The weekend rolls around quicker than it ever has, and with every day that passes, Draco can feel the bird in his own heart grow thinner, cower and croon. The cupboards are nearly fixed now, and Draco knows that he can only fabricate excuses for his slow pace so many times. He knows that the day will come when he points his wand at Dumbledore- one of the only men left that feels like a father, Potter had told him- and the beautiful, green-eyed boy would never want to speak to him again.

The thought makes his heart plummet to his knees.

But then he thinks of the Potter look alike writhing in front of him, dying at his own hand, and Draco knows, then, in those fleeting moments when he lets himself be realistic, that the only way to keep Potter safe is to let him go before the night of Dumbledore's death.

He just didn't expect Potter to hold on so dearly.

He and Potter are laying together in that spot that could be called nothing other than theirs, just laying, exchanging rare, light touches and kisses. Draco feels selfish, letting himself be doted on like this, letting this drag on longer than it has to. Potter had told him that Ginny had become suspicious this morning, that she had left in tears, and Draco would feel sorry for her if he weren't so bloody infatuated with her boyfriend.

Potter, Draco sympathizes, is a hard person to lose.

Draco thinks of what Potter had said to him the other night, curled into each other in that musty classroom.

I want this to last forever.

Potter buries his nose into Draco's neck now, breathing deeply. Godric, Draco wants this to last forever too, wants to wake up next to this slag of a man in ten, twenty years. Or even, and Draco aches at this, wake up unafraid next to an empty pillow, know that Potter had simply gotten up early to make breakfast. Draco closes his eyes and imagines padding out to their kitchen, the flowers from their window box- Draco loves to garden- permeating the air. He thinks of wrapping his arms around Potter's middle from behind, murmuring a sweet good morning into his spine.

This is Draco's happiest thought.

He could never tell Potter that it's what he uses to conjure his Patronus, that he had never

able to cast one before Potter and he took each other as lovers. Nor, Draco muses, would he tell him that his Patronus takes the form of a small, happy looking corn snake.

"Mmm," Potter kisses his neck chastely, "You smell amazing."

Draco leans back against him, feeling vulnerable with his dopey smile and old t-shirt.

"What do I smell like?"

Potter inhales again, his thumb making small strokes across Draco's stomach.

"Like...cedar, and lemongrass, and…" He chuckles, a sound full of sunshine, "Roses?" Draco laughs and swats at him playfully.

"Fuck you! I enjoy the full advantages of the Prefects bath, that's all."

"We should enjoy them together sometime."

"Slag."

"You love it."

The air is getting warmer now that they've turned the corner in June, and Draco wonders if he should tell Potter that his birthday is only a few days away. Probably not. The bloody Gryffindor would make a fuss about it, and he's already got one doting mother, thanks.

Draco looks at his arm, bare and a raw sort of ugly. He turns his head, propping his chin on Potter's shoulder, contemplating.

"What did you mean by forever?"

Draco's heart is hard in his chest, the song bird there shrieking for him to stop instigating. Because that's what he's really doing, isn't it? Even laying here, cradled in Potter's frame, he can't help but push him away.

Life ruiners, heart quenchers, never giving a second glance; that's the Malfoy way.

Potter's hold on him tightens, his breath a warm, small comfort.

"I meant..." the leaves whisper to them and the the air becomes tight with tension, "that when I'm with you, it feels like I could keep going like this. Like there's nothing that happened before us, or after us, and I all I know is that I wish I could feel like this, be with you, all the time. Forever."

Draco bites down on the inside of his cheek until it bleeds, willing the sob in his throat down. He moves away from Potter, and he has never felt colder.

"I don't want forever."

The words are quiet, but Draco makes them come out firm and icy. Forever scares him, because Draco knows that it would take just a small part of forever, a tiny bite out of always, to get Potter hurt in a way that means he'll never be able to defeat the Dark Lord.

Draco decides, then, that he has to wrench himself away from this. To protect Potter, to at least be able to hold onto the memories they've shared and know that the bloody gorgeous dunce that had given them to him is still out there, still alive and breathing.

Potter's visage is full of coarse, blunt pain, and Draco can feel the bird in his chest dying.

"I'm not asking for forever, Malfoy, I didn't mean to imply-"

"But you did."

"I'm sorry, please-" a hitch in his syllables, wet and hoarse, "please don't go."

Draco turns away, hearing Potter's last shouted words at him.

" I'm not giving up on you, you Slytherin piece of shit!"

Draco walks away from him through the grove, the bows of the trees moving and catching at his ankles, and when he is gone, even the forest weeps for them.

Draco wears Potter's shirt to bed that night.

He'd given it to him one night, after Draco had offhandedly mentioned that he'd been getting nightmares, that sleeping had become harder and harder. Draco buries his nose in the worn, yellow sleeve, breathing in the last traces of Potter's smell.

Mint, and grass, and… tears come to Draco's eyes, something sweet, vanilla, maybe. His dreams are terrors that night, and he spends most of his time awake, staring at nothing, wishing that Slytherin dorms weren't in the dungeons so that he could at least look out at the moon.

Morning comes slowly, draping heavily over Draco. The curtains on his bed rustle, and he's feeling a lot less sorry for himself and more angry that he could let himself be consumed by someone like this, so irrevocably, so intensely. Blaise's head peeks through the curtain, and Draco reaches out his hand, which is nothing more than a taut, stretched skin acros a thin webbing of bones.

Draco hasn't had the stomach to eat, knowing that he'll soon have to reach down and find the courage in his gut to kill Albus Dumbledore, to betray every last sodding person in this castle.

Blaise perches on the end of his bed, faced away from him. "Everyone's gone to breakfast."

"That's nice for them, Zabini."

Draco sits up and moves closer to his friend, frowning.

"Why won't you look at me." A soft quirk of Zabini's mouth, and Blaise lets out a soft, bitter laugh. "Yellow's always been an awful color on you, mate." He looks into his eyes then, and there's a materialistic spark, a fragment left over from what could have become of them.

Draco is seldom impulsive, but he sees a wretched solution, a way to push Potter away, once and for all. He leans forward, pressing his fingers against the scruff along Blaise's jaw, and kisses him.

It's soft at first, as they taste each other, their bodies not used to each other's rhythm. Draco opens his eyes, Zabini's long lashes against smooth cheekbones, and watches him as the kiss deepens, Blaise's tongue dipping into Draco's mouth, curling up against the roof.

They pull away from each other, and there is none of the need, the ache, the desperation that Draco feels with Potter, and he knows that he's been absolutely ruined for love now, spoilt with Potter's kisses and heat.

Blaise smiles softly, sorrow in his eyes. They watch each other, and they know it's the last time either of them will ever touch like that.

"We could have been something, once." Zabini sighs.

Draco smiles, knocking his childhood friend's shoulder with his own, "You'd get fed up with my shit too quickly. We'd kill each other."

Blaise barks out a laugh, "You're probably right."

There's clunky silence for a moment, and Draco claps a hand on his shoulder, "Breakfast then, yeah?"

Blaise looks down, fiddling with his hands.

"Yeah," he says. "Breakfast."

Draco is walking through the halls, the traffic around him noisy with people heading to Hogsmeade. He sees Potter in the crowd, and their eyes meet as they pass. He feels a warm, familiar hand at his wrist, and he wants to cry at the touch. Pansy, Theo, and Blaise stop with him.

Draco sneers. "What do you want, Potter?"

He sees a toss of red hair behind the other boy, and a curvy, small frame. The Weaselette entwines her fingers with Potter's, glaring at Draco. "Sod off, Malfoy."

Draco laughs, "Sorry to disappoint you, Ginevra, but Potter's the one bothering me, this time."

The couple are clad in common, everyday clothes, and Draco thinks bath to the sweater left in the bottom of his drawer. His eyes narrow, sure that Potter was taking his little girlfriend , bitch that she is, out on a date.

Potter's looking at him with those big, doe-like eyes, and Draco fights to keep his face irritated.

"We need to talk, Malfoy."

Draco steps closer, blocking Potter's body from the Weasley girl's view. He lets his hand rub up against Potters hip, and Draco breathes hard, wondering if he should really do this. He's sure that, right now, Potter would still forgive him, would take him back with open arms, fucking sorry, kind sap that he is.

Once more, he remembers the night he took the Mark. The suffocation he'd felt when the boy's body was finally still, his dark hair plastered to his cold skin. He thinks of that being Potter, instead, and hardens his resolve, using Legilimency to send an unforgivable image into Potter's mind.

In the memory, the room is bathed in the warm light of the dungeon's lanterns. Draco is wearing Potter's yellow sweater, the one that he loves so much, and Blaise's hands are bunched in it, pulling Draco closer as they kiss, their lips working smoothly. Draco's chest constricts as he can feel Potter's pain, sharp and clear, throughout his whole body. He pulls out of his mind, looking into wet, hard eyes, and stumbles away from him quickly.

He straightens, curling his lips menacingly, "I think I've said all that needs to be said, you filthy pile of shit." He spits at Potter's feet, seeing only a glimpse of the pain in his eyes before storming away.

At least, Draco thinks, his whole body aching with despondency, with a sadness that he knows he'll never quite get rid of, At least he'll be safe, my sweet, beautiful boy.

But not his. Not anymore.