It was the first day of the rest of his life, Draco had decided. The first day of a new life: a life where his past would never have existed.
He had never felt so many feelings all at once, so many contradictory yet intense emotions. Although his body had initially frozen in surprise, his muscles had finally relaxed when he felt the pleasant sensation of a body so close to his own. But she was not just anybody, he was gradually realising.
A few months earlier, he would have fallen prostate in the corner of the room to get away as quickly as possible from the danger posed by another person. A few months earlier, he would have screamed for mercy. A few months earlier, he would have panicked at the mere touch of a hand on his arm.
Yet he had remained crouched, his face relaxed, his muscles slack and his heart singing to the rhythm of his overflowing emotions. How had he managed all his life to do without such a delicate, pleasant sensation? How could he have ignored the advances made by young girls eager to get to know him, even if only for his popularity? How could he refuse to be approached on the grounds that he had little interest in doing so? How could he have lived so many years without the satisfaction of being kissed?
Because it was a kiss. He was being kissed. Hermione Granger was kissing him. She had placed her lips against his and closed her eyes to savour this strange connection, blissfully unaware of Draco's short journey through his memories. She had come close enough for their noses to brush against each other.
Draco's heart felt like it was ready to explode in his chest. So this was what it was like kissing someone? Giving a part of yourself to them as a way to show your affection? Was it that simple? As precious and as delicious?
It was soft on his lips. A caress on his chapped lips that were damaged by his anxieties and ruminations. A caress on the still visible scars of wounds he would have liked to forget. A caress that healed and closed a past he was finally beginning to bury.
It was exquisite, the most delicious treat he had ever tasted. Even delicacies served in the greatest palaces and made by the hands of the most renowned chefs could not compare. The lips he was touching tasted of hope, renewal, sincerity, and... and future. A new future, a new start, a new life. It was good, it felt right. It seemed simple.
Their breaths mingled, even though their months weren't moving. Draco, fearful of ruining the precious, heavenly moment, didn't dare to move a muscle. He was afraid of messing it up, of ending the very thing that was making his heart beat so fast. He didn't know what to do, he'd never learnt. Nor had he ever read anything about it; everything seemed so simple in the books, in the adventure novels he read. Even poetry wasn't enough to describe what a kiss should be like.
He felt like an idiot. He should have known better, he should have been able to give something back to those lips, to the body that was so close to his own. To Hermione. He wanted to return the favour, to show her that he was present, that he was happy and that... Merlin, that it was exquisite!
Unknowing what to do next, he just stood there, arms flailing, savouring the forbidden taste of the lips belonging to the woman who had sheltered him for months, his friend, Hermione.
Then, without a word, without thinking, he let his instincts take over, he decided to act. He parted his lips, ready to kiss the delicate mouth that surrounded his own, ready to continue these few seconds so that the moment would never end, so that it would turn into an infinity of delights and tenderness.
But he didn't have the time. The sudden movement he felt against him immediately caused his eyes to open. He saw Hermione's wide, frightened eyes. The terror in her pupils was similar to the terror he had seen when they had first met. He was going back months.
Hermione had pulled away from him quickly enough that he hadn't had time to realise or do anything about it. He raised a helpless hand towards her, silent. He stood there frozen, and so did his heart. He stared at her, unable to do anything.
"I... I... I'm..."
And she was gone. She fled upstairs, a door slammed in the distance a second later.
The silence that had lingered in the air became heavy. Painful. What had he done?
oOo
The door to her room slammed behind her and Hermione rushed to her bed. She fell face first onto the mattress. She burst into tears.
Her heart overflowed, her head overflowed and nothing made sense any more. She felt sick. She felt like throwing up, burying herself in a hole, or both.
What had she done? What had gotten into her? She'd ruined everything. She'd ruined everything. She'd ruined everything. She couldn't get those thoughts out of her head. She'd ruined everything.
She could hardly breathe. She was sobbing uncontrollably and the panic in her chest was suffocating. She couldn't stop herself. Everything was black, dark, her own dystopia. Nothing was right, because she'd ruined everything.
She imagined Draco's disgusted look, Pansy's laughter when she found out what she'd done, Blaise's violence when he learned she'd dared approach his best friend, and Harry's pitying face.
Harry. That was another thing she'd ruined. That was all she was good for. She'd crossed the line. She'd ruined everything.
Everyone was mad at her, or at least they would be eventually.
It was hot all of a sudden. She sat up and undressed. It was too hot. She was suffocating in her tight clothes. Her chest ached. She put her hands on it to massage her aching body.
Don't make things complicated, Hermione.
She couldn't breathe. She rushed to the bedroom window and opened it wide. The cool air rushed into the room causing Hermione to shiver. She was cold now. She pulled the covers off her bed and wrapped herself in them, before collapsing under the window, her eyes staring into space.
Her shoulders were shaking with dry, silent cries. She had the look of one of those damned people who couldn't cry any more. But she wanted to be free of it, she wanted to sob freely and break the ice that held the pain locked in her chest.
You're not the same person, Hermione! You're not well!
She was not well. She was not well. She was not well.
It echoed in her thoughts, a loop she couldn't break. She was not well.
It was raining outside. A thunderstorm had broken out and the downpour was flattening the lawn. But Hermione still wasn't crying. Wrapped in her blanket, she wanted to scream, to shout, to roar out her pain and sorrow.
She had ruined everything. She dropped her head back and stared at the ceiling. Her eyes overflowed with anguish.
You ran away, alone, and you left us.
She was alone. She had no one left. Not her parents, her family, her friends, Draco... no one. Even Albert wasn't there. He would come to realise that Draco was far more interesting, far more present than she was.
She was worth nothing, nothing any more. Because she wasn't worth anything if she meant nothing to anyone else, was she?
She was nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Panic surrounded her heart and she let out her first tears. Hermione was crying about her loneliness, her life and her misfortunes. Harry was right, she was not well.
oOo
Blaise had been pacing back and forth in his office for ten minutes now. He found that it was a good way for him to think. He was walking without really paying attention to what he was doing. He was immersed in his head, in his memories and in his thoughts, so much so that his surroundings no longer mattered.
He was drunk. That played a part too. His New Year's resolution to stop drinking was long gone.
Night had fallen, the firm was closed, and his bottle of scotch had been empty for nearly an hour. He hadn't waited until dinnertime to start it. He wasn't even sure he could swallow anything else. His stomach had been in knots for a while, for... he didn't really know how long. Several days, perhaps.
He felt empty, demoralised, lost. He felt as if his life no longer had any meaning, that he no longer had any goals or desires. His thoughts were painful, his memories sharp and his hopes absent. He was walking in circles in his office and he didn't feel like he was missing anything.
Maybe he wasn't, he thought, maybe he was better off this way. Alone.
He barely noticed the tears streaming down his cheeks.
He hadn't been home for several days. He'd taken a hotel room in a local Muggle establishment, where he took showers and tried to sleep. He didn't sleep for more than two hours a night. His dark circles were as obvious as the guilt on his face.
Maybe that was it. Guilt. A word with a heavy meaning that he only understood now, after years of life. He was a lawyer, he'd been around it every day since he'd graduated. The guilty, the innocent, the accused and the suspects. Blaise knew this vocabulary like the back of his hand.
But he had never felt so concerned by any of it. Guilt. He was guilty and he knew it. He was aware of it and it was killing him. Slowly. Surely. He was being consumed from the inside and he imagined himself collapsing alone and without any help.
The lump in his stomach that had followed him since Hannah's hasty departure was horribly heavy. It crushed his stomach, his chest and his heart. It gripped at his insides as if to show him every second that it was there.
"I'm here and I'm not leaving. I'm here and I'll remind you of that forever," it told him.
And it worked. Not a single minute passed without Blaise remembering the treacherous act he had committed. Not a single hour had passed without him wanting to turn back time. Not a day had gone by when he hadn't imagined begging his wife's forgiveness. A utopian dream. A lost and vain hope.
No one would forgive him. Not Pansy. Not their friends. But certainly not even himself. He was unforgivable, cruel. He was a selfish monster who hadn't opened his eyes to the reality of what his wife was going through while he tried to get on without her. He had been a burden to her which he realised too late.
Too late.
He was opening his eyes to the months he had spent loitering in his office in the evenings to avoid the woman who had shared his life for years. The one who made his heart beat just when he thought he could escape her with someone else. The one he could see himself spending his life with. The one he would entrust his life to.
But the idiot that he was, the monster that he was, had ruined everything. Because that was all he was good for. He was only good at manipulating those closest to him for his own benefit. He was only good at smiling at others to get them in his pocket. He was only good at making those he eventually abandoned suffer, tired of bearing their reality.
He hated himself. He was a bad person, someone you shouldn't be around, someone you didn't want to know, didn't want to love.
Blaise stopped in the middle of his office and put the heels of his hands to his eyes. His cheeks were wet. He felt like throwing up.
He was lost. He didn't know what to do. Hannah had wisely asked to change her place of employment. From now on, she would go to the second office of their firm, at the other end of town. Pansy had sent him loads of patronuses and letters telling him about her meeting with Draco and Hermione. He had only replied with words of love that he hoped would be enough to bury his guilt, to lighten the weight of his remorse.
She wouldn't know anything. He had decided quickly enough. She was to remain ignorant of his act of betrayal. He would be forgiven, he would make amends. He would make peace with this shameful memory and rebuild his relationship with his wife. It was the only way. The only way to stop his life falling apart. So that the woman he loved wouldn't destroy herself either.
In a burst of courage, or perhaps cowardice, Blaise drew his wand and, with a flick of his wrist, conjured a glass vial. He then pointed it at his temple. More tears rolled down his cheeks. It was for the best. That's what he kept telling himself.
He pulled a silver thread from his skull and directed it into the vial.
"Obliviate," he cast the spell on the memory.
He destroyed it immediately. The vial disappeared and so did his guilt. It was for the best, yes.
oOo
It was warm in the top floor bedroom. Night had fallen and Nott Manor was asleep, but the couple who had lived there for less than a year seemed to be locked in a bubble of happiness that only they could see.
With his hands resting on Harry's chest and his thighs on either side of his pelvis, Theo was speechless. He hadn't even realised that his nails were digging into his lover's pecs. Harry hardly moved, leaving him free to find a rhythm that suited him. And it was exquisite.
Harry held his hips so tightly that Theo was sure he would find marks in them come morning. The movements they made together were synchronised, in perfect osmosis. They accompanied each other to a divine place that only they knew. Their place, their paradise.
They were getting closer, they were almost there. Theo opened his eyes again and met Harry's burning gaze. He was staring at him, as if ready to devour him. Perhaps he was. Wasn't he satisfied?
"I love you," his husband whispered.
That was enough for Theo to let go and explode, the name of his husband on his lips. He joined in immediately, a burst of happiness and pleasure in his ears.
Theo crashed into Harry, out of breath but happy. He didn't have the slightest desire to withdraw. It was wonderful. His forehead was covered in a thin layer of sweat and his back was red from being scratched by his husband's passionate hands. He buried his face in his neck and sighed with satisfaction. It was perfect.
He felt so good that it almost seemed unnatural. There, snuggled up in Harry's arms, his body satisfied and his mind light, Theo was feeling good. He wasn't so good that he'd say he needed an orgasm to be happy, but his mind was empty of rumination and that had been his only goal lately.
Every day he looked for new distractions, new ways to forget his negative thoughts and fill his brain with colourful images and happy memories.
"I'm beginning to think you're only happy to have me back because of my body, Mister Nott-Potter."
Theo chuckled and bit Harry's shoulder in revenge. Harry pinched his hip, both to retaliate and to let him know that he was being crushed under his body. Theo shifted just enough so that only their legs remained entwined and he kept his face nestled in his neck.
He remained silent, his breathing slowing little by little. He closed his eyes to savour these last few seconds of bliss and pleasure. Harry's skin was hot against his and a musky scent wafted through the air. He couldn't have felt better.
"I was joking, you know," Harry said, running his fingers down his spine.
Theo turned his head to see his husband's face. He opened one eye and met a worried emerald gaze. He smiled.
"I know. Although that remark might have been intended for you too," he chuckled helplessly.
Nothing could kill the moment. He felt good, happy and in the mood to laugh and smile. Harry poked him in the shoulder, rolling his eyes.
"I just don't want you to think I mean that," he justified himself.
"I know, love, I know."
Theo raised himself on his left elbow and placed his lips on his husband's. Then he let his forehead fall against his. Their noses brushed against each other and Harry rubbed them together.
"I feel you're more... light these days."
"I am," Theo replied after swallowing. "I am."
He was repeating it to himself, it was a good way of convincing himself. Because if he convinced himself that he was fine, it would end up being true, wouldn't it?
"Do you feel the therapy sessions are doing you any good?"
Theo gritted his teeth. He didn't like talking about it, it was exhausting. He felt like he was repeating the words he'd found so hard to say during his appointments. And he hated seeing concern on Harry's face. He felt that he was being reduced to his own problems and at the same time ruining the life of his husband, who had to suffer his troubles.
Besides, although he recognised the benefits of such therapy, Theo was tired of hearing Harry talk about it so often. He wanted to shout at him that he was making efforts outside the sessions, that he was making progress, that he was even succeeding, without Dr. Velloton.
But he knew it would be wrong to lose his temper over it. Harry wanted what was best for him, he cared about him and supported him every step of the way. And Theo had to be honest with himself: he would have been the first to recommend therapy to someone in the same state as he was. He would have been the first to push anyone who was suffering so much from such a trauma. Because that's what it was all about. Potions, meditation, forgetting or the fresh air... That wasn't enough. He had to be helped, and helped properly.
"Yes," he eventually breathed.
Harry moved his hand up to the bottom of Theo's hair and intertwined his fingers with the long locks that were still damp with sweat. He kissed his forehead, his lips lingering for a long minute, as if he couldn't tear himself away from him. Perhaps he couldn't.
"Nothing makes me happier, Theo, if you only knew," he murmured against his skin. "I feel like we're finally reaching something good, something peaceful."
Theo refrained from mentioning the week he had spent consoling and telling Harry that things would work out between him and Hermione in the end. He didn't mention the times he'd found Ginny crying in her bathroom because she missed Astoria. He stopped himself from mentioning his own obsessive desire to swallow dreamless sleep potions when he spent days locked up in his studio trying not to think.
He said nothing. Because they were living in a moment of happiness, a moment of hope and, for once, they deserved it.