"What the fuck d'you think you're doing?!"

Harry stared at the frayed bottom of Draco's coat, refusing to look into those angry gray eyes, as cold with fury as the sky was with winter. He wondered when Draco's coat had gotten so old and why he hadn't noticed before. The realization made him even colder and deepened the ache inside. He wrapped his arms tighter about him, frostbitten knuckles turning white with cold and with the effort of clinging to the rough wool of his own jacket, of clinging to the last shred of his sanity.

"I'm sick of it, Harry, whatever it is. I don't know what kind of game you're playing, and I don't think you've caught on yet, but I can't play along! I don't know the rules! And to be honest, I'm tired of trying to figure them out."

Harry risked another glimpse of that look on Draco's face and he realized with a harsh pang what it was. It was pain. Pain, so deep and real and cutting that Harry felt as though he couldn't breathe, yet he couldn't make himself apologize, couldn't face Draco again and see that hurt on his face.

Two boys stood silently on the edge of a frozen lake, neither knowing what to say, and in the icy hush, it began to snow.

Harry stared outside at the icy ground. The snow was still falling, though much lighter now...situations indoors hadn't improved, either. With an unusual and disturbing silence overtaking the house, there was nothing to do but watch the snow fall. A commotion behind him barely stirred him, though his eyes fixed on the reflection in the glass, unfazed green eyes quietly watching the lithe blonde behind him hurriedly putting on a jacket and snowboots. Shifting his weight back on his heels, he turned to face Draco. "What're you doing," he asked quietly.

Still semi bent over, Draco glanced Harry's way, tossing long blonde hair out of his eyes so he could see the boy at the window. "I should think that would be obvious. It's snowing, isn't it? I'm putting on boots, aren't I?"

Harry stared at Draco, who turned back to the task at hand, tying his boots. "Smartass," Harry muttered. Draco stopped what he was doing, frozen in that same bent over position. Straightening up, he cast an icy glare at Harry.

"I'm going out to shovel, Harry. There. Like things better when they're spelled out for you, Boy Wonder?" Tossing the end of his rainbow striped scarf (a gift Harry had given him as a joke at least three winters ago) over one shoulder, he left the house, slamming the door behind him and sending snow cascading off the roof and onto his head. Harry was somewhat disappointed that even the sight of prim and proper Draco covered in snow wasn't enough to make him laugh anymore. Nothing made him laugh these days.

He stared out the window, watching Draco brush snow off his shoulders with annoyance, and felt that he should go help. Not that he really wanted to. But it was the nice thing to do, and he did want to be on Draco's good side. Not that he was on Draco's bad side. Not that he could even really tell. Harry sighed. It was getting absolutely impossible to tell anymore. But he didn't think he was actually on Draco's bad side. Draco didn't really have sides; not when it came to Harry. He had always loved the silly brunette indiscriminately, never getting upset with him. Actually (and Harry sat back on his heels again as he pondered the realization which had just hit), Draco never really did get mad at him. In fact, Draco (with his bad temper and short fuse) got mad at everyone but Harry. With that thought, a pang hit Harry's heart so bad that he felt he would be ill. He honestly didn't know how everything had gotten so bad lately, with the two of them fighting all the time. And fighting over what? Nothing. Nothing of any importance, anyway. Bills. What music to play in the car. Whose job it had been to mark off which fucking flowers were planted in which fucking spot. Like the flowers mattered. Well, obviously they mattered; if they hadn't mattered, he and Draco wouldn't have planted them. But in the long run, what did he care more about, those damn flowers or Draco? At that, Harry slid off the couch, tripping over his own feet and nearly falling. He hastily pulled on boots, nearly tripping again, and barely took the time to pull on a ski cap and toss a scarf about his shoulders before, jacketless, he ran out the front door.

Halfway down the driveway, Draco paused in his shoveling at the sound of the door slamming. Brushing the long golden hair out of his eyes, he straightened up, watching Harry approach through a vast silent cloud of falling snow.

Harry stopped about three feet away, hands shoved in the pockets to ward off the cold and to keep from fidgeting. Draco stared at him, shovel resting on the ground, waiting.

"...I..." Harry stopped. First of all, he still didn't really know what to say, and then his voice sounded so loud in silent air which played nothing louder than the faint rustling of falling snow. He took a deep breath, letting the icy air freeze his throat, wishing it could get him out of what he was about to say. Though he meant it, he did so hate apologizing. "... I'm sorry."

Draco looked surprised, but he hid it fairly well, nodding his head, a jerky movement. "...me too."

Harry pulled his hands out of his pockets, tugging each sleeve down more, a bit nervously. Stepping forward, shaky fingers reached out and grasped the end of Draco's scarf. He tugged gently, and Draco complied, stepping forwards. Harry wound the scarf around his hands, wrapping them tightly until Draco was so close that their noses nearly bumped. "...I love you," he whispered, eyes too shiny and tears threatening to fall.

Draco looked as though he would like a good cry as well, but he managed to smile, though somewhat tremulously, and reached out with fleece-clad fingers, gently brushing tears from Harry's lashes. "I love you, too," he replied, and, leaning forwards, kissed Harry softly. And for a few moments, it was almost perfect; perfect as it used to be, perfect as both wanted it to be, perfect as they willed it to be. But both were starting to realize that, no matter how perfect the situation, no apology could repair the cracked and fraying edges of their relationship. No matter how nicely Harry apologized, no matter how close Draco held him, no matter how sweetly they kissed, the problems would just continue piling up, the same as the snow.

...and there was nothing to do but continue shoveling.

Harry opened his eyes with some effort. He had a feeling that he should be more excited about waking up, but for some reason he couldn't figure out why. "Good morning," came a familiar voice to his right. Harry rolled over onto his back, coming face to face with Draco. Clad in his blue robe and silver satin pajamas, a cup of tea in hand and fuzzy slippers on his feet, Draco tried his best to smile but couldn't quite manage one. Instead, he gave a tiny jerk of the head in the general direction of the living room. "Come on," he said gently. "Present time."

Harry grumbled, but slid out of bed, shivering as his feet hit the cold wooden floor. He quickly slid on his own slippers and, grabbing his robe, followed Draco into the living room. The tree was already lit up...a smaller tree than usual; neither had really been in the Christmas spirit that year. Harry plopped down Indian-style on the floor, accepting the steaming teacup that Draco proffered with a mumbled "thanks."

The pile of gifts was smaller than usual as well. There were dozens of presents from friends, but only one apiece from each other. Harry accepted the gift Draco held out, impeccably wrapped and with a perfectly tied bow on the top. "That one's from me," Draco said, busying himself with tossing the discarded paper into a large trash bag.

Harry flipped open the card on top and found it completely blank, nothing written in it. "You didn't sign it," he said, unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

It was a long time before Draco said anything (partially out of his own surprise and a bit of scrambling for an answer), and Harry simply sat there staring at the blank card, unable and unwilling to move until Draco had given him some sort of explanation. "...yes," Draco began at last. "...well. I...didn't know what to say. And then I guess I just sort of...forgot about it." He fell silent, waiting, but Harry still didn't move. "Er..." Draco picked up his one remaining present, the one he knew must be from Harry. "I'll just open this one, then, shall I?" Harry said nothing, merely continued staring at Draco. Tugging the gift into his lap, Draco opened the card, and found it blank as well. He looked up at Harry, surprise written on his face. Harry gave the smallest lift of his shoulders, not even enough for it to be considered a shrug.

"...I wish I had an explanation," he said softly, hoarsely, "but I don't."

Draco stared at him, feeling a heat behind his eyes. "...I...I see," he said carefully, quietly. He felt as if he didn't get out of there, he would be ill. Rising to his feet, he cradled the package carefully in his arms. "I...I have to..." Unable to come up with an excuse, he fled the room, walking swiftly into the bedroom and straight into the loo, closing the door behind him and swiftly locking it. The gift slipped through his fingers, tumbling into the sink. Draco stared at his reflection in the mirror, shaking and sweating, eyes filling up with water which he refused to accept as tears. "Get a grip on yourself," he ordered, voice no more than a whisper. "Get a grip on yourself get a grip on yourself get a grip on yourself." The words became a mantra; his hands tangled in his hair and pulled harshly. Drawing back, he looked at his reflection and hated what he saw, absolutely hated it. Making an unintelligible noise of frustration and anger, he slammed both hands into the mirror and it smashed, glass flying to the floor and shards imbedding themselves in his hands. Draco stood there, half bent over, bleeding hands pressed against the shattered mirror as he sobbed brokenly, openly.

In the living room, Harry clutched his own unopened present to his chest, folded around it as he knelt in the empty room, unable to cry yet unable to move, staring out the window at the falling snow.

At tea time neither spoke, passing the teapot and the biscuits back and forth without making a sound, though a million questions raced through their minds. Finally, Draco spoke up. "...thank you," he said softly. "...for the present."

"Oh...yes." Harry shook off the surprised immobility that had come over him at Draco's words. "You too...thank you."

"...you're welcome."

And that was all. Tea was poured, biscuits were passed, but no words spoken. And in two separate rooms were two presents, each hidden carefully (one under layers of sweaters, the other at the back of a bookcase)...

...both of them unopened.

Harry left in January.

He loved Draco, loved him more than he could express. The relationship was simply too hard, too much work. Too much pain. And Ginny still loved him. Ginny was simple. She always had been. It was far too easy to pick up where they had left off at school.

The expression on Draco's face when Harry told him had almost crumpled all of his resolve. His pale skin went ashen, and pain filled his eyes. He sank into a chair as if his legs would no longer support him. But he said nothing. He didn't even nod. Eventually Harry realized he wasn't going to get a response, and he simply left.

It wasn't too much later in the day before he got a phone call from Hermione. She had known about Harry leaving (and completely disapproved—he had gotten a severe scolding). "What is it, Hermione." He couldn't keep the terseness from his voice, for he knew she was still angry.

"Draco's in the hospital."

Immediately an icy chill swept Harry's entire body. "….what." His voice was barely more than a whisper.

"I went to check on him and he was in the bathroom. He had slit his wrists."

Terrified panic gripped Harry's heart in a vice. "Is he okay?"

"Do you bloody think he's okay?!" Hermione snapped at him. "He's alive, if that's what you mean. But he's far from alright. He's been admitted to the psych ward."

Harry couldn't find words, emotions racing. "Should….should I go see him?"

The answer was immediate. "No. I don't think you should go see him again. At least not for a while. Not unless you're ready to repair your relationship, and personally I don't think you're mature enough at this point to do so. I wouldn't trust you not to hurt him, and he's far too fragile for that."

A tiny part of Harry wanted to snap at her, to say that he would never hurt Draco, but it was far too clear how very badly he had done just that. He had grown tired of trying to make things work and chosen the easy way out, and left Draco behind to pick up the pieces. He swallowed with some difficulty and nodded, even though Hermione couldn't see. "I understand. Would you…..would you mind keeping me updated?"

"I will. I'm going to stay close to him. If I think he's ready to see you, or if he asks for you, I'll let you know."

"Thanks." The phone clicked as she hung up. Harry hung up his own phone, his hand shaking.

He almost lost Draco. Somehow, even though he had ended the relationship, in some corner of his mind, he had always imagined having Draco in his life. And to almost lose him….

He buried his face in his hands and sobbed.

Four months had passed since Harry had split with Draco. Four months since he had almost lost the man forever, and there wasn't a day when the event didn't cross his mind. Every night, he dreamt of Draco's beautiful face, of the pain in his eyes when Harry had said he was leaving. Some nights the dreams were worse, his brain conjuring up images of Draco passed out with slit wrists, and he would wake up screaming. Ginny tried to comfort him but it never worked. She had been pressing him for marriage all these months but he shied away every time. It wasn't right, and he knew it. He just didn't love her. No matter how hard he tried to fall out of love with Draco, he knew that the blond was the only person he would ever love.

Harry slid out of the car, door shutting heavily behind him. Making his way up to the house, he idly jangled the keys in his pocket with one hand. Then he caught sight of something he wasn't expecting and he froze right where he stood.

On the front porch of the house, baskets upon baskets of flowers. Not just any flowers...flowers Harry recognized. Flowers he knew for a fact had been planted by him and Draco. It was too late in the year for them, so it seemed doubly impossible. Slowly, Harry took several shaky steps forward, crouching down in front of the brilliant blossoms. He saw then that the flowers had not been picked. Each basket was filled with flowers still in their pots, flowers which had obviously been very carefully dug up and replaced in planters with a sense of loving care which made Harry's heart ache. Then he noticed a note tucked into one of the baskets. With shaking fingers, he plucked the paper out from the center of the bright buds, pulling it close enough to read it.

Harry...

I hope things are going okay for you...

Sorry about the garden. I know you wouldn't like to see it torn up, but I thought you might need it more...

...wish that things could have turned out differently...

You know I'll never stop loving you.

The sentences without endings, as though Harry was supposed to know what Draco meant...or perhaps finish them himself.

And then he noticed the period on the end of the last sentence, somehow silently stating that no matter how much he wanted to, he could never contest that proclamation of love. Harry's shaking fingers tightened about the letter, crumpling it as tears filled his eyes.

"You alright, Harry?" Ginny asked, her voice a distant echo over his shoulder.

"...fine," he answered hollowly. "I'm fine..."

And outside, it began to snow.

~tbc~