A/N: Guess who's back! Christ, it's been a truly disgusting number of years since I last updated. The good news is that I finally, officially, genuinely, actually managed to finish writing the rest of this fic. It's been something of a personal goal of mine, actually; I swore to myself that even if it took a decade, I would finish writing and publishing this fic. I owe it to the idealistic 14-year-old writer who started writing ACOMI with nothing more than an AU premise and a vague idea of a climactic scene.

You don't care about that, though! So I'll save the introspective rambling for the end of the fic, once I've published the rest of it. For now, please know that there are 4 more chapters after this one, and I aim to update at least once a week (though I may update more frequently; it would be kind of cool to mark this complete before 2020 ends).

If you've made it this far, or if you clicked on that "new chapter" email and decided to give this fic another shot, thank you so much for joining me on this journey! Happy reading :)

Chapter 12

The new term started a few short days later, preventing Draco and Harry from revisiting their argument. Draco wasted no time in moving back to his dorm. Relief washed over him as he put the last of his things away, the outcome of knowing he would no longer have to wear a permanent mask. Yet guilt twinged in his chest as well, flaring sharply each time he remembered the hard line of Harry's mouth as he delivered his ultimatum, or his hurt expression after Draco had flung accusations at him.

But he couldn't focus on that right now. This distance, while painful, was a blessing in disguise, letting Draco devote the entirety of his focus to dealing with Yaxley without having to keep Harry at bay, too. If Draco played his cards properly, he could sort this all out and then reconcile with Harry on his own terms; he refused to do so on the Death Eaters'.

Though it was hard to do anything on the Death Eaters' terms given Draco still didn't know what they were. It had been three weeks since Yaxley had confronted him, and Draco had yet to experience any fallout. Was Draco being lulled into a false sense of security, or was Lucius taking pleasure in watching Draco squirm? Draco also had to consider the possibility of Yaxley working alone. What was Yaxley's endgame—currying favor with Lucius by returning his erstwhile son?

Draco's head spun with the possibilities. He felt strung out, ricocheting wildly between rocks and hard places, and the resulting strain etched itself into the growing shadows beneath his eyes and the ever-present frown upon his lips. He despised the ease with which Lucius and the Death Eaters could maintain such a grip on him after all these months. He had left London precisely to cut these ties, and to avoid a confrontation with Lucius until he was able to hold his own.

But he had been backed into a corner now, and there was nothing he could do but wait for the other shoe to drop. Yaxley had the advantage here, even without the power of Lucius on his side. The Death Eaters were more likely to give their loyalty to a man who wore his Mark as a badge of honor than a man who had turned tail and run the moment he turned eighteen. The lack of follow-through on Yaxley's threats might speak to the weakness of Yaxley's bluff, but his prolonged silence might also be an omen of more sinister things to come.

And all the while, Draco was left waiting. Waiting, and planning, and preparing. He refused to admit defeat. He refused to return to the Death Eaters and be his father's pawn once more.

However, while Draco was content to wait, Harry wasn't. A week into the new term, Draco heard a knock on his door and opened it to find Harry on the other side, proffering a pack of beer with a questioning smile. It wasn't an apology as much as an olive branch, an offering to move into the future without the tension of their fight looming over them. It was also a nod to the first time Harry had visited Draco's room, and Draco's lips quirked into a smile at the memory.

He stepped aside and let Harry in, accepting the figurative olive branch and extending one of his own by saying, "Which actors shall we heckle tonight?" As Harry opened a bottle for each of them, Draco retrieved his laptop and settled on the couch. The heat of Harry's thigh pressed against his was a comfort he'd forgotten; he let himself revel in it for a moment before pulling up Netflix.

Nonetheless, even in the privacy of his own room, Draco couldn't quell the anxiety buzzing beneath his skin. His eyes drifted towards the window above his desk almost obsessively, though whether he was hoping to catch one of Yaxley's henchmen in the act or to reassure himself there was no one there, Draco didn't know.

"You're tense," Harry murmured, pulling Draco away from his thoughts.

To his chagrin, Draco realized he had no idea what was happening onscreen, or how the movie had reached what appeared to be its climax. And Harry was right: Draco's hands were clenched into fists in his lap, and his shoulders were taut with stress. Instantly he was barraged by guilt for disappointing Harry yet again, so soon after trying to make amends.

He took a deep breath, focusing only on the sounds of physical combat emanating from the speakers, and held it for a long moment. When he exhaled, he let the tension seep out of his muscles until he was once more draped loosely against Harry's side.

"Draco," Harry started before Draco could apologize, but Draco cut him off.

"Please, not tonight." He kept his eyes locked on the screen, unwilling to see the unhappiness writ large upon Harry's face. Even Draco could tell he sounded weary; he hoped Harry would take pity and cede to Draco just this once. "This is nice. Let's have this, tonight."

Harry hesitated, but eventually he settled back against the couch. "Alright," he conceded. "We can have this. We can have tonight."

Unspoken words hung heavy in the air. They could have tonight, or they could have all the nights that followed, but they couldn't have both. And Harry was leaving the choice to Draco.

Anger bloomed bright and acerbic in the back of Draco's throat. Anger at Yaxley, for digging up a past Draco had wanted to bury and forcing him into this choice; anger at Harry, for continuing to press the issue and, childishly, for not realizing Draco was being reticent for Harry's sake; anger at himself, for growing complacent enough to acquire something he couldn't afford to lose.

And still, Draco couldn't lay himself bare. He couldn't watch the affection bleed out of Harry's eyes, only to be replaced by disgust—or worse, fear. If he was going to lose Harry after tonight, he wouldn't lose Harry's love and respect, too.

Draco burrowed closer and said nothing, his silence a death knell ringing loud and clear.

Two days later, Harry messaged Draco after class, asking to meet by the old oak tree in the main quad. The tree towered, tall and sturdy, over the corner of the quad, surrounded by foliage and hedges, with a stone bench resting against its base. It stood some distance away from the ruts in the grass worn by the feet of students, and it received a decent amount of sunlight in the evenings, making it an ideal location to study or doze off. Harry and Draco had spent a few afternoons on the bench themselves, finishing their coursework or simply enjoying each other's company.

When Draco arrived, he knew immediately this would not be one of those afternoons. Harry's expression was stormy, and his lips curved in an angry frown.

"Are you ever going to tell me what's going on?" Harry asked once Draco drew close enough.

Despite himself, Draco smiled slightly. "Blunt as ever," he remarked.

Harry ignored his words and trained a steely gaze on Draco. The fire burning in his eyes simultaneously made Draco want to look away and held him captive. The feeling of having Harry's entire attention focused on Draco was addicting, in spite of the dread currently pooling in Draco's chest.

"Answer the question, Draco." While the statement was innocuous, the force Harry put into it was anything but. Draco knew he couldn't keep stalling. Harry's voice would rise as he grew more impatient, and soon their conversation would be audible to any student passing by. Draco didn't relish the thought of all and sundry bearing witness to his private affairs.

"Someday, yes," Draco allowed. "Eventually, I would have liked to tell you."

"But not now. And not soon," Harry concluded. "You wouldn't have said anything until you'd run yourself ragged trying to achieve whatever outcome you're holding out for, would you?"

Draco inclined his head, neither confirming nor denying Harry's accusation. He knew what was coming. Nothing he could say would change the inevitable.

Sure enough, Harry's gaze flickered away a moment later. He looked off into the distance for a few seconds. Then he seemed to come to a decision and, returning his gaze to Draco, he said, "This is it, then. We're done, Draco. I can't watch you self-destruct like this without even trusting me enough to tell me what's going on—" He had been getting more heated as he spoke, and he cut himself off now with an explosive sigh. "Look, we both have secrets, but yours are hurting you, and that hurts me to watch. You might be fine with that, but I'm not going to keep hurting myself. More importantly, I won't let you keep hurting me. I thought you might realize someday you're not alone anymore, but I see now it was a misguided hope."

Every word was a bomb exploding within Draco's chest, but he maintained his neutral expression. Malfoys weren't affected by petty emotions such as fear and hurt. Malfoys didn't express vulnerability. And Draco had been taught how to excel at being a Malfoy by the very best.

Harry grew visibly more distressed the longer Draco stood without responding. Draco took a perverse, hysterical pleasure in watching Harry's jaw tighten and his eyes narrow with each passing second. "Say something!" Harry demanded finally. "That's it? You're not even going to apologize? You'd rather hang onto your pride than make a meaningful effort to fix this?"

"Would you believe me if I said sorry?" Draco asked. He was immensely proud of how collected he sounded. Harry floundered for a response, and Draco used the momentary silence to push on. "I told you that very first day that they used to call me the Ice Prince. You didn't listen. You never even asked why." He laughed, a single, humorless bark. Malfoys didn't feel emotion. Malfoys played their cards close to their chest. Malfoys didn't expose their weaknesses. "Well, this is why. I've learned how to reckon with my emotions, Harry. How to shut them off, how to use them to my advantage. I'm not going to exhaust myself in a desperate attempt to placate you, only for you to lose your temper the next time I refuse to let you read my diary."

His heart was shattering into a thousand shards of ice that pierced his lungs, drove the breath from his body and the strength from his limbs, but he was numb to the pain. Letting Harry past his walls had been a mistake. Letting himself become this weak had been a mistake. Lucius had been right, was always right; Draco was a fool and a child to think he could find better than what he'd had.

He had let his walls crumble, and what did he have to show for it? A broken heart, and fear eating away at his mind. Well, he could rectify that mistake now, could encircle himself with barbed wire to keep outsiders at bay. What did it matter if he couldn't leave, so long as no one else could enter and hurt him again?

Harry opened his mouth—perhaps to level more accusations at Draco, perhaps to demand answers Draco refused to give. Draco didn't give him the chance. "There's nothing either of us can say that hasn't already been said. We both saw this coming, there's no use in denying it. So let's leave it here. Let's aim for some semblance of an amicable parting. We'll be thankful for it in the long run." He paused, considering whether he wanted to say anything else, but his mind was full of static and his mouth was unbearably dry. Idly, he berated himself for lacking the foresight to prepare his parting remarks ahead of time. He had had weeks to rehearse a response for when Harry finally grew tired of Draco avoiding the issue. But he couldn't change that now. With a final decisive nod, he turned on his heel and began to walk away.

"You can't just shut people out every time you get scared, Draco!" Harry said suddenly, nearly shouting in an effort to reach across the distance Draco had put between them. "You're not the only one who had a stake in this relationship. You don't get to decide for me how things end, or how I'll feel in the future."

Draco paused. Distantly, he realized a few students crossing the quad had noticeably slowed to watch the fight unfold. He considered walking back to Harry, or imploring Harry to lower his voice. But resignation was quickly beginning to weigh down his limbs, and he couldn't find the energy to turn around, much less willingly re-enter the fight Harry was trying to pick. Instead, he closed his eyes and clenched his hands into fists and waited for Harry to finish.

"At least tell me why you didn't trust me," Harry continued. "Or is that also too much to ask? Where did I fuck up so badly that you decided our time together meant nothing? Don't I deserve to know at least that much, if you won't tell me anything else? I want answers, Draco. I want to know where I stopped being enough."

Objectively, Draco recognized Harry's words for the taunt they were. He knew he shouldn't rise to the bait. But after Yaxley, after weeks of anticipating a death warrant with his name stamped on it, after two decades of doing exactly what he was told—he was sick of being ordered around. He was sick of being told what to feel and how to behave and everything he owed the world. He whirled around and pinned Harry with a glare, no longer caring who heard him.

"If you're determined to end this—to end us—in flames, I'll happily help," he snarled. "There is so much you don't know about me, Harry, so much that you don't want to know. You think that just because you kissed me a few times, just because I stayed with you, you're entitled to demand answers I don't wish to provide?"

He was shaking now, his hands trembling against his thighs and his vision narrowing until all he could see was Harry. He didn't know what he wanted to say. All he knew was that Harry had no right to decide what Draco owed him. How dare Harry accuse Draco of not caring when he didn't hold the cards Draco did? "Not everything is about you! You're not some blameless victim. In all the time we were together, you never even hinted at the cause of that scar you hate so much. Did you think I was too stupid to notice? But I didn't push. We both have our scars. I thought you, of all people, would understand."

The setting sun had leeched the warmth from the air, leaving behind only a brisk wind. Draco felt immune to it. Molten anger flooded his veins, leaving behind smoldering embers to warm him from within.

"You were never nothing to me," he said. "You just can't handle not being everything."

Harry was silent, and Draco claimed his victory with a vicious sneer. "I'm done here. I warned you from the start. You're the one who chose not to listen." He spun around once more and stalked away. Harry didn't call after him again.

The trek to his dorm was a blur. By the time Draco stumbled up to his door, his anger had been supplanted by exhaustion, and he fumbled his key three times before managing to slot it into the lock. Tears of frustration welled in his eyes; he let them fall as he entered, kicking the door shut behind him and sinking to the floor in one motion.

Wasn't this exactly what he had been trying to prevent? Wasn't this what he had been so worried about? All that time he had spent safeguarding Harry from his faults, shielding Harry from the inevitable crossfire, had been to keep the mistakes of his past from destroying the happiness he'd achieved in his present. And yet, what he had feared was exactly what had come to pass.

From his angle on the floor, Draco could see a t-shirt lying in a crumpled pile beneath his bed: a soft cotton v-neck that Harry must have left behind before the winter holiday. He fished it out, eyes widening in surprise when he noticed it still smelled a little like Harry. In a flurry of movement, he stripped off his own long-sleeved sweater and pulled Harry's shirt on in its place. He curled his arms around his waist, burrowing into the shirt and ignoring how pathetic he must look.

What had been the point of trying so hard if he lost Harry in the end anyway?