In the Closet
By Kay
Disclaimer: Don't own HP. Just love it.
Author's Notes: Established H/D SLASH, post!war and Hogwarts drabble. Kind of messed up. Very old, no spoilers for HBP.
There is a black cloak in their closet.
They each do their best to ignore it. It has only been brought up in conversation once, but the violent confrontation that had followed left Harry wallowing in pubs and at the Weasleys' home for days, and so they are silent. It hangs above their heads, however—adds a weight between them that hadn't been there before it appeared, hanging innocently on the rod. Sometimes they feel like they are in seventh year again, always wanting to be at each other's throats, but unwilling to make the first step towards destruction.
They don't speak of it. Occasionally Draco takes it down to perform a Cleaning Charm on it, after it's so rank with sweat and the dampness of dungeons that it's unbearable, and the stifling scent of cloying blood is so thick that it clings to everything else in the closet, but even then he doesn't say a word. Harry does everything possible to ignore its presence now, even if he does pause for an instant and wince every time he opens the closet door.
It hangs lifelessly on a hanger, between the Muggle shirts that Harry still buys from time to time and never wears—the price tags still dangle from them, and he buys them only to keep up appearance—and Draco's favorite set of formal robes. The two blacks of these robes are very different shades, but the blonde always quells the instinctive urge to reshuffle the arrangement to a more attractive state. It's his way of making an unspoken statement of support, despite the ongoing struggles and disagreements he may have.
Just the same, when the stories come on about the masked black men roaming the streets, killing off old, unable to have been convicted Death Eaters, they turn off the radio.
And Draco still flinches when the robes are gone, and Harry shuts the front door in the middle of the night.
The End