Falling

Cracked, red leather poked the bottom of Draco’s thighs through his trousers. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The diner was empty but for an elderly couple near the kitchen, a middle aged muggle drinking coffee at the counter, and the weary waitress who shuffled over towards them to take their order.

“What’ll it be today, Mr. Potter?” she said.

Draco raised an eyebrow. Across from him, Harry gave a winning smile.

“I think I’ll try the tuna salad today, Dorothy. Thanks.”

“Coffee?”

“Always.”

“Got it. And for you?”

Draco looked back down at the sticky menu in his hands. He read off the first thing he saw.

“I’ll have a, erm, muffin.”

Dorothy stared at him.

“What sort of muffin, dear?” she said.

Harry snorted. Draco glared at him. 

“Erm.” He scanned through the menu once again, and confirmed that under “muffin”, there were no details available on what sorts he could order. Across from him, Harry cleared his throat.

“The chocolate chip is my favorite.”

Was that amusement in his voice he detected? Draco wasn’t sure if his stomach was roiling due to hunger, irritation, or something else. He closed the menu.

“I’ll take that then,” he said.

“All right, anything else?”

“I’ll also take a coffee.”

“I’ll get a pot for the table, then.”

Dorothy put her pen and notepad away and took the menus. As she walked off, Draco took out his own pen and notepad. They were both bought at the convenience store nearby his flat. He’d figured he couldn’t bring his usual Quick-Quotes Quill, since Harry had decided to meet up somewhere as thoroughly muggle as Astoria’s newest boytoy. 

He jotted down the day’s date.

“Thank you again, for meeting with me,” he said. “During your lunch break, no less.”

“We don’t have scheduled lunch breaks, actually,” Harry said. “It’s more flexible than that. Us aurors sort of go wherever we’re needed.”

Draco felt his eye twitch. He, on the other hand, was actually sacrificing his lunch break. He refrained from mentioning this.

“Well, let’s just get this over with, shall we?” he said. 

Harry gave him a bemused smile. They were by the window, where the afternoon sunlight filtered through the dusty glass to highlight just how achingly handsome is ex-boyfriend was. Those emerald eyes shone, nearly sparkling as he smiled. Although he still looked exhausted, there was an easy way to him that irritated Draco. His body could still remember the feel of those scarred hands on his skin. His heart still remembered the rhythm of Harry’s pulse against his.

He cleared his throat.

“So, we last left off discussing the Dark Lord’s use of the horcrux,” he said. 

He glanced up briefly. Harry made no acknowledgement, this time, of Draco’s use of the term ‘Dark Lord’. His lips might have thinned just the tiniest fraction, but otherwise - nothing. Draco felt his shoulders drop, inexplicably relieved.

“You had mentioned to me before that he had placed bits of himself in multiple vessels,” he continued. “Does that mean he split his soul more than once?”

“Yes,” Harry said. “Seven times, actually.”

Draco stared. He gripped his pen tightly. “Seven?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Harry gave a dry laugh. “Pretty sure, yeah.”

As far as he knew, only one other wizard had been able to create a horcrux. He split his soul once, and he lived nearly as long as Nicolas Flamel, if the rumors were to be believed. He hadn’t been sure if by ‘multiple vessels’, Harry truly had meant that the Dark Lord achieved what no other witch or wizard had ever achieved. Draco had witnessed firsthand the impossibilities of his magic - he could fly, for one - but this…

Seven horcruxes?

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am.” That easy look on his face hardened. In an instant, he wasn’t Draco’s Harry anymore, but Harry Potter. Chosen One. Savior of the Wizarding World. This Harry crossed his arms over his chest, staring down at the table as if analyzing a battle plan. “He murdered seven people to make seven horcruxes,” he said. “And I destroyed every single one of them.” 

And then, in an instant, the stony look cracked. Harry rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish laughed.

“Wait, that’s not true. Don’t write that down.” He held up a hand, counting on his fingers as he continued talking. “Let’s see…Ron did the locket, Hermione got Hufflepuff’s cup, the diadem was destroyed by the Fiendfyre, Dumbledore got the ring, Neville killed the snake, and Voldemort himself destroyed the one that was living inside of me…Yeah. I think that’s all of it. Oh, and I destroyed the diary, of course. In second year.”

Draco could almost feel his eyes popping out of their sockets. He was holding his pen so tightly, he thought he heard it crack. What was that new muggle phrase Astoria was so fond of lately?

“Let’s…rewind a bit,” he said. He straightened up in his seat. Took a deep breath. “Start from the beginning.”

By the time Draco’s lunch break was over (and then some), Harry had just finished regaling him with his harrowing version of their second year at Hogwarts. Harry took care of the bill, ever the hero, and they walked out of the diner together. Draco barely registered his presence as the afternoon sunshine beat down on them. 

“Granger made polyjuice potion,” he said. “In our secondyear?”

Harry burst out laughing. “That’s what you’re hung up on?” he said.

At the sound of his ringing laughter, Draco snapped out of his daze. He looked around, slightly surprised to see Harry still walking amicably by his side. Quickly, he trained his eyes back in front of him.

“It’s an extremely advanced potion, Potter,” he said. “It’s very complex and difficult to get just right. One wrong turn in the cauldron can have disastrous consequences. You’re lucky to still be alive.”

Harry gave a wry laugh. “Don’t I know it.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “And I can’t believe you used it to see if I was the Heir of Slytherin. I was twelve years old!”

“So were we!”

Draco huffed. “And yet you still managed to destroy a horcrux.”

At his own words, the strange daze threatened to overtake him once again. Harry had killed a part of the Dark Lord’s soul. At twelve years old. When Draco was twelve, he was mostly worried about acing his final potions exam. Which he did. He glanced at Harry. The man was still the same Harry Potter he’d known just an hour ago. Unkempt, jet-black hair. Thick glasses. Broad shoulders.

And yet…

Harry met his eyes. A familiar uptick from the corner of his lips. Those green eyes sparkled in the sun.

“So,” he said. “Same time tomorrow?”

Draco looked away. 

“Fine,” he said.

He hoped to Merlin he wasn’t blushing.

“So, you’re telling me that you would wear the horcrux around your neck?”

Harry shrugged. He took a sip of his coffee. Rain beat a tattoo outside of the windows, washing London into a mute gray. Draco still felt damp from the downpour. Since this was a muggle establishment, they couldn’t very well use magic to dry themselves. He shifted in his seat, his socks wet and his feet cold. 

“We had to,” Harry said. “We risked so much to get the damn thing. We weren’t going to let it out of our sight.”

Draco shook his head. He would never let such dark magic within ten yards of him, let alone keep it around his throat.

“I’m surprised it didn’t choke you the first chance it got.”

Harry let out a weak chuckle. “I mean,” he said. “It tried.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you know that scar I have? Here?”

He pointed to his chest. Draco traced his gaze down to that familiar space, just below the hollow of his throat. Of course. When he could, when touching Harry had been little more than a matter of course, he would explore every nick, every scar, including that one just above his chest, the marred skin that formed a ring around his neck. Draco would revel in him, in his lover’s strength and courage. 

Harry met his eyes. Somehow, without legilimency, Draco knew he was living in those same memories. Feeling the same whisper of lips on skin.

Draco cleared his throat. It didn’t help the dryness in his mouth.

“Yes, I remember,” he said.

His voice came out steadier than he’d hoped for. Harry said nothing. He didn’t look away, either. 

The chilly, little diner was warm, suddenly, uncomfortably so. The coffee machine gurgled behind the counter, something sizzled in the kitchen, and quiet chatter from the place’s few patrons drifted over him. He was very aware, in that moment, that this was a public setting. Which shouldn’t matter, of course; they had cast a muffliato around them. Still, Draco felt the need to lower his voice.

“I said I remember,” he hissed.

Harry blinked. Leaning back, he looked around the diner, as if he, too, were just realizing where they were.

“Right,” he said. “Er, what were we talking about?”

“The horcrux. You said it tried to choke you?”

Harry ran a hand through his hair. 

“Oh yeah. So, erm, I was wearing the horcrux. We were camping out in the Forest of Dean, and I was on watch one night…”

They left the diner half an hour later. London was still dreary, the rain still bitingly cold, but Draco kept his coat unbuttoned, still feeling a tad too warm.

The diner was lively today. People arrived in droves, chatting and laughing, the sunshine beaming in through the open doors. Dorothy was kept quite busy. Draco didn’t mind. He and Harry were sat in the corner near the kitchens, which smelled of fresh waffles and was just as warm. His notepad lay abandoned next to his plate. Across from him, Harry was resting his arm against the back of the booth, a smile playing on his lips. 

Draco knew he was way past his lunch break, but he nursed his cup of coffee, reluctant to leave.

“No,” he said. “That’d never happen. Never. Not in a million years.”

“Your boss seemed quite interested, last we spoke of it.”

Draco rolled his eyes. 

“Ritchie can’t tell a snitch from a quaffle,” he said. “I had one conversation about quidditch with the man, and that was enough to let me know he should never be allowed on a broom.”

Harry laughed. “You call your boss Ritchie?”

“Not to his face,” he said, defensively. “Anyway, he and the other Unspeakables would never agree to an interdepartmental quidditch match. They can barely manage the trek down to Mysteries.”

“We’ll do champions, then,” Harry said. “One on one.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. 

“Chasers?”

“Seekers.”

Cold nights on slow brooms, chasing a flying rock. The thrill of competition. The boys’ locker room, the slow removal of shoes, gear, trousers, pants…

Draco shook his head. “I don’t have a broom.”

Harry popped a cold french fry into his mouth. “Then get one,” he said. 

Draco frowned. His current position at the Ministry was definitely an upgrade from the coffee shop he’d been working at, financially speaking. However, his savings were still meager at best, laughable compared to what he was used to. Astoria managed with multiple modeling gigs, both in the muggle and wizarding worlds, but there were still days at the end of the month when they were scrambling to afford both dinner and rent.

A broom?

Out of the question.

“I’ll consider it,” he said. “If you somehow manage to convince everyone a one-on-one match is a good idea.”

“I don’t have to convince everyone, do I?” Harry said. “I just have to convince you.”

Draco blinked. His heart stuttered in his chest. When it started back up again, it beat fast enough to hurt.

“If you want to play quidditch with me, Potter,” he said. “All you have to do is ask.”

Green eyes on his. A slow, familiar smile. 

“Will you play quidditch with me, Draco?” he said.

Draco bit back his answering smile. Searching for anything to look at - anything but Harry’s gaze on him - he glanced down at Harry’s watch. 

“Oh, fuck, that can’t be the time,” he said. He looked around at the clock behind the counter, which indicated, clearly, that he was over an hour past his lunch break. Dread pooled in his stomach. “Ritchie’s going to kill me.”

Harry looked down at his watch too, and his raised eyebrows told Draco that he hadn’t realized just how long they’d been talking either. He looked back at Draco with a sheepish smile.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Not your fault.”

Draco hurried to pack up his pen and notepad. To his chagrin, he noticed he’d only managed to jot down a few quick notes today - a few more details on how exactly the Golden Trio had recovered the locket, how they had each felt wearing it around their neck. Somehow, the conversation had devolved into quidditch. 

He could have kicked himself. Ritchie just might do it for him.

They left cash on the table - there wasn’t time to wait for Dorothy to hand them the bill. Draco itched to run back to the Ministry, but Harry ambled by his side, hands in his coat pockets, and a grin on his face.

“Didn’t get through a lot of your questions today, did we?” he said. He seemed delighted by the fact.

Draco groaned. “Don’t remind me,” he said.

“Don’t worry, we’ve still got tomorrow.”

“No, we don’t,” Draco said. “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“Oh. Right.” 

There was a small silence, and Draco opened his mouth, ready to tell Harry he really must get a move on, or Ritchie might really kill him this time. Before he could, however, Harry nudged him with his shoulder.

“You could come over, if you want,” he said. “To Grimmauld.”

Draco stopped. Harry kept walking for a few steps, until he stopped too.

“What?” he said.

Draco gripped the strap of his bag, his hands cold and his body flushed. Memories of the last time he’d visited Harry’s home haunted him. The pancakes. The sex. The shouting. He took in a shaky breath.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said.

Harry stepped closer. The smell of mint and forests. A touch on his shoulder, and he led Draco to the edge of the sidewalk. Draco let him.

“Listen,” he said. He lowered his voice, and naturally, they leaned closer. “I know it’s weird, really, I do, but I want us to be friends again. There’s a lot that’s happened, and I understand things’ll be weird for a while, but I…” A small laugh, warm breaths on his face. “Dammit, Draco, I’ve missed you.”

Draco closed his eyes. Opened them. Harry was still looking at him with a familiar stubborn glint, an earnestness that made it impossible to look away.

“It’s not a good idea,” he said. 

He had meant to sound just as stubborn, just as earnest. Instead, his voice shook, the words unsure, even to his own ears.

“Why not?”

Draco bit his bottom lip. He shifted his feet, wishing in vain that he’d run over to the Ministry earlier. Because how he could he answer a question like that?

It’s a terrible idea, he could say. Because I’m still in love with you.

The thought struck him cold.

“I think,” he said. “That there’s been some sort of misunderstanding. Let me be clear. I am interviewing you. This is the task that was assigned to me by my supervisor, and nothing more. I ask that you treat it as such.”

Those green eyes narrowed, his mouth twisting. 

If looks could kill.

“Understood,” he said. He took a step back. “My apologies.”

Draco stuck his hands in his coat pockets, to hide the trembling. Meeting his eyes, something in him crumbled.

“Harry -”

“By the way, I’ll be out on an assignment starting next week,” he said. “Don’t know when I’ll be back. Good luck with your research while I’m gone.”

With that Harry, turned around. He walked away while Draco stared, gaping, wondering what he would tell Ritchie when he got back, wondering why he felt like his heart was splintering in his chest all over again. Wondering how he still had enough of it left to break.