Chapter 9
Draco’s plane home was booked for that Friday morning. He had finally made it to the end of his three weeks. He doesn’t know how to feel about it. His heart beat no longer feels wrong, each step he takes in the manor no longer feels wrong, but it doesn’t feel right, either.
The prospect of returning to his little life in France doesn’t feel right either.
Nothing does.
It's Thursday night, and Draco is sitting in a secluded corner of another pub, somewhere, next to Harry. Granger and Weasley had been there, as had Luna, but they had gone now. Granger and Weasley back to Grimmauld for the night shift of looking after the children, and Luna back to the mysterious women she had been sleeping with and spending a lot of the evening dreamily talking about.
Harry’s leg is warm where its pressed against Draco’s and his arm is warm where its pressed against Draco’s and Harry is animatedly talking with Neville who had arrived late, but all Draco could pay attention to was the feeling of Harry’s body next to him. The warmth it radiated, the soft tickle of Harry’s arm hair against Draco’s risk when Harry reached for his pint, the smell of him, like bubblegum and sandalwood- a mix that came from spending almost all his time with children- and underneath a hint of the more masculin tang of sweat.
Draco wanted a candle of it, as gross as it sounded.
(and he had to admit, it did sound pretty gross)
It was dark outside, as Draco stared out of the window, and a hand on his arm pulled his attention back to reality.
“I’m off now. S’a shame I didn’t see much of you- visit again, yeah?”
It was Neville, his broad, warm palm on Draco’s bicep, the heat bleeding through the sleeve of his shirt.
“It was good to see you too” Draco said, before frowning. “I’m sorry I didn’t talk much.” Neville smiled warmly at him, which massively took Draco aback. By all rights, Neville should hate him- they all should, really. He tried not to dwell.
“It’s no worries, mate. More incentive for you to visit again, yeah?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Draco said, and surprisingly, he found himself meaning it. He did actually want to visit again. He had come to enjoy the company of the people Harry- and, weirdly, his mother- had surrounded themselves with.
His eyes followed Neville’s broad back as he left the pub, Draco suddenly all too aware that it was just him and Harry. He feels himself blushing.
Harry shifts so they're facing each other, still sitting on the same side of the booth. His eyes are so bright, reflecting the soft lamplight and Draco wonders how he never noticed. For all their time at school, he never noticed how pretty Harry was. He could have called him Pretty Potter. Things could have gone differently.
Harry was speaking but Draco couldn’t hear a word. Everything faded into the background as he stared at Harry. Everything in him yearned to be closer so he just… did. He shifted in his seat, closer and closer.
The four glasses of wine in him were clearly in control as he leant forward and kissed Harry.
He kissed Harry.
He kissed Harry sodding Potter, Chosen one, Golden boy. Object of all of Draco’s tainted affection.
“Fuck” he breathed, before apparating away.
-
He spent Friday morning meticulously packing his suitcase whilst studiously avoiding thinking about the night before. He lied to his mother about how early his flight was as he said his goodbyes, skipping breakfast and apparating to a corner of the airport car park three hours before his flight.
He was through customs in a matter of minutes, and spent the rest of the time reading his book and studiously avoiding thinking of the night before.
Then he boarded the plane, sitting next to a kind and smiling old lady. He made light conversation with her in French and then read his book and studiously avoided thinking about the night before.
And then he was back in France and the air was warm and balmy as he stepped from the plane and he retrieved his luggage and apparated back to Saint-Emilion and walked the long way home, all whilst studiously avoiding thinking about the night before.
It almost worked. He unlocked his green sage door and he unpacked his suitcase before stowing it away under his bed and he had bought milk on his way home so he could make himself a hot chocolate, which he then drank on his balcony, basking in the midday sun. then he returned inside and washed up his mug and sat on the edge of his bed, breathing in the scent of home.
He had never felt so lonely.