Draco smirks. Later, Harry remembers it as a smile.

Water flows, and so does time. After everything–the war and the bleeding and the last battle, the killings and the funeral and the gravestone–Harry remembers it all by the song of the piano.

X. and you'd be inclined to be mine for the taking

Before Draco, there were others, and when he is drunk and sleepy, Draco makes him tell all.

He starts off light. Fifteen was the age of sexuality, and he didn't know much of what he was doing, but there was Cho and then there wasn't Cho, there were boys, and lots of them now that Harry had begun to 'see the light', or whatever rubbish you wanted to call coming out. "There was Zach," Harry confesses softly as he fishes an olive out of his glass, "because he was nasty but he intrigued me."

Yes, yes, and? Draco prods–the boyfriend just can't get enough. Zacharias Smith, and, and?

"Blaise," Harry slurs a bit, leaning against the glass table, "because I wanted him to teach me Italian. Lui era bello. He was. And then...Seamus, before he actually got with Blaise. Weird thing. Dean, for about a week. Drew me naked, I think."

Draco chokes a bit. "Did he?"

"Don' remember. And...went with Ginny for awhile, but she gave me that awful 'let's just be friends' thing. Still friends, but still. Wouldn't go well with girls." His eyelids lower a bit, and he smiles a little. "And then there was you."

Something strokes his temple. "Tell me about it."

"Ah..you were there." Harry closes his eyes completely as the alcohol consumes him. "Standing there, in all your Slytherin glory. Green and blonde and silver. Lovely, you were, beautiful, striking, stunning. Wanted," he mumbled, "wanted you. Really bad.

"Wanted everything about you. Lips and eyes and hair. Skin. Name. Draco Malfoy...God, I was up for nights all over you. Thinking about you. And then...I don't know. I pined, I suppose. A lot. And then...I just took you."

Draco stirs his (sixth) drink and thinks back to that day in the Charms corridor. Details, he thinks, are unnecessary, because they both know what happened, in that fit of passion, and retelling the story is on neither of their minds.

"Yes," he whispers softly, almost crooning, "you took me."
"I was allowed, wasn't I?" Harry says, suddenly a bit alarmed, his chin rising off the table.

And Draco winks. "Of course you were."

Of course.

XI. don't give me choices coz I can't decide

Draco is horribly blunt. He tells Harry that, should the occasion arise, if he found somebody better, Harry should consider himself single.

Harry is aghast. "I don't believe it. You're picky. You'd choose me in the end again."

"No," Draco replies, his lip curling. "I like having a choice. I might not pick you in the end."
"Who said you liked choices?" Harry is baffled.
"I did," Draco replies, and he's a horrible liar, too.

So Harry does things to Draco that can't be spoken in public; unless you're drunk and on the verge of passing out, and if Draco is horribly blunt, he makes up for it by being easily convinced.

"Okay," he gasps, "fine. You're lovely. I'd pick you again in the end, no matter what."
"Oh, well, you have a choice," Harry says, and his voice is muffled in the pit of Draco's stomach.

Draco thinks for a moment.

"I do," he says cheerfully, "don't I? I could leave you at any second."
"I could do the thing with my tongue again..."
"...and then I would come back."

Draco is horribly blunt, but Harry is horribly sexy, and this is why Draco hates choices: it's too bloody easy to pick.

xx end.