Title: One April Night - chapter 3
Author: envy-venis
Word Count: 3,714 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: Flufftastic bookjunkie1975 betad this. Have I mentioned that I kidnapped her? Well, I did. It's been part of my evil master plan for about a year now. *evil cackle*
~Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ~
It takes days before I finally convince myself that it's okay to add to thejournal. I make my way down the hall, the hushed sounds of whispering portraits doing nothing to calm my nerves. What if this is all I have left? What if my entire existence, everything that's important to me, is reduced to ink and parchment? Will I live forever in our journal the way my ancestors are forever trapped in their frames on these walls?
I open an inkpot, dipping the tip of my quill in as I turn the words over in my mind. What would I say to him? What would I want him to know?
Harry,
I miss you. God, I fucking miss you. I can't even count the number of times I've gone over this apology in my head. It's never adequate, though. Even if I had a thousand lifetimes, I would never be able to make up for the way I treated you. I don't blame you for leaving. In fact, I'm surprised it took so long.
Anna thinks I should write some of these things down—some of the things that we've discovered within the horrible beige walls of her office. She says that anger is a mask that I wear when facing things that I never quite learned to understand. Intimacy, trust...love.
Sometimes it takes a life-altering change to shed light on what's important to us. I know now that nothing in this world is more important to me than you, Harry. I think it's too late now—I've missed my chance—but, if I could go back, I would do it all differently. I would make sure you understood exactly how much you mean to me. I would hold you and never let you go.
~O~
Isaac is good looking; a little softer around the middle than I usually care for, but nothing extreme. His eyes are the strangest combination of blue and green. So strange, in fact, that I can't decide which they actually are. I wonder if, somewhere down his family line, there was a metamorphmagus and this colour is a lingering result.
Cheshire Court is located within the botanical gardens of the Ministry's out grounds. A large, four-tier fountain sits directly in the centre, shimmering, opaque water cascades down in ribbons, carrying with it small flowers in every shape and colour known to wizardkind. The general idea is that guests make a wish and toss loads of galleons into it to be donated to the various charities of focus this evening. Each galleon and sickle turns to a flower for the evening, and at the end of the night, if all goes well, the fountain will be overflowing with them.
I had held out hope that Harry wouldn't be a guest tonight, that perhaps he was out of the country still. I can tell I won't be so lucky, though.
He's here. I don't have to see him to know that he is. As soon as we make our way through the garden gates, the air is humming with his magic, joy and energy radiating off of everyone just from his mere presence. It should be mine. All of it. I hate him for bringing such happiness to others while I'm left with none at all.
Isaac hands me a flute of champagne before we slip into the crowd. His hand rests gently on my back as we make our way around, greeting people he works with, introducing ourselves to the more important guests. I try not to shrug him off, not wanting to draw any attention to my discomfort. I don't much care for physical contact, especially with a stranger. He isn't persistent, though, and as soon as I move away, he lets his hand fall without question.
Weasley is standing beside the fountain, looking decidedly uncomfortable in his formal robes that are, as always, just a touch too short for him. I wonder how it is that Hermione hasn't taken him in to Twilfit and Tattings to have proper measurements taken. As soon as I spot him, I feel the tension in my shoulders loosen. Improperly fitting robes and awkward stance notwithstanding, I excuse myself from Isaac and the giant of a woman he's currently socialising with and weave my way through the crowd toward Weasley, hoping that Hermione is close by. She, despite our history, has become somewhat of a rock in my life; the one constant presence I can always count on, and it's certainly a comforting feeling.
Pink and lavender fairy lights twist and dance above the crowd of people, the soft music and gentle laughter lulling me into a sense of false calm as I near my friend. I should have known. I should have stayed away, but it's too late now. They've already seen me—he has already seen me.
Harry stands beside Ron, one hand tucked casually into his pocket, the other holding a snifter of brandy that I can almost smell on his breath even at this distance. It's only a faint memory, though. Thoroughly aged brandy had been his drink of choice as long as I can remember. He'd come home from work after an exceptionally difficult day and have a drink to unwind.
Everything seems to slow as I near them, the whole crowd melting away until only he and I are left. I'm suddenly stricken with a memory of him sprawled out on the chaise in the den, his robes draped over the desk chair, tie discarded onto the floor, top two buttons of his shirt unfastened giving the most teasing view of his collar bone. Harry reached out to me, as if offering me the permission he seemed to always know I needed, beckoning me forward. I'd crawled up from the end of the chaise slowly until I sat astride his thighs.
We made love right there that evening, not even bothering to remove all of our clothing, our need for each other had been so urgent. His trousers were tangled around his ankles, shirt unbuttoned entirely so that I would have access to his chest and shoulders. My own trousers had been flung across the room, Harry's hand up under my shirt resting flat against my back, his other gripping my tie, pulling me down into a series of desperate kisses.
I shake the memory from my mind as I approach. The smile fades from Harry's face and I can't help but wonder if my expression mirrors his own of utter discomfort. I want to turn and leave, but my pride won't allow me to. It's been ten months since we were together, four since last I saw him.
I can't tear my eyes away from him, even as I hear Weasley greet me, even as Hermione grabs my arm gently trying to gain my attention.
"Malfoy," Harry says with a slight nod. His voice, though entirely lacking emotion, is like music to ears that have forgotten how to hear.
I swallow hard, willing my hands not to tremble, not to grip my champagne flute too tightly. "Potter," I return, hating that we have, apparently, regressed to our school age use of surnames.
"Draco, I'm so glad you came," Hermione says, effectively drawing my attention from Harry this time. "There are a few people I want you to meet. Mrs Miller, from the children's ward at St Mungo's is here tonight." Hermione has been trying to talk me into meeting the director of the children's ward for quite some time now. She thinks I could gain a part time position there if only I'd bother meeting with people about it, especially after all the work I'd done with Peace of Mind. It's what I had always wanted, to be a healer at St Mungo's, to help rather than hurt for once in my life. I'd even gone through all the necessary training after I'd finished my education at Hogwarts, but when the time came for me to actually make a decision about my future, to consider my family—my mother—a job at the ministry seemed better suited for repairing a severely damaged reputation.
The four of us talk casually for a few minutes, Harry and I not daring address one another or really even acknowledge the presence of the other. I'm just about to make my escape when suddenly I realise our awkward group has gained a number.
A handsome, sandy-haired man stands beside Harry. I try not to notice how close they are to one another, how their shoulders brush, how comfortable they both seem to be, but I can't ignore the pain in my chest as the man drags the back of his fingers down Harry's cheek. I can't ignore the acidic bile that rises in the back of my throat as he leans in to place a chased kiss on lips that once belonged to me.
Hermione is speaking again, but all I can hear is the deafening sound of my own thundering heart and blood racing through my veins. I think she must be introducing me to this man who now has his hand resting on the back of Harry's neck because he lets it drop, smiles brightly, and reaches out to take my hand in greeting.
I take it briefly, for no other reason than I know the pain of being refused a simple handshake, then I excuse myself and push back through the crowd without so much as a nod in Harry's direction.
Isaac looks concerned when he notices me moving toward him. I quickly school my features, offering him what I hope is a small, sexy smile to try and dissuade any questions.
The next two hours are the slowest of my life. No matter how desperately I try to keep myself busy engaging in conversation with the people around me, my eyes still seek him out. I try to convince myself that I don't want to find him, that I don't care what he's doing, I don't want to see him and his date wrapped around each other on the dance floor like a pair of randy teenagers, but I do see. And I hate them both for that as well.
It should be me.
Hermione finds me as I set down my empty glass on the bar. Champagne isn't enough for this night, so I switch to something stronger, knowing I'll regret the combination in the morning.
"I'm so sorry, Draco," she says. I don't look at her. "I honestly didn't think you were coming tonight or I would have told you sooner."
"How long have they been together," I ask as I swirl the amber liquid in my glass. I probably don't want to know the answer, and I'm certain it's none of my business, but Hermione knows I still care, even if I sometimes try to tell myself I don't.
"Harry's only known him for two, maybe three months."
I glance over my shoulder at where they're standing, as if my body can sense exactly where he is this time. They're smiling at one another, laughing. Harry looks happier than I've seen him in a very long time. It hurts more than I think it should.
~O~
"What are you thinking about?" he asks after a long, drawn out silence. We're both lying on our backs, staring up at the ceiling that Harry has charmed to reflect the night sky.
"I don't really know," I respond. It's mostly true. I had been thinking about my life and how I had ended up in bed with Harry Potter after just a few weeks of working with him at the Ministry, but my mind had gone off on a tangent. "Thinking about getting up and showering the smell of sex off of me before I go home to my mother."
He snorts softly. "Come on. You're twenty-six years old. You think your mother will mind if you don't come home just one night?" Harry scoots closer, draping his arm over my stomach and pulling me against his warm, hard body. I'm not used to this type of physical affection from anyone at all, and even after nearly two months of seeing each other, it still surprises me that Harry always wants to touch me.
"It'll break her heart if she doesn't get to tuck me in," I joke. Harry smiles, but it doesn't seem to reach his eyes.
"That must be nice," he says, and all at once I'm stricken with the urge to wrap him in my arms and keep him there forever.
I don't move.
"I don't think anyone's ever tucked me in at night. Not since I was a baby, anyway."
My heart aches for him. "Never?"
Harry looks like he's thinking about this, trying to remember. He shakes his head.
I roll toward him and kiss his lips until he relaxes again, my fingertips gently tracing a path up his side.
"That isn't how your mother kisses you goodnight, is it?" he asks when finally we part for air.
I dig my fingers into his ribs, earning the most ridiculous giggle as he tries to twitch away from me.
"No. But I have my own preferred method of exhausting you before I sneak out at night."
I pull him close again, kissing his neck, caressing his back. It's the only time I really allow myself to hold him and touch him at all, in the privacy of his bedroom.
~O~
Hermione introduces me to Mrs Miller, a charming older witch with blue-tinted hair and fingernails spell-stained red to match her lipstick. Her smile is warm and friendly, and conversation with her flows with ease. Before long, she's insisting that I come and introduce myself to her staff one day at St Mungo's. She'd like to offer me a position in her ward if I think I'll fit in. It's only two days a week, but I think it might just be exactly the change I'm in need of.
By the time Isaac finds me again, I've nearly forgotten about Harry and the tall sandy-haired man who clings so tightly to him—or, perhaps I haven't forgotten, but simply washed away most of my give-a-fuck with a third glass of firewhiskey.
It's time to go before anyone notices that I'm less than sober. Pansy will have my guts for garters if she finds out I've had more than two drinks at a public affair, let alone that it was firewhiskey.
I roll my eyes as Isaac places his hand in the centre of my back, guiding me toward the exit. It isn't meant to be degrading at all, but I somehow always manage to take it that way, as if I can't find my own way without someone there to lead me.
"I'll go grab our coats," Isaac says, leaning in so that I can feel his hot breath on my neck. "Are you all right?" he asks. "You look upset."
"I'm fine," I assure him. "Just tired."
Isaac nods before turning and heading toward the coat check. I haven't said goodnight to Hermione or Weasley, but I can't really care. It really has been a long and trying evening. All I want to do is go home and curl up under my covers.
A Malfoy shouldn't cry himself to sleep at night, though, or pine over a lost love that was never real to begin with.
Strong arms wrap around me and I'm being tugged off of the garden path. I don't have to see him to know it's Harry. My whole body seems to respond to him, relaxing against his chest in the few brief moments he holds me before turning me and pressing my back to the garden wall.
"What the fuck are you doing here," he snaps, his voice filled with so much disdain that I nearly double over with the force of it. "You don't even work with these charities anymore. Did you come to check up on me?"
"Fuck off, Potter. As I've told you before, my life doesn't revolve around you."
He's pressed against me, his eyes as hard as his body, and then I watch as his expression softens. His gaze drops from mine to the very little space between us, and he squeezes his eyes shut. I take the opportunity to re-memorise him; the way his hair, a touch longer now, still stands out in every direction, the line of his jaw, the way his dark eyelashes brush against his cheekbones, the pale scar on his forehead. He smells perfect, like brandy and warmth and home. Without opening his eyes, he leans forward slowly. For an instant, I think he's going to kiss me and I know that would be the death of me. I close my own eyes now, bracing myself for the inevitable pain of the loss I'll feel when he's gone again, preparing for his lips to press against mine and draw out the last shred of my ripped soul. His mouth doesn't meet mine, though. He simply brushes his lips up the side of my neck.
"I miss you," he whispers into my ear. I want to grab him by the lapels of his jacket, drag him to the nearest floo and take him home with me. Lock him away in the chirping cricket room and demand that he stays, that he's mine. But I don't. The one thing I have left is the smallest shred of pride and I hang onto it like a kite string in a hurricane.
He says he misses me, but I can't be certain if it's actually me or just the familiarity of what we had that he really longs for.
I wonder, for the briefest moment, what the point of seeing a psychiatrist is if Anna is trying to convince me to stop hating myself and everyone else before I can have a proper relationship, while Harry is, apparently, convinced that it's time to move on.
I take one last deep breath of him before pushing myself off the wall and walking away.
I don't look back. I can't bear to.
Isaac hands me my coat. He, thankfully, doesn't ask where I've been. I throw everything I can into the fountain as we pass: galleons, sickles, knuts...hopes, dreams, wishes of better tomorrows. The only thing I keep for myself is my pain, a reminder of what I brought upon myself, a scar that I will wear for the rest of my existence to warn others of who I am, what I do. I hurt the people who love me. Every last one of them. Not that they don't all return the favour eventually, anyway.
~O~
"You aren't worth it." It's the most bitter lie I've ever told, meant to hurt, to cut deeply for no reason other than to push him away. He's too close, smothering me, drowning me in these foreign emotions.
Harry simply nods, the hurt so completely evident in his eyes that I feel it stabbing through my soul.
"Keep the house. It should be yours, anyway. I'll send for my things later." The door slams shut behind him, stirring a gust of unseasonably icy air in its wake. I know it's his magic, his hurt and hate that has caused the temperature to drop so suddenly.
I reach for the door handle, wanting to go after him, to tell him it isn't true, that he is worth the effort. He is worth fighting for. The woman in the portrait beside me cackles with glee behind drawn curtains.
"Let him go. I don't want his filthy blood tainting my family, my home."
I press my palms to the cooling wood of the front door and shiver. It's better this way. I know it is.
~O~
"I'd like to see you again sometime, if that's all right," Isaac says as we turn the corner to Grimmauld place. "Maybe without the giant crowd of people." He smiles devilishly. "Just the two of us."
I know I'm not ready—I don't think I ever will be—but the thought of Harry moving on without me stings like salt in an open wound.
I nod. And thank him for a nice evening. It's the polite thing to do even if it is a fabrication of the truth. The evening was far less than pleasant.
Isaac loops his hand round the back of my neck and pulls me toward him. My heart stutters in my chest, protesting the violation of all of my personal boundaries, but my body and mind seem to have accepted defeat. His lips brush mine and I feel myself shutting down, closing off that part of me that continues to riddle me with guilt and chide me for finding some small amount of interest in anyone but Harry.
I allow myself to return the kiss, but my mind is in such a haze that I can't even be sure of where I'm putting my hands or if I'm even touching him back.
Finally, I break away, thanking him once more before walking through my front door.
Grimmauld Place has always felt less than welcoming without Harry by my side. I didn't want to keep the house, whether it belonged in my family or not, but I reasoned it was just his way of telling me that he'd be back, that we would be okay.
Now, though, I feel as if it's judging me. I should have said something to Harry, told him that I miss him, too, that I'm sorry I wasn't the man that he needed me to be. It was the one opportunity that I've had to try and right all that's wrong between us, but I didn't. Instead, I simply stood there breathing him in and trying desperately not to break.
Pride is, indeed, a foolish thing. What use has it ever had? It's vain and biased and hurtful and has never done this world a single service. I try to think of anything else as I shower the entire night off of my skin, but I'm so riddled with regret that it's difficult to focus on anything other than what I could have—should have said.
~Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ~
Thank you for sticking around and continuing to read. Final chapter will be up Monday, followed by an epilogue shortly after.