You know, before he met you, he didn't like silence. He saw it surrounding him, isolating him, suffocating him with indifference. And even as a child, he tried to forget it. That's why, the first time he met you, he showered you with questions to which he didn't expect answers, with quick, lilting words of which you only understood a quarter. You'd only answer on the tip of your tongue, uncomfortable with his spontaneity. He didn't take offense. Perhaps it didn't matter to him. Perhaps it gave him pleasure to babble on without the other person wanting to shut him up. Yes, maybe your watchful gaze, your rare, always neutral "mmh" were enough to keep him pouring out his impetuous stream of words.
You, on the other hand, barely understood him, so it didn't matter to you what he said. You already loathed words that were too many, useless and thoughtless, words that invariably ended in lies or half-truths. The silence that surrounded you served to absorb their violence and shamelessness, to respond to the too much silence they clumsily camouflaged.
But little by little, you began to understand Draco. You already knew too much about his voice, his intonations, the emotions that shone through for his words not to break through the barrier of your silence. You were already used to his pervasive presence, to his laughter that filled the whole space and to his « games » against others students in which you never took part. But if you had to be honest, you'd have to admit that you'd never reported him to a teacher. And then, his words, which you now understood, held you like an anchor to reality. To you, who dreamed of a world stripped bare, where every word would come out artfully, always pure and always true, he showed you how they came together to form fireworks as brief as they were beautiful. To you, who longed for a poetic universe where you would melt away like a snowy ghost, he forbade you to sink into the bitter melancholy of unattainable desires. He had grown accustomed to your silence, where his words dissolved, retaining only the most essential, the closest to his heart. He knew, without being able to explain it to himself, that your silence was nothing but a pretence of indifference towards the world, belied by the attentive gaze you bore him. For him, your silence no longer spoke of absence, solitude or abandonment. Your silence was alive.
Yes, these were the bonds that had united you since childhood. There were already those evenings that belonged to just the two of you, when talking and being silent were the same thing, when he could listen to you with his ears wide open and his mouth shut. Those evenings when it was just the two of you and no one else, which came back like a refrain, and for which he had always forsaken his plans and his other friends to come to you. And because the jealousy of others was inevitable, you received harsh words, to which you didn't respond. Still, they began to distill their poison in your mind, and because you weren't so naive anymore, you began to doubt. He only ever responded with a shrug of the shoulder to your almost passive astonishment, to that phrase you kept repeating, you'll get bored with me.
He was never bored. He always came back to you, and wanted to continue those evenings when you'd lie on any place at Hogwarts to watch the stars. Without realizing it, without admitting it, you became attached to him. Too much, perhaps. Every day the sun shone, you wished you had it close, even if it didn't speak to you, because that sun spoke to you like he did, with that almost violent enthusiasm that warmed you even if you didn't want it to. He was the only friend your age who could break down your well-established defenses. You didn't become prolix or more emotional, but you listened to the words that cascaded from his mouth with joy and responded to them. You simply responded.
You never stopped to ask yourself why. Why was he coming? You were totally different from the other Slytherin children he talked to, so why did he want your company? And no matter how many more or less convincing reasons Draco gave, you wouldn't listen. Why did he stay? He was always asking, begging, for you to sneak out, to join his little group. You often refused, enough to make you feel guilty for your harsh words, but not all the time. He was the only one, along with your director, to achieve such a result. Thinking back, it was like a dance. He'd get a little too close to you, you'd withdraw into your silence, he'd back away sheepishly until you were reassured to approach again. And so it began again. It was a naive dance that belonged to you alone.
It could have gone on like that for a long time. But you weren't given the time... Unfortunately, your age no longer mattered, you were considered mature and free. Even if you weren't yet eighteen. All you were left with were gaps in what you'd never learned, shreds of ignorance you weren't aware of. What was the point of teaching you to love, to live in peace? You were wizards on the verge of war!
You've matured, too quickly. Draco learned silence. And he worked hard to master it, only to ignore it later. He's known the hissing silence that creeps in after carnage, the heavy silence after the death of a respected or beloved peer, the bitter silence before blood that spills for no reason, blood that's still red and screaming with injustice because it shouldn't have spilled. He has tamed them all. All the better to fill them with light words that detached him from his deeds. Because Draco had become one of Lord Voldemort's servants. You learned words. The ones your books gave you, like bulwarks against your fears and anxieties. The ones that hurt on purpose, the ones that instilled confidence, the ones that concealed, deceived and manipulated. Because, if Draco had to kill in silence, you had to spy and draw words and confidences to yourself.
You began to take refuge from the overflow of these lying words, lying like men. You knew your heart was too soft. You knew that despite your loneliness, you still sought the affection of those around you, and now that you were a true wizard, you had to forget this flaw. Because that's what it was, in your eyes. By chasing too much affection, you risked getting caught up in the game. And who knows what might happen? Who knows if the other would betray you, and your love would prevent you from doing your duty? No, a wizard was not supposed to love. Especially not with passion. Tender affection for his teammates. Justified respect for his peers. So, because it seemed the most logical thing to do, you closed your heart. Without remorse. You let it freeze, because without it, you couldn't trust yourself. Your heart was far too tender. Too passionate, another might have said. But you didn't want to admit it to yourself.
But despite everything, Draco's words continued to reach you effortlessly.
Yes, your adolescence was well and truly over, leaving a bitter taste of unfinished things. You distanced yourself from him, your only weakness, your first dereliction of duty. And yet, when you came back, it was only to find him again, in those regular but now discreet evenings. Only the place had changed.
It wasn't the same, though. Your actions, now, could not be undone, and you had shattered the illusion of controlling your destiny. You had changed. You were cold, he was hot. Two antonyms you could only reconcile in your one-to-one discussion. You were aware of this, and so was Draco, even if he refused to say so. All the better to try and ignore him, behind his light words, always his words. But sometimes they would break before your silence, which could only admit honesty. Then his smile would freeze, his eyes would reveal his distress, his loneliness that he would do anything to forget. Those evenings, you'd fall asleep back to back, drawing meager comfort from each other's breath. In the morning, it wasn't unusual for you to wake up with your limbs tangled, having sought a little warmth in the midst of your nightmares.
Which of these awakenings threw your attraction right back in your face? You silenced your desire without remorse. You didn't want to see how Draco solved his. You never understood him. You wanted to be satisfied with his exclusive friendship and esteem for you, and you locked the rest away in your heart, as surely as inside a coffin made of ice. A wizard was not supposed to love. Even a friend, whoever he was. Besides, it was... tainted to think of Draco that way. Perverted. Immoral. If he knew, he'd leave, and then you'd have nothing to hold on to. Sure, there would always be Blaise or Pansy, but it wasn't the same... You had a brother's affection for them. Admittedly, a distant brother, implacable at times, but you were already aware that you'd grown too attached to them. And you accepted this fact without saying a word, knowing that one day you would pay a heavy price for it. But there was no question of repeating the same mistakes, was there? So you began to avoid looking at Draco when he faced you, so as not to stare. To avoid prolonged contact with his pale skin. To go back to sleep in the dormitory, once you were sure he was asleep next to you.
Did you know that he sometimes pretended to be asleep, so he'd know when you left his bed?
Yet he never asked you for an explanation. Because he knew you too well for that, because he wanted to respect your silence. He'd seen you change, too, and remembered the few times you'd broached the subject. Those times when he went out of his way to reassure you. He knew you refused to bond with anyone, and seeing you avoid him for those reasons gave him a sense of joy. He could see that he was special to you, that he touched you enough to make you try to distance yourself from him –without ever fully succeeding–. But he'd never dared to ask the truth to your face. Even he was savvy enough to understand that such a question had every chance of confusing you for good.
And tonight, everything you've ignored so well comes back to you. Because you know that tomorrow, you're going to die. So you're here, for the last time, secretly with him. You listen to Draco babble as he absentmindedly reads a book, and think longingly of your story that never could have been and never will be. It's not so bad. If Draco's still here today, if he's talking to you as always, despite this solemn wake, you don't have much to regret. It's enough for you. It's enough to be able to contemplate him without him knowing, and to learn by heart, once again, one last time, the lines that make him up. It's enough to share hours stolen from the face of the world with him, just to hear his voice, hear his life, hear his words. It's enough to know that you're still the only one with whom the blond confides in this way.
"Harry?"
The blond raised his head after closing his book. You raise yours too in his direction and give him your full attention, because there's an ounce of unease in his voice as he pronounces your name.
"Will you stay here all night?"
You stare at him. Did you hear what he said? You refuse to let your heart stir in your chest. It's... tainted. Perverted. Immoral. You must have misunderstood. And indeed, Draco raises his hands, palms open towards you, understanding your expression.
"It's no bad thought, eh," he hastens to add. "It's just that with... tomorrow..."
He doesn't dare continue. You refuse to hear the note of sadness or regret that echoes between his words, it's just wishful thinking, a figment of your imagination. You put it down to doubt. He doesn't know you're going to die tomorrow, but he's not an idiot. He's worried. He doesn't know what tomorrow will bring, with your enemy coming back to confront you. He hopes that won't be the case. You know it won't. But you say nothing. Slowly, you nod.
"Why not."
He smiles sheepishly, childishly at you, and you're touched. That smile, you're all too aware, is meant only for you. You already know it by heart, the gentle curve of his lips, the barely marked dimple, and his slightly repentant eyes, which bring out their joy all the better. You're happy, suddenly, to have had it tonight.
Draco comes over to you, and drops down beside the bottom of the armchair where you're sitting. His bare arm brushes against your leg and his shoulder rests against your lower knee. You don't try to pull away, not tonight. He remains silent, and lets your silence invade him, as if to draw comfort from it. Your hand dares to stray into his hair, and you need to talk. Tomorrow... tomorrow you won't be able to anymore. So, mid-voice, intermittently, you begin to share your memories. Yours, of course, the ones that are most precious to you. He listens. You offer him your words. Until the time comes and you lie back to back in bed. For the last time, you think before closing your eyes.
The morning finds you against him. You smell it, a smell that evokes dusty paths, apples and sunlight. A smell you've never found anywhere else. His cheek rests on your chest, his arm crosses your torso as if to hold you, the other grazes your hip. You feel his steady breath tickling your neck. One arm encircles his shoulders. You look at the unravelled sheets, his tranquil face, his body. You'd like to stay a few minutes longer, but they're already too many. You loosen your embrace and release yourself from him, and stand still for a second to check that he's not awake. Apparently not. You still hesitate to leave like a thief, but your reason tells you it's better this way. You bend down, as if reluctantly, graze his cheek and then the outline of his powerful jaw. You've got nothing left to lose, you think, and you allow your heart to be set free. You murmur the shameful confession at last, and match it with a farewell. And, with one last impulsive gesture, you kiss his forehead. His skin is warm and soft. You rise abruptly, aware that you've gone too far. A wizard shouldn't love. So you flee the room. Without looking back, so as not to come back to him. Not to go back on your decision.
That's why you don't see his hands clenching on the sheets, and the jaw you've been caressing contracting to hold back a scream of rage or a sob. No, you don't know he was awake.
Just as you don't yet know whether a playful god will one day decide to pull you out of the limbo where you've forgotten each other, he in your silence and you in his words.