he has already tried everything.
it started with a letter opener. they just laughed, as if it was all just one of their private little jokes, as if his attempts to rip the canvas out of the frame were simply hilarious.
next evening he brought a ritual dagger from the library, but despite all the fucking black magic it didn’t even manage a scratch on the canvas.
they theatrically dodged crystals and golden skulls and knives from the kitchen flung at them. laughing, always fucking laughing.
the solvent slid off the portrait and disappeared without a trace into the floorboards without ever hurting the painting. fire instantly went out, lighters broke, wicks disappeared out of candles.
and they laughed and laughed and harry put his arm around draco's shoulders and pressed their foreheads together, looking, just looking, like he couldn’t ever get enough.
"looks like you're having fun."
"looks like you need to shut the fuck up."
draco clicks his tongue loudly and lowers his gaze, inspecting his nails with precise indifference. how rude. potter can almost hear the reproach in his voice.
"oh, did i hurt your feelings?" potter mocks.
"if you really want to know, yes, you did."
anger quickly rises to the surface. blood boils over. a wine glass flies into the frame and ricochets, smashing into the wall. draco in the painting winces and looks away.
"you’re drunk."
"and whose fault is that, i wonder."
"i don’t like it when you’re drunk. when he is. we’ve talked about this. remember?"
there’s something gentle and vulnerable in his voice. like a burn that hurts when you touch it still, even if the skin has already healed. rage flares in his chest and bursts, and all he wants is to cut, slash, mangle this face, to twist the wrists, to rip a button off along with the fabric that held it, to roll the sleeve up to the elbow and say - look. the sadistic pleasure from this image in his head, from the stunning horror on this once beloved face, shoots like lightning down his spine.
oh he's drunk, too drunk to stand. here, in the empty living room on the first floor, where they once read fucking newspapers together over fucking coffee.
“well,” potter finally answers, raising a bottle of wine in mock salute. "it’s not like you can stop me. i hope you're happy."
“i could leave,” draco huffs and turns his nose up. his wrists are crossed on his knee, his posture is tense, straight, precise and perfect and calculated.
“it’s a wonder you haven’t left yet. i don’t get what’s keeping the both of you here. you could just up and go and settle down in another frame in another house and leave me in peace.”
"and to miss the sight of you getting sloshed all alone? preposterous."
"where’s he?" potter slurs.
harry's been gone for too long. he usually doesn't leave draco's side for more than an hour.
"with your parents," draco replies curtly. he has the nerve to look sympathetic. potter throws an empty bottle of wine in his face. the clock strikes three.
potter props his hand on the floor and tries to get up. trips, falls. salazar, you will be the death of me. are you quite alright?
and then the laughter and the moans and a thousand quick soft kisses and they’re laughing and laughing and laughing again and draco and darling, dearest.
“it is our wedding day. of course i’m happy. he loves me and i love him. and it doesn’t matter what you think,” draco says softly, the words almost inaudible.
sometimes potter wants to dig dumbledore's fucking corpse up with his bare hands so he can get that fucking elder wand and make a hole in the portrait the size of a bus.
it could be stronger than that, draco whispers against his skin. love magic. stronger than death. the painting still smells of fresh varnish. their rings don’t even have a single scratch on them.
“no, he doesn’t,” says potter.
"don’t be silly."
"he never loved you."
draco rolls his eyes and leans against the back of the chair. he’s as pale as a sheet.
"as you wish."
there are tears in his eyes. his face looks like one of those portraits in muggle museums - as if made from pieces of broken glass. try to grab him by the elbow and your hand's sticky with blood. behind him is august eternal – rose bushes and songbirds. sickly sugar-pink sunset. the ring has yet to leave a mark on his finger. he's twenty-eight and always will be. because today is the happiest day of my life, harry.
“i don’t have a future,” draco says too calmly. as if reading his thoughts. but then he always could, couldn’t he? how long have they stayed like this – a minute, an hour, a day – what fucking difference does it make? "you're trying to punish me for something that happened, but i'm not him. you do understand this, right?"
"for something that happened?" potter hisses. the words come out slow like poison. draco winces. draco straightens up again. crosses his legs, smoothes the fabric on his trousers. the perfect copy. the perfect copy of himself one year and two months ago. all his little tricks and masks and fears and his submissive pride – everything. every single one of his thoughts and feelings up to that summer evening captured in the painting. their wedding day. the droplet of wine that fell on his sleeve two hours later isn’t there yet. it’s perfect.
"what about the fact that you’ve been lying to me all this time? what about the rune they found in your childhood bedroom? what about the book under the floorboards, the step by step guide on making someone love you against their will? what about the fact that you’re in fucking azkaban?"
potter doesn’t know how he ended up on his feet – must be magic! - suddenly sickeningly sober. he's waiting for the scene to play out. he’s waiting for the screams and the tears and the bang on the door and the cracks of someone being apparated away. he, too, relives the same day over and over.
but draco doesn't get up. doesn’t cry and doesn’t beg and doesn’t thrash against two aurors holding him in place, his sunday shirt funeral white. it’s not true. please believe me, please.
"it's not true," draco says, tired, so tired. eyes glassy and empty and lifeless.
i'll be waiting.
"why would i trust you?"
"because you’re asking."
draco sighs and stands up. hugging himself, he walks out of the frame and doesn’t look back.
potter finds them in a painting of a stormy sea. a raven sits on the rocks, eyes beady and curious. draco’s chest is pressed flush against harry’s. their hands are intertwined as if in a tragic first dance. his shoulders are shaking, and harry whispers something to him, lips pressed to his temple. all you can hear is the wind howling, a promise of the thunder that’ll never come.
wet sand sticks to his shoes, his trousers muddy and ripped at the knees. there’s a metallic taste in his mouth – it almost makes him want to scream from the sheer melancholy of it. it’s amplified a hundredfold, divided by zero, scratched under the skin. please, i'll be waiting.
the wind slashes at his cheeks. he almost slips on the wet stones again. these fucking shoes. draco loves these fucking shoes.
he reeks of panic and lily perfume and vomit and gasoline. draco loves this fucking motorcycle.
please
please don't let it be too late.