Summary: It had been nearly two months since Ginny Weasley and her offspring died at the hospital; neither had lived through the birth and Draco had watched for weeks as the world's savior spiraled into a broken, drunken stupor.
A/N: For Kiki, just because, and in attempts to rid myself of writer's block.
Probably just a one-shot, but if I get inspired, it might turn into a two-shot. You've been warned, and as always, encouragement or critique is appreciated.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. The song Rock Bottom is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.
Rock Bottom
You know you've hit rock bottom
when you're mumbling the words
to all her favorite songs,
'till the neighbors hear your drunken slurs..
He thought of copper colored hair, its strands catching the firelight and appearing to spark—warm, dark eyes with freckles peppered beneath. He closed his eyes, falling into the image, and thought of soft, nimble fingers against his back—pressing, rubbing, scratching—he inhaled sharply and his eyes opened. The firewood cracked and, for a single instant, he heard the shuffle of dishes from the kitchen and soft laughter. He lifted himself from the couch, the drink in his hand sloshing over its rim as he neared the kitchen. Near-darkness greeted him, pale moonlight slipping through the window and blanketing the sink. He leaned heavily against the arched frame, his drink spilling again. A ghost of an image—more of a memory, really—and he could see himself standing there, her by his side, squirting her with warm water from a freshly-washed bottle. She laughed, shielding herself with a hand, and reached down to splash water at him from the sink.
Her laugh was like heaven, soft and comforting and light, and his eyes slipped shut again. It rang like fairy bells in his ears, teasing him with its familiarity before it faded.
There was a dull ache in his chest and he pushed himself from the doorway.
He turned from the kitchen and the moonlight and stared back at the fire.
It cracked again, a cascade of brilliant light as it bit at the iron-wrought gate, and his face turned toward the stairway. Footsteps, light and shuffling, and he could see her rushing downstairs, her hair swaying gently behind her. Her feet against the floor, she turned—no, twirled, her dress spinning around her knees—and looked at him, her mouth open to call his name.
His eyes burned and he reached out with a shaky hand before she disappeared, the shadows darkening.
He blinked the sensation away and, with jerky steps, moved across the room to their record player. Setting his glass atop of a speaker, he flicked it on and placed the needle onto the disc—there was a sharp, ear-shattering screech, and then music, loud music with a soft beat and a chorus of instruments. She was there, then, beside him, and he turned, meeting her eyes with his own. He smiled, swallowing down the sob that threatened to sob it, and offered her his arm. She returned the smile with a brilliant one of her own and then her hands were floating above his arms as they set to spin and twirl around the room, his drink forgotten.
She was laughing as he picked her up, hands against her waist, and lifted her into the air, her hands moving to his shoulders for support. He set her back down, gently, and his smile widened as she clung to him, her expanding stomach pressed against his own. A hand left his and she touched their growing baby affectionately, rubbing her skin lightly through her dress. Her head was against his should as they stilled and he could hear the echo of a thank you.
"No," he corrected lightly, "thank you."
He moved to capture her mouth with a kiss but there was a sharp knock at the door and his eyes opened.
He was there, alone, standing in the middle of a dark room with too loud music and not enough alcohol. He let out a hiccuping gasp as the memory left him, the knocking chasing her back into the shadows, and he stumbled toward the door. He opened it with a dark expression, light from the street spilling in and breaking his loneliness.
Green eyes met gray and he managed a scowl.
"It's three o'clock in the morning," was the only greeting, Draco's expression unreadable.
Harry pulled a face and leaned against the doorway. He reached out to pat Draco's shoulder, but he misjudged their distance and hit at air instead.
"Cohngratulashions," he yelled, the word slurred, "you can—can tell time!"
Draco exhaled sharply, surveying Harry quietly before moving to push past him and step inside. Harry let him, if only because of his poor balance, and Harry struggled to turn away from the street and follow Draco's movement.
"'Ay," he yelled, stumbling away from the door. "Wha'sthbg—" another hiccuping gasp and then, "—big idea?"
Draco said nothing, his shoulders tense as he reached out and knocked the needle from the record, the quiet coming in a screeching way of its own. He could hear Harry's uneven breathing behind him, ragged with alcohol, and his eyes lingered on the firewhiskey atop of the speaker before he turned.
"It's three o'clock in the morning," he repeated through clenched teeth. "Go to bed, Potter."
Harry's eyebrows puckered together and he took a quick step toward Draco.
"No—g-get outta m'house, M-Malfoy!" he managed to yell, taking another quick step. His balance wavered and the fierceness he had tried to portray through his words were lost as he practically fell into his neighbor's arms. Draco caught him quickly, barely swaying under the addition of weight, and exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
"C'mon, Potter," he said carefully, his voice quieter than before. "Let's get you to bed."
Harry tried objecting again, pushing himself from Draco, but his words came out a slur of noise and Draco shifted so that he was practically carrying Harry, and started upstairs. Harry's objections were silenced at the firm contact and sudden movement, and Draco weaved his way through the dark halls and to his bedroom by sheer memory.
This had been the third time that week that Draco had come to a pissed Potter's rescue, although he was fairly certain the dark-haired wizard was unable to remember it come morning. It had been nearly two months since Ginny Weasley and her offspring died at the hospital; neither had lived through the birth and Draco had watched for weeks as the world's savior spiraled into a broken, drunken stupor. He had expected the other Weasley, Ron, and his know-it-all of a wife Granger to intervene, but apparently the tragedy had struck its own chord with them and they were too self-absorbed to be of any help. Apparently, Draco had realized with a flash of bitterness, the world no longer had a need for Harry and, as such, he was cast to the wayside.
Draco flicked the light on with his elbow as he entered Harry's room. Muggle electricity had been something of a wonder to him at first, but he had since grown accustomed to it and was even thinking of adding it to his own house down the street. He neared the bed, gently setting Harry atop of the mattress, and carefully removed his glasses.
Harry just stared up at him, his expression nearly unreadable as he watched Draco with a wary, drunken eye.
He set Harry's glasses on the bedside table and moved across the room to light a fire for warmth. He was crouched down in front of the wood when Harry finally stirred, his voice cracking.
"Why—why'r you bein' s-so nice, M-Malfhy?"
Draco tensed for a moment but said nothing, the fire lighting beneath his fingertips before he pulled away and straightened. His eyes met Harry's from across the room and he exhaled slowly, nearing the other again, and shifting a blanket on top of him. Harry caught his wrist with his hand, his grip tight.
"I—I ascked you a qu..qu..sumthin."
Draco brought his eyes up to meet Harry's and, for a long moment, they simply stared at each other. Harry's fingers were hot, slick with sweat and alcohol, and after another minute, Draco twisted from his grasp.
"Get some sleep, Potter," he said lightly.
He turned to leave, but Harry sat up and grabbed his arm again.
"N-no," he managed, kicking the blanket off and shuffling to his feet. He nearly pulled Draco down onto the bed instead, but Draco shifted his weight to help support Harry's. He let out a slow, deliberate breath and moved close to Harry in attempts to get him to lay back down—apparently, he was going to be difficult tonight.
"Potter," he sighed, "stop being so difficult. You need to get into bed."
Harry threw his weight against Draco so that the light-haired man was unable to wrestle him into bed, his hand still tight around his arm.
"No," he repeated, a bit more loudly. "N-not until.. until you anshwer m'question."
Draco stilled, tensing again, and pursed his lips together.
Harry stared very deliberately into his eyes, although his own gaze was slightly unfocused, a mixture of poor eyesight and alcohol. There was a silent battle of wills, an unspoken challenge, and then Draco pulled away, twisting out of his grip again. Harry swayed dramatically at the lack of support and practically fell back into his bed, barely managing to steady himself with a hand against the bedside table.
"Fine, Potter," Draco said, his voice hard now. "Sleep on the floor for all I care."
He turned to leave but the sound of Harry's voice made him hesitate in the doorway.
"B..but you.. you do care."
He clenched his jaw and said, "Hardly."
And then he disappeared around the corner and started down the hallway. There was a loud thud behind him, though, and despite his best judgment, Draco turned back to Harry's room. He stared at the lit doorway for a long moment, debating, and then moved forward to find Harry sprawled across the hard, wooden floor.
He lingered in the doorway for a moment before, with a sigh, moving across the room and kneeling down beside him. Harry shifted where he lay, his eyes blearily staring up at him, face red from impact.
"I didn't mean that literally, Potter," Draco smirked, moving to collect him in his arms.
Harry managed a smile, although it was strained, and said, "Th-that's a f..first."
Draco raised both eyebrows and shuffled to lift him to his feet.
"And you doing what I say isn't?"
Harry leaned on him heavily before he was lowered back into his bed.
"Two.. two-ch.. wh..wh's that word?"
"Touche?" Draco offered, moving the blanket back over him. Harry nodded, grinning again.
"Yeah. That."
The corner of Draco's mouth twitched into a slight smile of its own, but it quickly passed, and he finished tucking Harry in.
"Now go to bed, scarhead."
Before he could straighten to leave, Harry's hand had caught his once more—but the touch was considerably more gentle and Draco's eyes met his with a start.
"S—stay?"
There was a dark sadness behind his eyes, a strange sort of pleading and loneliness. Before Draco could respond, Harry propped himself up and pressed their mouths together in a single, surprisingly fluid movement. Draco was quick to pull back, his hand leaving Harry's, eyes dark.
"Don't try that again, Potter," he warned, heart in his throat. "Now go to bed."
Harry stared up at him, his apology written across his forehead, and then there was a sharp burning behind his eyes that he could no longer blink away. Hot tears spilled over his eyelashes and he averted his eyes to the fire, the word forced: "Fine."
He waited, watched for Draco to leave his peripheral vision, but the light-haired man hesitated. Harry didn't bother looking at him to read his expression—he felt more sober, now, the sharp pang of rejection slapping him from his stupor, but his vision was blurred with tears and there was a hard knot in his chest, wedged between his lungs and heart. He visibly started at a blur of movement, Draco's hand coming into gentle contact with his face and turning him so that their eyes were meeting. Before he could ask what Draco was doing, silently or aloud, Draco was leaning down and their lips were together again. The kiss was sloppy, wet, and much too brief, Harry's arms snaking around his body and pulling him to the bed.
Draco shifted so that he was straddling Harry, their mouths together again and again, a mess of jerky movements and rough breathing. Harry's tongue was in his mouth and there was the bitter aftertaste of firewhiskey but it was warm and wet and Draco battled against it in a search for dominance.
The kiss turned softer, comforting and light, and Harry absently realized that he had found his new heaven.
I'm seriously contemplating chewing off my tongue
to prevent from screaming out your name in these endless nights to come.
/ / Rock Bottom by The Spill Canvas.