Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

Flotsam and Jetsam

The sky was overcast in anticipation of a storm, the wind was sharp as blades against one's skin, and the cobalt blue sea was a riot of waves. On this autumn afternoon, the beach was deserted but for a piece of driftwood lying on the sand, rotting and dead. It was not the most breathtaking beach Draco had beheld, but it was here that he and Harry had said their farewell.

Standing close to the shoreline, Draco watched Harry kick water around. In his wedding attire, Harry could not make for a more unusual presence in this place. The legs of his trousers were rolled up to his calves; his shoes and socks were discarded on the beach like rubbish washed ashore. It was not a suitable weather for playing on the beach, yet Harry, wading the dark water like a boy half his age, seemed untroubled by the cold.

Draco felt a pressure in his chest. In the past, when he was with Harry, he would sometimes be struck by this almost-pain he could not quite understand. Today, the pain grew worse, for he had wrecked Harry's wedding with his uncharacteristic display of bravado. In front of prominent members of the wizarding world, he had robbed the bride of her groom. The union with Ginny Weasley would have given Harry what he longed for above all else: a family. Draco doubted he would be forgiven for this act of selfishness.

A lone seagull soared beneath the clouds and cried. As if compelled by the sound, Harry stood still and faced the grey horizon, a spectre bridegroom lost at sea. Driven by impulse, Draco kicked off his shoes and socks, and slowly made his way towards Harry. The cold water pierced his skin and soon numbed his feet, but he did not stop until he had reached Harry, whose entire frame was rigid with tension.

Without a word Draco draped his coat over Harry's shoulders and held him close. On his special day, Harry smelled of vanilla, a scent reminding one of warmth and security. Was this Ginny Weasley's favourite scent? Stricken with a pang of jealousy, Draco tightened his arms around Harry and laughed at himself. On this lonely beach in the middle of nowhere, Ginny Weasley was not an issue anymore. After all, Harry was here with him right now. No one had come after them: no one would be able to find them unless Draco or Harry wanted to be found.

The ocean was breathing deeply in half-slumber, and in the midst of it all, Harry's words drifted into Draco's ear and stung his heart. "If you choose her now, I promise I'll never show my face in front of you again. Was it fun forcing me into a corner like this?"

Words tumbled out of Draco's mouth before he could take them back. "If you really loved her, my words wouldn't have mattered to you, would they? If you regret it now, you can still go back. Make amends and marry her. You are always trying to do the right thing, aren't you? This is the right thing to do. Better yet, tell them you were acting under the Imperius. They'll believe you."

Harry tore himself out of Draco's embrace and wheeled around, his green eyes full of venom. The coat fluttered from his shoulders and fell into the water, another victim for the sea to claim. "Do you know what I hate most about you? Your blasted mind games."

"You can punch me if you want."

In the next beat, Draco found himself falling backward into the water, his cheek throbbing with pain. Before he could react, Harry was on top of him, clutching his shirt with trembling hands, eyes wild and lips twisted in frustration. If Harry were to push his head underwater right now, would he accept this as a punishment for placing his own desire above Harry's happiness?

Shuddering in the icy water, Draco rolled his tongue around in his mouth and winced. The tang of blood was sharp as a razor blade; he was fortunate that nothing else was broken. It was obvious that Harry held back on purpose, though for whose sake Draco could not tell.

"What do you want from me?" Harry said through gritted teeth. "Haven't we talked things over and agreed it was for the best that we went our separate ways? I'm under no obligation to go along with your bloody whim anymore. I'm sick of this. Why can't you leave me alone?"

Softened to a whisper, Harry's voice was nearly swallowed by the lapping of waves, but it echoed in Draco's head like the cry of a dying man. For several beats, Harry looked as if he was about to shed angry tears, though the water drops on his face and glasses were merely tears of the sea. Feeling the familiar almost-pain in his chest, Draco ran a finger along Harry's chin. Harry flinched at the contact, but he did not move away.

"I'm not sorry for taking you away," Draco said quietly as he held Harry's gaze, laying bare his heart for Harry to break. "Don't marry her. I miss you."

A flash of anguish flitted onto Harry's visage, and for one moment, he seemed lost for words. Anxious and a little afraid, Draco held his breath and waited for the final judgement. He knew how manipulative he was for uttering those words: I miss you was their magic phrase, the incantation they spoke to each other after every fight.

Drawing a shaky breath, Harry stood up and pulled Draco to his feet, their hands equally icy and their bodies shivering in the wind. In silence Harry examined the bruise on Draco's cheek, his fingers tracing a downward path on Draco's skin. When Draco grabbed his hand, Harry shot him a conflicted look and pulled his hand away.

"Fancy a swim?" Draco said, even though it was a bad time for a joke. "Maybe we can reach the other side before we drown."

"We'll be swept away by the waves long before then," Harry mumbled while cradling his hand, neither meeting Draco's gaze nor replying to the one question that mattered most. "Let's go somewhere else before it starts to rain."

The blue-and-grey colour scheme in Draco's flat was as Harry remembered, but other things had changed. On the bookshelves were several titles he had not seen before. The silver picture frame beside the hourglass no longer displayed a postcard of whatever painting had struck Draco's fancy that month. Instead, it featured a black-and-white photograph of the sea: Draco had always been fond of the sea.

Drowning in nostalgia, Harry tore his gaze away from the shelf and went to the window. The ancient yew in the distance seemed smaller than he remembered; someone must have pruned the tree recently. In the past, he would sometimes stand in front of the window in the dark, looking for a star or two in the sky or listening to the leaves whisper secrets to each other. Every so often, Draco would join him. Perhaps he was lonely; perhaps he thought Harry was lonely.

Standing by this window once more, Harry could almost believe that he and Draco never parted ways in the first place.

The pitter-patter of rain intruded upon Harry's musing. Pressing his lips together, Harry hit the window with his fist and glared at his reflection. The ghost of his younger self was lurking in the flat like a shadow, taunting him. He was foolish to think that what he had buried in the sand would remain undisturbed till he breathed his last. With words and action Draco had dragged the dead out of its grave and thrown the corpse at his face.

Even now he could picture the scene in the pavilion: the scandalised crowd, the indignant Weasleys, Ron's look of disbelief, Hermione's resigned silence, Ginny in her satin white gown, and the wand trained at Draco. Ginny had thrown a curse at Draco, and out of reflex Harry had stood between them and deflected the spell. The look on her ashen face—shock, hurt, hatred, despair, defeat—would haunt him for a long time.

He had trampled upon the heart of the woman he once loved—and upon all the blessings he had received from family and friends, mentors and colleagues. It was as Draco had said: he should go back to the Weasleys, take responsibility and make amends. The Weasleys had welcomed an unruly orphan like him into their family, and they had stood by him throughout countless ordeals. How could he betray them over his own desire?

The sound of running water crept through the bathroom door and into Harry's consciousness. It would be easy to sneak away now and never to return: an escape route that Draco might or might not have created on purpose. At the thought, Harry curled his lips into a self-depreciating smile. Knowing what kind of tricks Draco liked to pull, he still ended up here. Then again, he never thought Draco would barge into his wedding and face a crowd full of people itching to curse the intruder into oblivion.

Staring at the monochrome sky, Harry did not move away from the window, not even when a hush descended upon the room. At length, footsteps approached him, and a warm hand took his hand. Taking a deep breath, Harry turned around to face Draco, who fidgeted like a child waiting to be scolded. Drained of his fury, Harry was left weary and empty. Even if a remnant of anger lingered inside him, it was not directed at Draco but at himself.

The notion of never being able to see Draco again frightened him more than being abandoned by the world.

Casting aside the last of his resistance, Harry yanked Draco by his shirt and silenced whatever words that would come out of this manipulative man's mouth. Several beats later, Draco crushed Harry in his arms and deepened the kiss as though wanting to suck out his soul.

On what was supposed to be his wedding day, Harry was holding someone else. It was the worst form of betrayal, but everything felt so inexplicably right. He missed everything about Draco Malfoy: his eyes, his lips, his voice, his hands, his warmth, his body. He wanted to reclaim this man for himself and hold him in his arms as day darkened into night, and when morning arrived, he would accept his comeuppance.

In the dusky light, Draco was a mess drenched in apprehension and desperation. The sheen in his grey eyes was worse than any vicious words he could have spat out. Shed of his composure and his acid tone, he would not look away, would not let go and would not be stopped. It was as if he feared that at any moment Harry would vanish into thin air and be lost to him forever.

I'm not going anywhere—it was a promise Harry could not make, and he hated himself for being so sly. In an attempt to console this man who had a penchant for complicating both their lives, he reached out and ran his fingers over Draco's damp hair. His visage contorted into one of longing and pain, Draco took Harry's hand and pressed it to his lips, his teeth grazing the base of Harry's ring finger—a bite mark in place of a wedding ring.

The rain at last died down after nightfall, and the clouds broke apart to reveal the gibbous moon. Illuminated by moonlight, the window frame in the unlit sitting room resembled an other-worldly stage abandoned by its performers. Sounds of the city drifted into the room and brought some relief to the terrible stillness after the storm.

The clock on the wall was counting down the hour when morning intruded, but Draco paid it no heed. Sitting on the sofa, he stretched out his legs and was about to turn on the lamp when Harry whispered beside him, "Let's stay in the dark like this."

Surprised by the request, Draco slumped against the cushion and squinted at Harry, who lifted a glass of water to his lips. Clad in Draco's black shirt, Harry sat with his knees drawn up, a bad habit he had not been able to shake. As if sensing Draco's stare, he turned his head slightly, but he seemed to be looking at something else.

When Harry offered him the glass, Draco accepted it after a beat, drank a mouthful, and realised with a start how thirsty he was. What a sorry sight he must be, he thought as he drank some more water. There was nothing more he could say, nothing more he could offer, nothing more he could do: it was Harry's turn to declare his stand.

"Ron and his brothers will kill me when they see me." In spite of those words, Harry sounded more tired than dejected. The Weasleys had always been Harry's surrogate family; Draco knew how painful it would be for him to cut ties with them.

"They'll kill me too—if your legion of fans didn't finish the job first." Draco pointed out, and Harry indulged him with a chuckle or two. "Maybe we should run away to the Continent."

"Getting out of Europe altogether would be a good start." In the next beat, the humour in Harry's voice faded, and a grave note took its place. "I won't marry her. It's not because you told me not to. I just realise I can't marry her after all. Besides, she's not going to take me back after what I did. You've made damn well sure of that."

The knot in Draco's stomach began to loosen, but the answer did not give him as much comfort as he had hoped for. Blinded by impulse and passion, he had stopped thinking about what would happen in the aftermath of his action. Neither he nor Harry had breathed a word about a reconciliation, and they had made no promise about staying together. There was no foregone conclusion; they simply kept wandering in circles and missing each other at every turn.

"True." After draining the glass, Draco craved for something stronger than water. Once he found his wand, he summoned a bottle of firewhisky to him and poured out a glass. Nevertheless, the liquor did nothing to improve his mood. "Kissing you in front of the crowd would have done the trick, but I don't fancy being ripped to pieces."

"Because you are a pacifist?" There was a pause. "I'm going to talk to her."

Draco made a noncommittal sound and leant against Harry, who shifted a little to accommodate him. Throughout their conversation, Harry did not mention Ginny Weasley by name. Perhaps it was difficult for him to utter the name of the woman he had betrayed; perhaps he was aware of Draco's jealousy towards her.

"In the unlikely scenario that you end up getting back together with her, don't ask me out to talk. Send me an owl, and I'll disappear into the night as you wish," Draco remarked in half-jest.

"I doubt an owl will reach you." When Harry got up, Draco's hand shot out of its own accord and grabbed Harry's arm. A sigh hovered in the space between them. "I'm just going to open the window wider. It's a little stuffy in here."

In an attempt to mask his paranoia, Draco let go of Harry and laughed off his own overreaction. "Your eyesight is bad, so try not to trip over anything." Even though Harry's face was hidden in the shadow, Draco could picture those green eyes of Harry's scrutinising him.

Without a word Harry went to the window and pushed it wide open. Cool air rushed unbidden into the room, a reminder that the coming nights would grow colder still. Harry leant against the window sill and looked up at the sky, his silhouette black as ink in the moonlit night.

As Draco stared at the figure by the window, a mixture of déjà vu and resentment struck him. For too many times he had been staring at Harry's back, knowing this man would not turn around unless he reached out to him. "I can't tell you what to do," Draco heard himself say. "But I know what I want to do: lock you up in a trunk and take you with me wherever I go."

"I might not be an escape artist like Harry Houdini, but I do know a trick or two about breaking out of confinement." There was a note of amusement in Harry's voice.

"I can always drug you and then chop off your arms and legs."

Silence lengthened. Somewhere in the distance, a train horn blared and a dog barked at phantom intruders. At length, an audible breath escaped into the autumnal night. Harry returned to the sofa and sank into it, his arm touching Draco's. "Your bark is always worse than your bite."

"Don't compare me to a dog," Draco mumbled, which earned him a snigger from Harry. Unable to conjure any more empty words to annihilate the void between them, Draco rested his head on Harry's shoulder and closed his eyes.

The avenue in the park smelled of dry leaves and a whiff of freshly baked bread from the bakery across the road. Lining up along both sides of the pavement, cherry blossom trees had long since shed of their flowers and leaves. Hands in his pockets, Harry sat on the bench, his eyes chasing an aeroplane across the azure sky, and his fingers toying with the ring he could not give away.

The media frenzy surrounding what the Daily Prophet titled The Scandal of the Century had died down somewhat in recent days. Acquaintances, reporters and strangers alike had been hounding Harry for the inside scoop, and he was in no mood to indulge them.

The confrontation with the Weasleys went as well as he could have hoped. The outburst and the punches Ron threw at him had hurt, but they were nothing compared to Mr Weasley's words—words that struck his conscience like a hammer, leaving behind bruises and aches.

"This is between you, Ginny and the Malfoy boy. We have no right to decide what is good or bad for you. I'm not angry with you for choosing him over her, but I cannot forgive you for making my daughter cry. It would be better if you stay away from the Burrow for a while."

A rustling of leaves reached Harry's ear. Even before the slender figure entered his line of sight, he could tell she had been standing behind him for some time. Although her face was pale and drawn, Ginny seemed more composed than the last time he saw her, as if she had reconciled to the inevitable. When their eyes met, guilt washed over Harry; he had broken her heart and wounded her pride far too many times.

As Harry contemplated her face, he remembered Draco's unfunny joke. Even though Ginny was standing before him now, what he desired was not a reconciliation or even forgiveness. From the moment he took Draco's hand instead of hers, he deserved whatever harsh words and curses she wanted to hail at him.

There was no greeting; she sat down and dropped the wedding ring onto the bench. "I don't want a man who wants to marry me because I'm the safer choice," she began, her tone biting and laced with accusation. "I can't stand being second best."

"I'm sorry." The apology sounded hollow after all the pain and humiliation he had inflicted on her. Biting the inside of his cheek, Harry steeled his heart. Any display of kindness or pity would only cause them both more anguish. "I can't marry you, and I can't be with you. That's all I have to say."

"Fine. We are done here. Don't call me out here again. If you still want to come to the Burrow in the future, pick a time when I'm not there." In one quick motion she stood up, her long red hair shielding her profile from further scrutiny. "Just one question. Why him?"

Harry looked away from Ginny to stare at the vapour trail in the sky, a white crack opening up to drip colourless blood. Ever since that day on the beach, he had been asking himself the same question. "I don't know."

"But it has to be him, huh?" Ginny said sardonically. "You deserve that, I suppose. I'm not giving you my blessing. You don't need it anyway." Silence took hold of her, and just as Harry thought she would leave without saying another word, he heard a whisper in the wind. "Bye, Harry."

"Bye, Ginny. Take care."

"Of course I will." There was a pause. "You take care as well."

With her head held high Ginny departed, though her figure seemed to be shaking ever so slightly. Nevertheless, Harry did not call out to her or reach out for her; he did not want to give her any false hope. The woman who had stood by his side in his dark hours deserved more than an insincere promise that would not be realised.

After Ginny was gone, Harry sat for some time, watching and listening to the world going about its business around him. Something inside him had died, and yet he felt at ease, free, empty. Some of his friends had called him a fool and a bastard for running off with Draco and leaving Ginny behind. In truth he agreed with their sentiments, but he did not regret taking Draco's hand that day—not even after the heat of the moment had faded into a haze.

When his fingertip brushed against the ring in his pocket, he came to his decision. He grabbed the ring Ginny had discarded, slipped it into his pocket and got up. Passing beneath a web of bare branches, he went back the way he came, each step a little more urgent than the last. There was something he had to do and someone he had to find.

The voice of the waves flooded Draco's ear, pulling him closer to the sea. The storm grey sky above could have been a stage set lifted from the previous act, but that was no more than an illusion: he was alone on a beach in a different part of the British Isles. Sand dunes melted into the hazy sky; beach grass nodded in the unforgiving wind. In the distance, a white lighthouse perched on the rocks in solitude, lightless and silent.

Draco walked along the shoreline, leaving a trail of footprints that would soon be obliterated by the sea. Cool breeze fluttered against his cheeks, bringing with it a whiff of saltiness. It had been a week since he arrived at this remote coastal town. The quietude was a pleasant change from the stream of harassment he had faced in the metropolis: no hate mail, no stalking reporters and no gossip behind his back.

At the thought, he reached into his pocket and took out a piece of round sea glass he found on the beach the other day. Sea glass had no value beyond whatever worth individual collectors assigned to it. There was no meaning in holding onto such a trifle, but this particular shade of green reminded him of Harry's eyes. Draco's lips twisted into a lopsided curve; he had been more sentimental than usual lately.

"Draco."

Stopping in his tracks, Draco thought with a pang that his ears were playing tricks on him. When he turned around, however, he found Harry standing mere feet away from him, dishevelled and out of breath. The look of apprehension on Harry's face gave way to relief. Behind his glasses, his gaze was as dark as the prelude of a tempest.

A familiar almost-pain constricted Draco's chest and took his breath away. He gazed at the sea glass in his palm for several beats and put it into his pocket. "In case you are wondering, I'm not going to throw myself into the sea." Wincing at the raspiness of his own voice, Draco cleared his throat and tried again. "I have no intention of dying for my sin—not yet at any rate."

There was a flicker in Harry's eyes, though it might have been a trick of the light. "If this is one of your bloody mind games, I'm really going to curse you."

"Sorry to disappoint you. I'm only here for some peace and quiet." With that Draco went up to Harry, who did not move an inch. The urge to touch Harry's chapped lips crossed his mind, but he kept his hands to his sides. "That's not the reason you are here though, is it?"

Without a word Harry walked past Draco and stood at the edge of the sea. Water rushed ashore, licking the tips of his shoes before ebbing away once more. In the next beat, he took something out of his pocket, raised his arm, and threw whatever he was holding into the water. All Draco could see was a glint of gold in the air before it vanished into the waves.

When Harry came back to him, Draco did not ask what it was he had cast into the sea; there was no need to ask anymore. "I broke up with Ginny. It's over." Once those words were scattered like ashes into the wind, Harry exhaled as if breathing out what remained of his trepidation. "I miss you."

Draco's heart skipped a beat. He stared at Harry, who held him in his gaze. Many moons ago, they took each other's hand, and by the end, what they had was a wreckage that refused to sink. If they were to start over, would things be any different? Perhaps what awaited them at the other end was another wreck, but Draco was not about to let go, not when Harry had given him an answer.

Closing the distance between them, Draco drew Harry into his arms and breathed in the scent of Harry's hair: a familiar scent untainted by the homely sweetness of vanilla. "Next time you are getting married to someone else, I won't be coming to the wedding," Draco said lightly.

"If you marry someone else, I would be happy for you and congratulate you."

In spite of those words, Harry gripped Draco's coat as if clinging to the end of the rope. It was a virtue to wish for someone else's happiness over one's own desire: it was the right thing to do and the right thing to say. Perhaps Harry meant what he said; perhaps he wanted to believe he meant what he said; perhaps it was a defence mechanism. None of it mattered much to Draco anymore. What he wanted from Harry was neither an empty congratulation nor a heartfelt blessing.

"Not even a retaliation? I'm disappointed." When Harry say nothing, Draco dropped his shallow act. "I don't plan on getting married, and I don't want any children. But if it takes a wedding ring to tie you down, I'll do that."

Harry pulled away and gave Draco a hard look. Behind him, the setting sun broke free from the clouds and painted a blazing red streak across the horizon. Blinded by its light for several seconds, Draco blinked away the afterimage before turning back to Harry, who was no longer looking at him. His eyes downcast, Harry took Draco's hand in his, and his lips curved into a wry smile.

"You are hopeless, but I'm hopeless too," Harry muttered while stroking the back of Draco's hand with his thumb. The gesture evoked in Draco's mind the memory of sleepless nights and pregnant silence and Harry's warmth in the dark. "Your hand is freezing."

Forgoing whatever witty remark he had wanted to say, Draco clutched Harry's hand and rested his forehead against Harry's. "Yours is too warm."

Finis.

A/N: While I was working on this story, it occurred to me that Harry and Draco would be better off apart than together in this story, but in the end they managed to convince me. Is it better to place someone else's happiness above your own, or is it better to pursue your own happiness above all else? I'll let you decide. Thank you very much for reading.