The glass shook on the counter and the perspiration along the wood clung to Harry's sweater where it was laid out, hand circled around the glass of brandy. He looked down into it and watched the ice float counter clockwise, slowly, until he heard the sound of knuckles against hardwood in the foyer. His eye caught sight of the clock hanging on the wall,
'Fashionably late, as usual.' He unlocked the door with a flick of his wand and stood back as he took in the sight of a blond man on his front step. He was dressed in a winter grey suit, head held high and hair falling impeccably. Harry shuffled and stuck his hands in the pockets of his muggle jeans – which he forgot to change, Draco doesn't fancy them all that much – and Draco arched a light brow and drawls,
'About to let me in, Potter?'
Mentally shaking himself, 'Yea, I was just – yea.' He shoves himself aside and down the hall, running his hand through his hair and hoping his reddening neck isn't visible. The front door clicks shut and Draco's shoes snap against the hardwood.
'Tea?' He pauses, eyeing the place and mumbles out a, 'Please.' The room's tension is stifling but he'll ignore the elephant in the room for the time being. Flicking his wand, the water is boiling once again. Harry's wand rolls across the table once he sets it down.
Throwing in a tea bag, Draco's voice sounds near, but somehow entirely far when he says,
'It's different, in here. You changed the – curtains, and the frames are gone...' He's not ready for this, he thinks. But anytime is a bad time when this is the last time. He's not sure what to say, so he shrugs noncommittally and turns around, cuppas in hand and he puts one down on the table in the vicinity he's standing, not being able to stomach the thought of brushing fingers.
'I imagine you want the others back? They're in the lot that's in the living room.'
Draco opens his mouth, but it seems he has nothing to say, so he gives a curt nod and his face, pointed features unbearably masked and Harry blames himself. He's tried to ignore the nagging thought that never rests, always in the back of his mind. It's different but the same to see Draco here again; he wants to say it's right, but he isn't sure about anything anymore except his lack of sleep. Draco moves down the hall and he disappears through the archway leading to the living room, leaving Harry to watch after him, cup in hand and Draco still smells the same. Cologne barely there, but the smell of Early Grey and chocolate mints sifting through the air.
He was stupid for thinking he could pretend it doesn't hurt anymore; pretend he's over it. Draco doesn't miss him. He doesn't dream about him coming back, or have particularly hard nights where he'll imagine him in the arms of someone else.
It's been a long two months. Harry'll be glad when he doesn't have to see Draco's things lying about the house. He doesn't realize he's made his way to the living room until Draco turns around from casting weightlessness charms and he seems torn with himself.
Harry blurts out without thinking, 'Is anyone coming 'round to help you?' He realizes afterwards, when he's already cursing himself, how obviously jealous he sounds. He awaits Draco's response anyway and the blond just stands there for a moment, 'No, Potter, I'm sure I can levitate a few boxes myself. I won't need your Gryffindor willingness this time.' He nodded curtly, 'Okay. I'll just be in the other room. Shout if you need me.'
Walking away was both a relief and painful but somehow his hand made it around the handle to the study. The stuffy air hit his nose and he realized he hasn't been in the study since the night when he watched Kreacher float all of Draco's belongings into boxes. There's a pile of both new and old letters near the window, and Kreacher must have let the owls in; he hopes he treated them well.
He spends most of his time in the den that's hidden away at the far end of the house. Draco didn't like the decor, so he rarely spent time there.
It's far too bright and dark at the same time, who could enjoy their time while surrounded by argyle... honestly... He'd sniff and walk right out again.
Harry sleeps mostly on the couch in the corner, next to the various sketches by Sirius, when he was a boy. The bedroom had far too much nostalgia and he found he couldn't sleep in the black sheets anymore.
The way his skin would shine against the dark colour, eyelids fluttering closed with each panting breath.
Harry shakes himself and moves out of the study, instead moving through the kitchen and over into the den. Sitting down in the armchair across from the stained glass, he tilts his cup and watches the liquid rush to the sides.
'I'd hoped that with the curtains gone, you'd have some sense to redecorate here, as-well. No such luck. You never were quite up for the change.' And Draco was standing there, on the threshold, his voice controlled and like ice while Harry choked back the pain that twinged in his chest.
'No, you..,' he shakes his head with vigour, 'you're the one who left. You can't say such things when you left.' And it was out, his throat constricting and Draco took a few steps in, making it even harder to breathe.
'You made it quite clear you didn't want me anymore,' and Draco's mask finally broke, the hurt in his voice betraying the broken look in his eyes, 'it's quite alright, we did have an agreement after all.'
It seemed so long ago now that Harry had forgotten the reason Draco had come to stay. He was supposed to stay. It was about a year after the war. Harry was living alone in Grimmauld Place and he was just starting to make something of his store; every once and awhile working with Ron and George over at Weasley's. Draco came stumbling into the store in search of lotus antennae. Harry knew he worked at an Apothecary down the lane in Hogsmeade, but when Draco's eyes were purple with lack of sleep and he admitted to having picked up extra shifts to make his rent more reasonable to pay, Hermione, whom was visiting for the day and whom had also come much closer with Draco after their 8th year at Hogwarts, claimed Harry had various rooms at Grimmauld Place up for rent.
After the war, with both Lucius and Narcissa in Azkaban, Draco was left to his own advances and frankly wanted nothing to do with the Malfoy fortune. He tried to make it on his own, and Harry couldn't refuse after Hermione's explanation and insistence that he had changed. That he wasn't the boy who made all the wrong choices; not anymore. Harry still believes she was up to something, but she claimed she was worried about him; holed up in an empty house, alone.
He said Draco could stay until he had his feet on the ground, and that time passed long ago. He didn't think too much of it after he got to know Draco, personally this time. He realized how brave the blond man was. How Harry was not the only one that sacrificed so much during the war, and after months of stormy grey eyes and snapping remarks with no spite, he fell. Much harder than he ever had in his 19 years of fighting. But Harry never told him that the way Draco's golden hair falls over his pointy features sets his chest on fire.
What did Harry have to offer him? Surely he won't swoon over The Boy Who Lived. He was always different. Eventually Harry spent long days and most nights at the store, not able to stand constantly being around the gorgeous ex-Slytherin and knowing he won't ever be his. Harry wasn't sure why, but when he came home one evening, Draco was nowhere to be found and there, on the table, was parchment littered with the proper scrawl that could only belong to a Malfoy.
That night, Harry drank himself into a stupor until he stumbled into bed and told himself it was for the best. Afterwards, though, he had nights where he swore if he just heard his voice he'd be able to let him go – or as he told himself – but he never answered any of his owls. He tried speaking to Hermione about him, but she would tut and claim he didn't want to speak to anyone at the time. Anyone, being Harry.
Harry was sick with the thought.
And here he was, two months since he's seen Draco, until now. He'd sent Harry an owl.
Potter,
It seems most of my belongings are still in your care. If you're available, I'd like to collect them this Saturday morning.
Malfoy
Now he's here, telling Harry he could have done something, so Draco wouldn't leave. That he hurt Draco, and caused the hurt in his voice.
'What are you saying, Draco? You were gone, just like that and you weren't responding to my owls, and Hermione-'
'Potter, you're rambling. Would you like to inform me of your sudden workload that takes up all of your time and your inability to have a conversation with me?' He was just standing there, in his winter robes that fell around his lithe frame and he was looking at Harry like he was incompetent, but held something very important to him, none the less.
'I've been.. busy, but you never told me you found a place-'
'I haven't. I've been staying with Blaise.' Oh. And wasn't that the icing on the cake? He left, and now he sleeps in the same bed as the man who could never love him like Harry does. And well- isn't that something?
'Oh. Well.. I hope he-he makes you happy.' Harry swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry and cracking. He pulls himself up, tucks his fingers in his pockets and looks the blond in the face. Draco's face is pale, colour almost drained from his features and his Malfoy mask up. Now that he's looking, he can see the slight purple under his eyes and the slouch of his shoulders.
'That's all you have to say? Potter, I knew you were oblivious, but not senseless.'