It’s Friday, you’re baking, it’s a lovely early spring morning, the birds are singing for us and the sun smiling. I pretend to do work; pretend, of course, because it’s impossible not to look at you in your apron, shirtless, your arms on display and your sheen of sweat alluding to worshipping each other at night.
I have no clue what you’re baking, just that it’s not treacle tart, that I would recognise. I’m not familiar with all the muggle food yet, not out of suspicion, but because I’m rubbish at food and you’re great so I’m happy to leave you in the kitchen and work your magic. You throw something else in, it’s powdery, flour, maybe sugar? I can’t tell, you fish the dough out, throw it onto the countertop and start kneading it flat.
You improvise. That’s what amazes me. You don’t ever use a recipe, you just go with your gut feeling, do what feels right. You just trust your instincts. Something I’ve never trusted myself enough to do. I’m jealous of that sometimes.
I look at you again, give up trying to identify the blob you’re working on. Your arms. I don’t know what it is about them, I really don’t, but if you wear a tank top or a tight t-shirt – or, even better, nothing – all I can think of is how strong they are, how they feel lifting me up against the wall, around my waist pulling me close to you, your hands, all over me, in me, everywhere.
“Draco?” You say, I blink, fuck, my mind wandered. You just smile brighter, say I’m not being productive, but I am, I was just thinking.
“Breakfast in ten. Scones.” You steal a kiss before taking your shirt on, but you know me too bloody well and roll your sleeves up.
I don’t do much work that day.
It’s windy. The curtains dance gently in the breeze, inviting us to join, ever so delicate and soft in their steps. The little plant follows the fabric, leaves and stem moving carefully. It reminds me of how Father and Mother would dance when I was little, very little. He the straight but elegant curtain, her the graceful plant that followed in his steps, only blossoming when he was very close or very far, nothing in between.
Something hits the floor, loudly.
The sound scares me, makes me jump, shocks me because I don’t understand what’s happening, but the weight is gone from my hands and I dropped it and it broke, didn’t it, I ruined it again.
It’s a mess, soil and herbs scattered on the floor, it even went into the kitchen, all in the middle of broken terra-cotta clay.
“Draco?” You’re peeking out of the bathroom, your hair a dripping mess and your chest bare, I don’t know why, but your voice makes me cry, I panic and cry, I don’t know what’s happening, I’m sorry, it’s like last time, your voice, I want to run but I can’t, I freeze, turn into a statue.
I don’t usually cry like this, I didn’t usually cry like this, except for the last time you hit me. Whenever I cried, it was quietly in front of you, but now I’m the polar opposite, I sob, it’s far too loud for just one person crying, but it’s just me, you look as surprised as I feel, it’s just me.
I look at you between my fingers, you’re difficult to make out through the well of tears, wavy and a blob of colour, is that your world without glasses? I don’t know, it doesn’t matter, you look hesitant, alert, as if I’ve turned into a ghost in front of you.
“Hey”, you say, I can barely hear you, can’t make out the tone of your voice, “hey, Draco,” are you angry?
“It’s okay,” you say, you’re not angry, just confused, I am too.
“It was just a flowerpot, it’s fine, love,” you say, hug me, you’re standing dripping wet with a towel around your waist, my shirt is getting soaked but it’s fine. You hold me until I stop crying, I open my mouth to apologise but you don’t let me, you just help me clean up the mess I’ve made and make me a cup of tea after you disappeared into our room to get dressed, I don’t understand, but thank you, Harry.
We’re going for a walk, it’s a little windy but the sun is out and it’s lovely. You take me to a hillside with wildflowers, start picking them, you make a little bouquet, hold it out for me to take and smile at me. I smile back, know that my smile will never compare to yours, you’re so happy when you’re happy, Harry, I love you.
You grab a dandelion, tuck it behind my ear, touch my cheek.
“Sappy git,” I tease to hide how much I’m in love, it feels like before, before, you laugh and kiss me, lift me up and joke-tackle me up the hill, you never exercise and yet you lift me effortlessly, it’s so hot.
“Only for you, baby,” you say, it makes me blush and you tease me back for it. It’s perfect.
You move close, it isn’t arousing in the slightest, you have that look in your eyes, you’re pissed. There’s barely an inch between us, you’re not even tall and yet you tower over me, broaden impossibly, fuck, you’re everywhere again, I have nowhere to go, Harry, please, you were supposed to have stopped now, please.
Your voice is low, angry, so angry, I can’t tell what you’re saying because you’re so angry and it’s the only thing I can hear.
You lift a hand, lift both, I think you’re going to grab my shoulders and shake me again, violently, like I’m a rag doll, the way you used to, it hurts and hurts and hurts, Harry, don’t touch me, please, stop.
The hands never find my body, they fall, and you step back, sink into the chair as if you’re falling into it, hide your face.
“Sorry,” I hear, you say it again and again, chant it like you used to chant my name, but I can’t, I can’t listen to your voice, Harry, I’m sorry, it’s the wrong you, it’s wrong, too loud, everywhere, I want to hear my thoughts without yours infesting me, just let me go.
You don’t look up as I retreat slowly, I don’t know if you can hear my steps, but it doesn’t matter, you let me go. Sorry, sorry, sorry, you’re a broken record, broken in so many ways, I need to find a record player that finds out how to make you sing.
The tears fall the second I close the door behind me. The echo of your sorry follows me to Mother’s place as I apparate, haunts me for my entire stay.
When I come back, you don’t speak, don’t look at me, don’t sleep next to me, instead taking a liking to the couch. You feel just as bad as I, possibly worse, and you don’t know what to do. I don’t blame you. The day is long, blurry, I couldn’t tell you the weather, only that I was frozen to the bone.
I hear things. Noises. Wind, in the middle of the bedroom, though I don’t feel it on my skin. I hear sorry. Your voice. Your many, many voices.
I sleep during the day, cry during the night, I lose track of time and space, I float, I’m too big for the room, then too small, I feel like I should know the shapes around me but it’s alien to me, foreign and cold, the familiarity stolen from every object I touch. It’s violating and deeply offends me, but it fades, and I don’t feel anything anymore.
Eventually I see you in the living room when I’m going to pee. The clock says five in the morning, but you look wide awake. Fuck, Harry, don’t look at me like that, what did I do now? See, Harry? There’s no broken glass, no burnt food, nothing I’ve forgotten to do, my eyes panic, run over the shelves, marathon, there’s nothing I’ve forgotten, is there? I have barely touched anything since I came back, did I already forget how to be good, Harry damnit I didn’t mess up, I *didn’t*, I’m sure of it, I see nothing wrong, I’m done looking, everything’s perfect, I don’t want to look back at your eyes, green and brilliant against the dark woodwork and accusing me of wrong, I don’t want to look back and see failure, disappointment, anger, hate, I’ve been good, Harry, I’ve been fucking good, I don’t understand-
“Draco…”
It’s soft, not harsh, it’s careful and sad and broken and it hurts. I start sobbing uncontrollably, I’ve become such a loud and ugly crier, messy and snotty, I can’t even stand up, you follow me down, just look at me silently, but I don’t dare look back, can’t stand the thought of your eyes seeing me like this, hating the disgust in them.
You don’t touch me, don’t say a word. I still can’t stand to look into your eyes.
“I think I need a mind healer too”, I whisper. I think you nod. I think it’s a good nod.
The next time you slap me I don’t think it’s real.
You’d been struggling with a door, wanting to fix it yourself, but there are some metal bits or something that don’t fit, I don’t quite understand it. I was just going to help, just mean to help, Harry, I thought a spell to fix it would be fine, wouldn’t it?
I guess not, you snap, slap, freeze.
I just stare at you, not knowing what else to do. The pain is already gone, as if I imagined the whole thing, but then you wouldn’t look so horrified, would you?
Time is slow, I’m floating again, but differently, slower, all sound muffled, I have goosebumps and just stare at you.
You move away, slowly as if you’re floating too, and sit in the couch. I think it means I get the bed tonight.
I look back at you before I close the door behind me. Your curls. They’re always floating.
You’re still there, alone, in the couch, staring out at the black world, something in front of you steams, probably tea, though you drink coffee at the strangest of times, too, the trail of smoke swirls in the air and disappears above you.
I don’t say anything, I just sit down next to you, you’re looking out still and don’t see me yet. You jump when I lean my head on your shoulder, just slightly awkward with my height, but you quickly relax, move the blanket so it covers the both of us, don’t reach out, you just sit with me in silence after you’ve sniffed and wiped your nose.
We sit there quietly, the clock ticks, the hands move to two in the morning, I’m not tired in the slightest. I feel bad for you, maybe I shouldn’t, but I do, and I grab your hand, squeeze. You squeeze back immediately.
I think you’ve stopped crying, there is no sound, even the quietest of criers make some sound, but something wet hits my forehead and I glance at you.
You stare into the empty air, deep in your thoughts, tears streaming down your face in a continuous flow, you don’t even blink and they roll down your cheeks. You’re frowning ever so slightly, and your jaw is set, but otherwise you look completely relaxed.
You look at me, your eyes red and swollen, as if I’ve hit you there, I know what it looks like, your whole face is blotchy red and covered in wet tears, and you don’t have to promise it, because I know.
This time I won’t happen again.
The next day you come home with a cat.
The world changes in the dark, and when it’s night, you told me once, and I didn’t agree. It doesn’t change, I said; no more than it changes through the light of the day. You’d just woken up from a nightmare, jumpy and still in shock, angry, but you hadn’t hit me yet, it was before we’d moved in together. Before I had learned that you’re as stubborn as I and that arguing is pointless, you’ll just hit- sometimes, arguing is pointless.
I told you it was illogical; there just isn’t light, that’s the only difference, you’re being silly, you’re not feeling sick, are you? We argued, I didn’t feel bad, then, that your eyes were red and your body shining with sweat still, because I was distracting you, weren’t I, making you forget your dream. But we got nowhere, I knew I was right, you insisted I was not, and no matter what arguments I produced you just said, ‘but it’s different’.
I still don’t agree; the world is still the world in the night.
But I don’t think that’s what you meant.
The world is different in the dark. When there is no light. When you’re at rock bottom. When the sun is cold on your skin. When water tastes like bile and piss and blood.
Nothing is the same then, when all you know is depression and worry and hurt and you just want to breathe.
She was a stray cat, picked up by a rescue team. She’s skinny and completely white, with yellow-brown eyes that look like flashlights at night; or, like you say, the holy caramel tea in one of your silly food-dreams. You said you got her specifically because she reminded you about me, I assumed because of my hair, but she’s very jumpy and now I’m not so sure anymore.
I call her Nox, and you hate the name, prefer to call her Narnia, like they did at the centre. I’m not sure if you even know what my name for her means, and if you do, you don’t know what it means, because I’m admitting, in my own way, that you were right back then, that the world really is different in the dark.
You’re doing much better now, it’s obvious in the way you act, talk, laugh, you’re better and I’m so glad. You visit hospitals, muggle and magical alike, and you talk to children, when they’re witches or wizards you give them your autograph, it’s the only time you’ll do that, and when they’re not you use wandless, wordless spells and make them promise not to tell anyone that you can do magic.
You did it for weeks before you told me where you went, and only because I dragged it out of you, you admitted that you use glamour until you’re at the hospitals, so no one recognises you. Because you don’t want anyone to know.
If I didn’t know better, I would think you were ashamed about being incredible, but you just think it’s the least you can do for those kids, and you don’t want to come off as if you’re bragging.
You’re the best person I’ve ever known. I hope you know that.
It’s Christmas Eve, we’re out, standing in front of a stone, humans are weird, you’re crying next to me quietly, you’re always so loud in your emotions yet your crying is deadly quiet.
It’s dark, the sun asleep and the streetlamps too far away to give enough light. It should have been eerie, but you’re there, it’s just quiet and a little cold.
I don’t know what it’s like to never know my parents, you don’t know what it’s like to have one hate you, what it’s like to have one die. But everyone knows the empty feeling.
It’s snowing, I was worried we wouldn’t get a white Christmas but it’s finally snowing, turning our noses red, our hands blue, the world white.
It’s okay, I remind you, and it is. I have you and you have me.
It’s quiet. Calm. Bliss.
We’re okay.