At the back of the house, enshrouded in darkness and the cold air of December, Draco feels quite comfortable, galleons more than what he felt inside. He crouches on the steps at the backdoor, and heaves into his palm—his face hidden, always hidden. His nose burns from the cold and the memory. He can hear the distant screams, joyful, hearty laughter—at some harmless jokes, of course. The life of the party continues to shine and shimmer, even though he isn’t there to witness, perhaps because of that. Draco draws further into his misery. He can feel the heat of the room at his back, burning into his flesh like some prehistoric fire, something he can never touch.
Because this is how it’s always been, he has always been close to the simple life, but never privy to it.
And for good measure , he tells himself as the sight of Teddy Lupin’s teary eyes flash in his mind. It’s for good measure that he gets left out, that’s what he deserves.
He thinks of apparating back to his apartment, leaving this wretched family party for good, a party he didn’t belong to in the first place. He thinks of leaving the apartment, too, packing all his things, separating his junk from Harry’s and then apparating again, not the Manor, but one of his many houses on the countryside. A cold, marble place filled with portraits of his ancestors. Marble statues and mellow lights of lamps, devoid of any real people—someplace that suits him.
He hears the step, soft and deft, arrhythmic on the wooden floor and looks up at the snowy backyard blinking in the dark. It emits a dull glow, the snow, dull and lifeless. Draco hears him waiting, shuffling and fidgeting and maybe rearranging whatever he’s going to say. Draco waits too, it isn’t as if he has some place to be. It isn’t as if someone else somewhere else is waiting for him the way Harry Potter does—with a fair bit of desperation and angst. With a fair bit of anger. With love, too, tangled in all this mess.
“Hey,” Harry says finally. He’s just behind him now, Draco can feel the outline of his legs on his back.
Draco moves to make space for him in answer.
Harry sits on the porch, shoulder to shoulder with Draco. And coughs. And fidgets again, pushes his glasses to the bridge of his nose, before picking out his cigarette case from his pocket. Their hands brush when he reaches the pocket of his jeans and Draco shivers before setting into the cold, settling into the seat beside him that always feels fleeting, like something good he isn’t supposed to have.
Harry lights the cigarette with a flick of his fingers and takes a long, aching drag. Draco plucks it from him when he offers it, without a word and—
And it’s bad, it’s sort of pathetic. Because he sucks on the cigarette and is instantly reminded of Harry’s lips. The kiss they share, fighting and arguing and resisting and accepting. Harry has seeped into parts of his life, the pulsating hole he—
“So,” Harry starts, “not the best outcome we’ve hoped for.”
And there’s an undercurrent of humor in his voice, a downgraded chuckle, a snort, maybe. Something to indicate that what happened isn’t that big of a deal. A pebble in their shoes, maybe. Something smaller. Dust in your eyes when you’re trying to look ahead into the horizon.
Draco doesn’t return the breezy tone. He asks quietly, “Is he still crying?”
“He stopped maybe two seconds after—” his voice shakes. He never was that good with words.
Two seconds after Draco ran away, scurrying like a rat in the dark, slithering like a reptilian to its clammy hole.
“Was he hurt?”
“No.” Harry scoffs. “Merlin, Draco, you didn’t hit him. Or shove him, or touch him.”
No, he snached the toy broomstick from the kid’s hand and snarled at him. Only six, only a silly, impulsive kid who wouldn’t stop and let Draco show him how to ride it.
“I lost my temper,” he seethes. He can’t bear to turn around. “I don’t—fucking. He’s a kid and I said—”
“You said shut it!” he says, a little more gruff, but still light. Much too light. “That’s actually not the worst thing in the—”
“I’m a brute.”
“You’re overestimating yourself.”
“I’m just.” Draco screws his eyes shut. “And the way he cried he reminded me—”
“Teddy’s six. He cries when he doesn’t have ice cream for breakfast some days.”
“Of myself,” Draco pushes the words out, out into the chill of the night and he thinks, doesn’t think, his braincells clot and coagulate and he feels Harry slide his arm around his own.
“I can’t believe I—but I got so angry,” Draco says, his voice breaking, “so unnecessarily, blindingly angry. ” Why wasn’t he listening to Draco? Why couldn’t he stay still? Why was Draco expected to sit around and just take every joke, every subtle discomfort from every Weasley offspring and then let this kid punch and prod him, ask him questions like do you like Harry ? and what do you do? and what’s that on your arm?
“You’re not the first person in the world to lose your temper on a kid.”
No. His father did that too. He’d snap and sneer and Draco would cry, at first, then he’d try better, harder, to perfect whatever he’d botched. Arithmancy or a translation or some other test. Like trying to fix a vanishing cabinet, trying to corner Albus Dumbledore into—
“Let’s go inside,” Harry says softly. “You can give him a chocolate, and say you’re sorry and just… it’s easy, Draco. It all is. If you just give it a chance then—”
“I don’t think it’s a great idea.”
“Of course, it is. Just—”
“Did you see the way they looked at me?”
His aunt Andromeda, Mrs. Weasley, Granger and all the others. Draco purses his lips, he tries very very hard not to leak too much anger or resentment or desperation. But even when he’s staring very hard on his unkempt and ruddy backyard floored with snow of Christmas night, he sees all of their eyes, widened in horror, detestment, realization? He didn’t belong in that golden room with the smell of cake and roast duck and the bursting of firecrackers and laughter and jokes and warmth. More than he knew what to do with. More than he wanted to feel. The jokes George Weasley tried to pull off weren’t funny, weren’t easy to laugh with, or being laughed at. But he looked at Harry and saw his ridiculous eyes flash at some really unreasonable, really gut-wrenching joy and Draco decided to be the fool, the idiot and the moron.
But he can’t be the brute. Snuffing the life of the party, snuffing the poor boy—Harry’s godson— out of joy.
“I’m sorry,” he says, the words feel bitter and right.
“It’s OK . He’ll survive.”
“No.” He bites his lips, shakes his head as Harry offers him the smoke. “I’m sorry for ruining it. Your party and the mood and—” Your life. Your life.
Harry grips his hand, he scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not.” He lets Harry tighten the grip, still not looking. Still not looking at him. “ You are, though. This was a bad idea. Disastrously bad.”
He doesn’t answer for a moment, for a moment the grip tightens before it falls flat, falls on gravity as he lets go. His voice is biting, slightly, edgy and chafed as he says—
“So was meeting your parents at the manor. But I went through it. The questioning and the stares and the sneers from your dad.” And Draco was melting and melting further into the shadows, amidst the cruel comments and polite rebuttals and everything else. Everything else.
“It was your idea.” Everything was Harry’s idea. Every kiss every touch every word. Every step. He always started it, Draco always followed.
“Yeah and if it was up to you, you’d rather we be at the apartment. Hiding. Alone.”
His lips curl at the words, at the anger bubbling in them. He didn’t feel alone in the apartment where every shape and shadows were familiar. Every part of their home was something Draco made with his hands, prodded and shifted the things in that magnanimous space, tiled bathroom and modern kitchen they don’t even use. A study. A bedroom. A bed. Where Harry was familiar and he could stare at him, marvel and bicker at him without filter, without shame. Draco turns around to watch Harry’s lips tremble, green eyes widening as if he’s caught onto Draco’s thoughts.
“Not alone.”
Harry pauses, his cheeks turn red. “I didn’t mean I’m lonely when I’m with you, or that I don’t like it.”
“You just want to share it with…” Draco takes a deep breath, he feels unable to let it go. He picks the cigarette and resumes to settle in the view of the empty space in front of him. The territory of the house is marked by the redwood; there’s a half deformed Snowman with button nose and a half-eaten carrot. “With everyone ,” he says finally.
“Everyone I love, yes.”
“You love too many people.”
Harry gives an exasperated groan. “What’s your point? ”
“Nothing.” Draco bites his tongue. “Nothing important.” Or significant. Or something he can elucidate. They’re just passing thoughts, like technicolor newsflashes in Prophet’s articles, like snippets of Quidditch commentary. Like tiny flashes of clarity he doesn’t know how to utilize or even fucking comprehend.
“ No, not nothing. It’s definitely something. It’s something you always think and you don’t say—and you think it’s not present just because you don’t say. It’s—” he pauses. “It’s unbearable. Sometimes.”
“Like now? Am I unbearable now?”
Harry sighs. “Let’s just go inside. We’ll talk later, if you want. If you’re willing to.”
Draco scoffs. Draco shakes his head. They are not going to talk when they go home, they never do. And Draco likes it just fine. Because that’s the only time he ever feels better. Not talking, not picking at raw wounds. Sometimes he’s afraid Harry will catch onto that. How much Draco is relying on him to bear him, staying beside when he’s going through pangs and bruises deep in his organs—inside him, through him—that don’t even have a name. Sometimes he fears Harry will see that the only way he can let out some of the fear is through making love and having sex and fucking. When he gets down on his knees and Harry is just a bundle of nerves and shaking body and a fistful of pleas. Draco holds his thighs for leverage, he grazes his nails across the skin to leave a bruise. To leave a mark to marvel at a later time, to remind himself that he’s allowed to do this, touch him like he’s unashamed. He traces the dark lines in their room and lets out a sigh each time.
When they’re in bed and he’s inside Harry, so deep, grunting in some primal, prehistoric way. He feels so full that everything and everyone disintegrates into nothing. All he can smell is musk and mint and them . And he chokes out a moan, some broken words, so honest that he can’t bear to think about it afterwards. Can’t bear to think of the honesty and the implications.
He thinks he’s said I love you to the other guy, the boy with the scar, the Chosen One who chose him . After everything, despite everything. But he doesn’t ask after, the words that come out of his mouth are smokes in the wind. A bright, fluorescent firecracker that burns too bright, too loud for too little time.
“I don’t understand you half the time,” Draco says softly, staring at the ruby red end of the cigarette. He doesn’t understand Harry’s heart, the tight coil of muscle pumping away, his kindness, his patience and perseverance. He doesn’t understand how he stands it. How after all this time he still burns, burns bright and is able to have people who call him son and mean it, people he can laugh with and have horribly textured sweaters with his name on it as a Christmas present. He doesn’t get how he can smile at some stranger calling him the Chosen One. How he looks at the world and doesn’t let the ghost of the past knock him down.
“Then ask, ” he says. “I’m here, Draco. I’ve been here for a while.”
“You love so many people. Do you love me ?” he asks, surprising himself. He didn’t have that in mind when he opened his mouth, he couldn’t believe he’d be able to pull that question away from his gut. “Because I think I said—”
“Yeah, I do.” And Draco turns back, and he watches that Harry has his hands fisted to his sides, as if he’s at a war. In a way he is. “Merlin fuck, Draco, isn’t it obvious?”
It is. Too much. And it’s even more mortifying than his half choked confession, the one that echoed around the dark room, reverberating between his head and his heart.
“But why? And how? I mean—”
“Picture this,” Harry cuts him off. “A boy, small and skinny and scared in a room that’s barely bigger than a broom cabinet. Picture him crying and alone and wondering what is wrong with him. Why can’t—why can’t anyone look at me like I’m… worthy?”
Something catches at Draco’s throat. The world is too silent and too cold. He knows about Harry’s childhood, the senseless cruelty. The loneliness, the—
“So now that I’ve found a place where I’m wanted, I won’t allow that coldness in me. Do you understand me, Draco? I won’t let it take over me. I won’t .”
Draco screws his eyes shut. There’s a fierceness in him that always disarms Draco. There’a goodness that makes him crack. “I can never be what you are.”
“Which is —?”
“The Hero, plain and simple, in real life and real battle. You’re the Hero. The good one.” he regrets it as soon as he says it. The air between them is pierced by the thinly veiled disdain. And Harry can take it, Draco knows, Harry can withstand his self-loathing and scapegoating and the tireless deprecation. But a man has a limit, Draco knows that. He just can’t help himself, sometimes he can’t help stretch the tireless patience.
“You asshole," Harry breathes, softly enough, but there’s enough meanness in it to make Draco’s heart twist, solidifying the contempt in his throat. He means to say that he’s sorry, but what comes out is —
“I know.”
“I can’t believe it… after all I’ve said—It’s never been plain and simple. I lost my parents. You think if it were up to me I’d ever choose that end? Being orphan? Living with the Dursleys’? Watching people die trying to save me? Having people trying to sacrifice me? You think I wanted to die in the forest?”
“No—”
“You jerk. I had no choice. And, yes, I know my end is lighter because I did the right things in the context of the greater fucking good, but you don’t think I’m damaged too? I’m all fine and dandy? You don’t think I want to curse at the random guy who thanked me today? I was a kid, too!”
“Harry—”
“And you’ve got me on a fucking pedestal, like every other Tom and Dick, and I can’t—fucking stand it sometimes.”
Harry stands up, shakes off the flurries of snow settling on his clothes. Draco hears him breath loud enough to drown his anger, loud enough to drown in it. And he knows that’s it. That’s the imperceptible line he crossed and he can’t take it back, can’t topple back on his mess to stave away the ruptured ego and self-loathing and let him see the tiny, miniscule of clarity. He loves Harry, the Chosen One, the Golden Boy, the broken, kind boy and his self-expression is shitty, his posture is shitty, and his love is—
“I have love,” her voice breaks, stumbling on the air to reach the boy of his dreams. The boy just behind him, within an arm’s reach. An universe away. “Not just for you or my mother or Pansy or—whoever. I mean I have love. Not just for people I’m attached to already. But. For Edward and fucking Weasley or whatever. I have love for the people you love. I can—I try. But sometimes I think it’s just hidden, somewhere deep inside camouflaged around the muscles and blood and I can wrench it out, try to leak some of it—show kindness or some pretty words to let it be visible. It’s just. I have love to give but i’s just… so twisted sometimes.”
So much death and betrayal and deals made just so they could be broken. So much insanity and curse in one fucking word and it’s—it holds too much for a small word. It holds a promise and a prayer and he isn’t whole enough or strong enough to commit to it. He’s still the crying boy in the astronomy tower, the one who took sides with the Dark Lord when Neville Longbottom chose to die instead of cowering. The one who watched a classmate writhe in agony and pain on the floor of his ancestral home and did nothing.
Harry takes his time to answer, it’s time enough to hear the words ricochet in his mind. It’s time enough to regret them.
“I am… I know it’s hard. I know .” Harry coughs, Harry waits again, Harry touches him on the shoulder but doesn’t sit back with him. “But if there’s love in you , if you try to let it out, it’ll be alright. I mean, you’re dating the guy who is the magnum opus of proof that love wins. Whatever, however long it takes, it wins .”
Harry waits. Draco can still feel his presence like the dark side of the sun. Draco still shivers from his unbearable warmth.
“There’s a seat waiting for you,” Harry breathes out the words, or chews on it. He isn’t sure. “Beside me. I don’t know how else to say this but you have to walk to it. I can’t—don’t have enough in me to hold out so much. You have to walk in, because I will be there. Sitting. Listening, whatever you want. I promise you that I’ve been waiting for this far longer than you have.”
Draco nods, and Harry presses the hand on his shoulder slightly. It’s negligible, the surge of pressure, almost imperceptible. But Draco feels it well.
When he leaves, feet steady and sluggish over the wood and Draco watches on the porch. A perfect, white picture. He watches the fleet of snow fall on his shirt and he has half a mind to pick up and inspect the shape of each and every one of them, just so he doesn’t have to get up and go back to the warm room with people who have yet to warm up to him. He has half a mind to apparate so he won’t have to see them try to joke with him a hundred different ways to make him feel better, he knows it will make him feel worse. He sucks on the filter one last time, flicks it to the open space before breathing the toxic smoke out. Everything feels numbed, he feels numb almost. But there’s a dull buzz in his head, the one he associates distinctively with either an oncoming migraine or Harry Potter now. He reaches for that humming, he waits for it to catch him whole.
Because real life is hardly breathtaking. Almost always anticlimactic. You have to dredge through awkward dinners and backhanded compliments to reach to the night in your room, alone in a boy so like you, so unlike you that you can’t help but marvel and wonder and add up the minutes to count how many more you can have with him.
But he taps his feet on the floor, reeling himself for the mortifying ordeal of trying just to fail, letting everyone see his self just to show the scars. It all adds up, because the smiles Harry has for him are all stars and moon and sun, the supernova. And his eyes so green Draco thinks of making a new name for it. They sparkle and shimmer and burn . When they hold hands and Draco feels just right, fingers sliding through his like they were meant to be there, and the marks Harry leaves on his back and his shoulder are reminiscent of how he feels, too. How desperately he wants to hold onto Draco, how desperately he wants him, too.
At the back of the Burrow, enshrouded in darkness Draco felt that it was just where he should be. But damn the Gryffindors, and damn their foolhardy heart. He turns around from the perfect white porch, the perfect darkness to chase him , instead. Unsure, terrified and full of a longing he can never understand entirely.