Title: One April Night
Author: envy-venis
Word Count: 4,044 this chapter
Pairing: Draco/Harry
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: The HP world belongs to JKR and the herd of lucky bastards who saw a good thing and jumped on it when they had the chance. I, sadly, am not one of said bastards. This is for entertainment purposes only, no copyright infringement intended.
Summary: They say that when a person loses one of their senses, the others heighten in an attempt to make up for the lack. I think he must have been one of mine. I notice such insignificant things now that I never had before. I can almost taste the sunrise, like vanilla and tangerines blended into one smooth, delicious, summertime kiss. I sit in the park across the street from home, watching the day begin. The sun peeks over the horizon in a futile attempt to catch a glimpse of the night sky that is now retreating in its presence, for no two things so entirely opposite could ever coexist in the same place at the same time...I wonder how that escaped our notice for so long.
Warnings: No more than the usual. Angsty boy issues, sexual content...
A/N: Hopefully you all know by now that this is not a death!fic. Apparently that was a popular panicked thought at the start of the first mini-chapter. Sorry about that.
There are two quotes that I pilfered for this chapter. One belongs to Gandalf, the other to Phoebe. If you're unsure of whom either of these people are, we need to have a serious talk.
I also feel obligated to warn you all again that I'm probably beating the hell out of a fandom cliché with this, but what would fanfic be if not for our own personal touch to things that have already been...touched. O.o
Thank yous and inappropriate fondling to bookjunkie1975 for the beta job. Rawr! Also, to glitteratiglue and bsmog for the pre-read.
~Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ~
Wimble is the oldest elf at Malfoy Manor, passed to my mother when she married Father. He is sent to help me when my mother thinks I could use the assistance around the house. At first she saw no sense in me staying here at all after Harry left, but over time she came to realise that I wasn't going anywhere. I'm sure the fact that she hasn't yet moved out of the manor, even after my father's twelve year absence, has probably played a role in her understanding.
Mother thinks that Wimble might like to see Grimmauld Place once in a while, as it was a place he frequented in his younger years.
Despite what she thinks, and what Granger still insists, I don't think that house elves care much about anything, really. Wimble comes once a week and cleans, then puts on evening tea for me before leaving. I envy the simplicity of his existence.
Today, I stop him as he makes his way up the stairs. I tell him that I'd like him to clean the master bedroom as well this time, but I forbid him from removing anything. Simple cleaning charms will suffice. I'll launder the bedding when I get home. I don't know why, but it feels as though that should be my doing. The sheets that tied us together intimately in the shroud of darkness should be touched by no one else.
~O~
His skin is smooth against mine as we move together, slick and hot. I kiss his shoulder, pulling him closer, his back pressed to my chest. The soft moans that escape his lips are almost enough to finish me, but I hold off, wanting to draw out the pleasure for both of us as long as I can.
He reaches back, tangling his fingers into the hair at my nape, pulling me impossibly closer as he shifts, drawing his knee up, opening himself to me. I slide in deeper and both of us groan as I wrap my arms more tightly around him. His cock brushes against my wrist, stiff and eager as he ruts against the bed sheet.
I wrap my fingers around him, stroking him in time with my thrusts as I whisper into his ear words of forever that I can only hope he understands.
With a violent shudder and a strangled groan, he spills over my hand, chanting my name as if it's the only thing keeping him tied to this world. I continue to rock into him, hard and deep as he clenches around me, whimpering into his pillow, and then my own release is pulsing through me in a wild rush. It's as if he's somehow managed to draw everything from me, physically, emotionally, blinding me. I collapse against him, holding him for just a few moments more before finally moving away.
"I love you, Draco," he breathes into the darkness. It's the first time he's said that, and it's so quiet that I'm not even sure I heard him correctly.
I roll toward him once again, kissing the back of his neck, burying my nose in his soft hair.
~O~
Pink and white blossoms are forming on the trees that line Diagon Alley. Birds sit on the otherwise naked branches singing to each other songs that have been nearly forgotten by human ears over the course of winter.
The air still has a bit of a chill to it, and I can't help but wonder if, wherever he is, he's remembered to wear his coat. He never used to. I always had to remind him when it was cold outside. He'd told me once that he was simply anxious for it to be summer, now that he didn't have to spend them locked away at his aunt and uncle's house, it was the season he looked forward to most.
"You're moping again. Is that all you old spinsters do?" Pansy kisses me on the cheek before lacing her arm through mine and leading me into the café.
"I don't mope," I say as we move to our usual table.
"Of course, darling. And you're never late, either."
The petite barista takes our orders and promptly rushes away to get them started. The one thing I like about this place is that, even though it's a wizard café, they insist on making all their beverages by hand.
"A wizard always arrives precisely when he means to, Pansy."
"Well, I believe your precision is off. But, no matter," she says, waving her hand as if to erase the previous attempt at a conversation. "You're here now, and I've brought you something." She sets a small box on the tabletop between us just as the girl returns with our drinks.
"I begged you not to get me a birthday present. Remember the ordeal from last year?"
"Oh, pish. You can't possibly still be mad over that."
I shake my head in disbelief. "Pansy, a stripper is never an appropriate gift to give, let alone in the presence of the giftee's significant other."
"Well, fortunately for you, you haven't got another of any significance this time round."
"Shut it, you troll." He's still significant even if he isn't mine.
Pansy rolls her eyes and pushes the box toward me. "It isn't that sort of gift, anyway. More a token than a present."
Reluctantly, I take the box, opening it slowly as if something horrible might jump out at me. And, given Pansy's past gift-giving record, that isn't entirely unlikely.
Nothing moves, though. It's just a small, silk pillow with two silver cufflinks nestled atop it; coiled snakes with emerald eyes. I close the box and thank her politely, trying not to focus on the fact that the eyes of the snakes match Harry's exactly.
"They're for you to wear next Saturday to the Ministry's spring formal charity ball."
I groan and shove the box back toward her.
"Oh, no you don't," she says, pushing dark fringe away from her eye. You promised you'd be there and I've already found you a date."
A searing pain shoots straight through my heart. "I don't need a date, Pansy," I snap bitterly.
"You absolutely do, Draco. You're a pureblood wizard even if you seem to have forgotten that fact over the years. It's simply unacceptable for you to disregard tradition and I'll not allow it."
"Allow it? Who exactly is it that you think you are again?"
Pansy reaches across the table, her eyes soft as she places her small hand on mine. She's always had little regard for personal space. Or perhaps she just likes to prove to herself that she's somehow above the rules.
"I'm just someone who cares about you, darling. I want to see you happy. You'll ruin yourself if you continue down this path of isolation and self loathing."
"I don't loath myself," I snap defensively. It's a lie, but one I've told for so long now that that it should sound more convincing.
"Last year you had goals, Draco," she continues, ignoring my words. "You knew where it was your life was going, and who you wanted to be." A sad smile stretches across her lips. "Nothing has changed," she says sympathetically.
I want to scream at her that she's wrong, that everything has changed. Last year I was focused on my career, on rebuilding my family name. Last year I was determined to pull my mother through the financial ruin she was left in when my father was taken away to Azkaban after the war. Last year I was a volunteer with Peace of Mind, a charitable organisation for children suffering incurable magical ailments. Last year, I had Harry.
Now, only one of those things is important to me, and he's no longer here to care.
"Please, Draco. One tiny public event, just to get your name back out there."
"Who is she?" I ask calmly. There's no sense in fighting with her. She's mostly right, after all. Even if I don't like it.
"Please, darling. I may be known to push your limits once in a while, but I'm not going to blatantly piss all over your boundaries."
"Ever the lady," I say as the barista brings us a refill of the thick, dark coffee.
"He is quite the looker, actually. Theo and I were introduced to him at your mother's Christmas party. Which, by the way, you missed."
"So, you insist I uphold tradition, but you're setting me up with a man?"
"No one cares about that sort of thing anymore. Not since their great Saviour came out years ago. Now everyone seems to think that having a hot, blonde, same-sex lover is the latest trend."
I squeeze my eyes shut tightly against the blunt edge of her words. Pansy has always had a disturbing talent for casually disregarding the depth of the relationship Harry and I shared. Or perhaps I'd always just made it seem as though he was nothing more than a convenient shag.
"I just meant that you can't go without a date. It's just not done." Her manicured nail slides around the edge of her saucer, an odd little habit she's had since school. "Anyway, his name is Isaac. He's got dark hair and brilliant eyes and," Pansy leans closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "I can't exactly tell you how I know this, but I assure you, he's not at all opposed to threesomes."
"You're a disgusting hag."
She simply winks and goes back to her coffee.
~O~
The entryway is warm when I arrive home later in the evening, a sure sign that Wimble has lit a fire in the grate. It's small things like that that always seem to slip my mind now that I'm living on my own. I'm drawn past the comforting warmth of the sitting room, though, by the delicious aroma wafting from the kitchen. Wimble has prepared a roast with potatoes and carrots, just the way I used to like when I was younger.
I sit down at the table, alone in the silence, and think about what Pansy said as I eat my dinner. This time last year, I'd been well on my way to working up to head of department of investigation of magical artefacts. The name of Malfoy still meant very little to the wizarding world as a whole, but Draco Malfoy was respected to a certain degree. And those who still looked down their noses at me—the ones who would whisper their disgust to one another as I passed them in the halls of the Ministry—they weren't worth the time it would take to glare at them in disdain. I was impervious to their useless opinions and snide remarks.
I cut back my hours at the Ministry after Harry had left. Throwing myself into my work as a distraction had done well for the first few weeks, but then the hurtful rumours and words of disgust would drift my way, weakening my morale—what very little was left of it—and I nearly resigned. It was Weasley who had talked me into staying on as a part time employee.
The teakettle on the stove whistles before drifting to the table and pouring itself into my waiting cup. It used to be Harry's hands that did that, and sometimes, while he waited for the tea to steep, he would straddle my lap and drag his fingers through my hair insisting that I tell him all about my day. He always made it nearly impossible to focus, though, kissing my jaw, tracing my bottom lip with his tongue, distracting me in the most delicious of ways.
It isn't healthy to think about him this much after ten months apart. I should be directing my focus to the future, not the past. I know this, Pansy knows this and, as much as Hermione still holds out hope for us, even she knows it. Otherwise, I'm certain she wouldn't have insisted I see someone about it.
My mind doesn't need healing, I have no desire to be cured of my love for him as if it's a distasteful affliction, but if I won't discuss it with my friends, there must be someone I can talk to. That was her logic.
The wizarding world is full of gossip mongers, evil bints itching to sink their claws into a good story to tell their friends or the press. And what better than that of how Draco Malfoy, the Saviour's former boyfriend, is so far off his bleeding nut that only a mind healer can right the damage within? No, that wouldn't do. Which is why Hermione recommended a Muggle healer. They called them psychiatrists. I scoffed at her suggestion at first. No Malfoy would ever need a Muggle for anything. Then she told me that Harry was seeing one as well. That it wasn't a matter of moving beyond each other, per sé, but a matter of learning to live with ourselves so that one day, we could try again to live with each other.
~O~
"Sometimes I wonder if you're even here," Harry says as he gazes out into the rain.
"I'm always here," I reply sharply. And it's true. We're so tangled up in each other that I think we've both forgotten about the world around us.
"Bullshit. You never even talk to me, Draco. We've been together nearly three years and I've only just found out what your favourite colour is."
"How exactly is that my fault?" I snap. "If you wanted to know, you could have asked."
"I shouldn't have to ask. We should know each other well enough by now to just...know!" He's looking at me now, his gaze full of heat and ire. "You never tell me anything unless I pry the information out of you. You..." Harry turns his gaze back out the window. His jaw clenches tightly as he shakes his head. "You never even touch me, Draco. Do you realise that nearly all contact between us is initiated by me?"
I've never been a very touchy-feely kind of person. There are times I wish I was, at least with Harry. I'm well aware of the fact that I use sex as a method of being near him. Whether he's inside me, or I'm in him, it's the most contact we ever have, and I do enjoy it, not just the fucking, but the closeness. "You aren't the centre of my universe. I have better things to do with my time that cuddle with you."
He laughs mirthlessly, fuelling my own anger. "Not the centre of your universe. What exactly am I to you then?"
I don't even know why we're having this conversation. It's absurd and pointless, but I can't stop the hurtful words from falling from my lips. "You're just a convenience I bumped into on my way up in life."
~O~
Her name is Anna, a dreadfully dull Muggle name if you ask me. Then again, so is Harry. Doctor Rothaway, formally, but I can't bring myself to call her that. We haven't any doctors in the wizarding world, only healers. The word tastes bitter and foreign on my tongue. Thankfully, it was our first session three months ago in which she insisted I call her Anna.
Her office is in central London and there aren't any Apparition points within five miles. I usually walk.
The building is old and welcoming, but her waiting area reeks of cheap leather and artificial foliage.
"Draco." She smiles brightly, her red-stained lips stretching over too-white teeth. "How are you today?"
It's a normal question that anyone might ask in polite greeting, but as she takes a pencil from behind her ear and presses the tip to her small notebook, I know it's anything but.
I'm angry, hurt, helpless, lonely. "Stable." I settle for a more clinical response.
"That's an improvement," she says as she scratches notes onto her paper.
Is it? Had I been unstable during my previous visits?
"Have you been writing in the journal yet?"
The journal. Not a journal or your journal. It's one shifted word, but it makes all the difference to me.
I had told her over a month ago of the journal kept between Harry and myself during the years of our relationship. It was a gift from Granger. She had no idea it would become our main form of communication, and I'm certain that wasn't her intention. Harry had charmed it so that only our eyes were able to see the script within. Of course, I hadn't told Anna that part.
"No," I answer simply. I haven't touched the damned thing since the month that he left.
"I think it's important that you do," she responds. "It's a crucial part of your acceptance of the situation if you wish to gain closure."
I don't. I've told her before that I'm here to see her because of myself, my own personal demons that haunt my life making me incapable of a normal existence. Not because of Harry. Not because he left.
I don't understand how Granger thinks that this helps. We typically discuss my past, drawing out the things Anna believes to be the root of my problems: not hugged enough as a child, a too-distant relationship with my father, pushed away to boarding school at age eleven where I was expected to somehow find myself while learning the ways of the world, abuse.
I can't tell her of the fact that I was a prisoner in my own home, made to watch innocent people tortured to death over a dining room table that we were later expected to share meals at, or that Harry had been our only hope for survival. I can't tell her that we were on opposite sides of a war that affected our world right down to its very foundation.
All Anna knows is that we were school rivals who went through a hard time together while hating one another. She knows that, years later, when I had no one else in the world, and all I wanted was the sweet release that only death could provide, Harry had intervened. She knows that, as far as I'm concerned, I loved him more than anything else in this whole bloody world, but that I'd always had a hard time communicating that sentiment to him. She knows that he left because of the things that I said just as much as the things that I wouldn't say.
This week's session is short, thankfully. Anna asks me once more to write in the journal; to act as though Harry is still reading it after I've left the house in the mornings. What would I want him to know about the last ten months of my life? Is there anything I'd want to tell him about the years before that?
"We'll close this week with something for you to think about, Draco." She doesn't look up from her notes as she speaks. "It seems to me that the largest part of the great Potter-Malfoy dynamic had always been all the raw, intense, scorn you had toward one another. Strip that away and what exactly are you left with?"
~O~
A fine mist of salty seawater is carried upon the twisting breeze, up and over the edge of the cliff. I stand at the top, my toes just over the edge as I watch the waves crash violently against the rocks below. The water breaks with such ease, falling back into itself, finding its place once more. I wonder if it would be that simple for me.
In the years since the war, my conscience seems to be niggling more and more. It's gotten to the point where I'm not even sure what my purpose is here, why I survived while so many others didn't. I have nothing to offer this world. No reason to be here. As a teenager, I'd thought countless times about the possibility of one using Avada Kedavra on themselves. I knew it couldn't be done. For that curse to take effect, you have to actually mean it. You have to feel the hatred from deep within and project it through those words. Basic human survival instincts wouldn't allow for such a thing aimed at oneself.
This, though...this is a possibility.
"You know," a man's voice says from somewhere near. I don't turn to find the source; I just continue to stare down at the crashing waves. "A fall like that will wrinkle the hell out of those trousers."
~O~
Wearily, I eye the journal as it rests in its place atop the desk in the study. I never allowed myself to read through our entries in the months leading up to the end, but I wonder now if I should. Perhaps if I remind myself of the true reasons we fell apart, I won't hold onto false illusions of what we never really had.
I sit down at the desk with my glass of firewhiskey, aligning the journal in front of me carefully, as if the slightest upset will change the words within. The first page that I turn to are the last words I wrote in it nearly five weeks after Harry had already gone. I know what they say. Not a day has gone by that I haven't thought the same thing.
I can hardly feel you here anymore. It's as if the very essence of you is fading along with the smell in your pillow, and I just don't know how to carry on. I'm trying. I want to be strong, to hold on to the remaining shards of my life in the hopes that one day I'll be able to piece it back together.
What a foolish thought. Even if I could pick up the shattered pieces, a crucial one is gone now. You aren't coming back. Nothing that I say can erase the words I've already spoken; nothing that I do can convince you.
I want you to know that I love you, unconditionally and irrevocably. Those words, at least, you should take with you.
But he didn't. I kept them for myself until it was too late.
I flip to another page, dated months before. The messy golden letters tell me that it was one of Harry's entries before I even begin to read the words.
Draco,
Don't be such a snobby prat. I only asked you to wear the blue shirt because I think it looks brilliant on you. I'm not trying to tell you what to do. Andromeda expects us for tea tomorrow. I hope you'll be finished giving me the silent treatment by then.
I love you,
Harry
It was a Tuesday morning that he'd written that to me. The previous Saturday, we were supposed to go together to the birthday party of one of Harry's associates. I stayed home, angry that Harry had tried telling me what to wear as though I couldn't dress myself. I almost smile at the insignificance of that ridiculous row. Then I remember, it was all the insignificant little things that added up to one catastrophic realisation: we simply weren't meant to be together.
I turn to yet another page, this time older. Another entry of Harry's.
I don't think I've ever told you how perfect I find that spot where your neck and shoulder meet. It's incredible that I went twenty-six years without knowing that happiness had its own smell until I found that spot.
The words tumble around in my head accompanied by countless memories of Harry nuzzling my neck in that very place. Sometimes he would simply wrap his arms around me, breathing in deeply with his nose pressed to my skin, other times he would kiss and suck there as he moaned my name.
I drain my glass, setting it back down and running my hand over my face. It's odd how some things were easier said through ink and parchment than face to face, but I've come to realise only recently, that it isn't how we should have been. So many things left unsaid with no real certainty of ever again having the chance.
~Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ~
Have I mentioned this story is super short? It is. It's only 4 "chapters" and an epilogue. Next post, Saturday...assuming I can hold off that long.