The toffee coloured sheets rustled as one of its inhabitants moved to get out of bed. From under the sheets a nest of messy black hair poked out while a pair of deep emerald eyes gazed at the back of the figure now shrugging on a once pristine cream shirt.
"Tomorrow?" Harry spoke so softly one could only hear under pin-drop silent conditions, dejection lacing the word.
"Tomorrow." The dispassionate response was echoed by an even louder click of a closed door.
Harry turned away from the closed door. He should be used to this by now, but that knowledge gave little comfort to the hurt blooming within him.
When Harry first hooked up with Malfoy, it was meant to be nothing more than a casual fling. Harry entered this dalliance knowing that Malfoy was already married, but knowing the type of marriage Malfoy was in, coupled with the idea of 'no-strings-attached'; Harry thought he could easily just walk away after a few quick nights.
But as the weeks became months and Malfoy became Draco, Harry knew he was in trouble. The extramarital 'no-strings-attached' amour they had started had become so much more. Heck, Draco even had his own set of toiletries in Harry's bathroom.
So when Harry finally plucked up his Gryffindor courage and broached the subject of their relationship, he was met with a frozen and stiff Draco, only to be given the answer "Tomorrow". It was always tomorrow. Tomorrow, Draco would break it off with his wife. Tomorrow, Draco would stay.
Lying in their, no, his bed, the after glow of sex all but ruined and the haze of lust quickly fading, Harry realised that there would be no tomorrow. Draco would never break up the illusion he worked so hard to build up from the ashes of his past. He would never ruin his picture perfect family even if it meant sacrificing himself. There would be no tomorrow because Harry could not take another today.
Each time he was left alone in the cold empty bed, he was left feeling dirty, used and abandoned. Tomorrow would be their one-year anniversary. Harry snorted, a cynical and despondent expression marring his face.
It was times like these that Harry wondered exactly where he stood in Draco's life. Staring at the burnished oak of the bedroom wall, Harry reflected on the label their dysfunctional relationship carried.
Was theirs an affaire de cœur? Or was this sordid relationship merely an intermediary dalliance on Draco's part? Turning away from both the wall and his unsavoury thoughts, Harry moved to get out of bed, refusing to further dwell on the picture his mind had already painted vividly. Harry winced as he crawled out of bed, pain shooting up his spine.
Draco never went slowly anymore, it was always quick, painful and harsh, almost as if he was punishing Harry for tempting him away from his utopian family.
The hot spray of water washed away the tension in Harry's muscles but did little to ease the tension on his mind.
Ron never understood why Harry continued to wait for Draco. Hell, even Harry did not fully understand. But what he did fathom was that he could not stop hope from flaring within him when Draco's gaze lingered just a little too long.
Harry knew he sounded pathetic, pining after a married man, and he hated it. But more than that, he hated himself for allowing it.
Once, over a spot of English Gray, Hermione had questioned Harry in her usual soft mellifluous voice, "Why?"
Slightly taken aback, Harry's only response was a doleful smile, met with a gaze dawned with understanding that was tinged with melancholy.
The answer was simple. Harry loved Draco. He loved him with all his heart. Somewhere along this ignominious affair, Harry had given his heart to Draco.
"Tomorrow", the cool response of Draco's smooth rich baritone echoed in the recesses of Harry's mind. It was emotionless and cold, like every thing else about Draco these days.
"Tomorrow." Harry whispered to the surrounding frosty walls, as if to convince himself, yet all the while knowing that the tomorrow he would always hope for would never come.