The mission was to last six to ten months.
It would be relatively safe, they -- the team of Aurors in charge of Mission 46 -- had explained, via stern speeches and documents concealed in manila folders. It was to be swift and efficient. A team of seven of their best Aurors would go.
At just twenty-two, Harry was their best Auror. He’d barely needed to be trained. After all, he’d spent his entire life looking over his shoulder. He’d grown up fighting. It wasn’t any shock that he’d become accustomed to it.
Draco knew Harry had been chosen as soon as he’d mentioned the Mission. How couldn’t he be? They’d put their best weapon to use. Always had.
“So,” Harry’d said one night over dinner. Pasta with cheese. Draco was a shit cook, but Harry was home late from work that day, so he’d made do. “There’s this… thing, with work. There’s a mission.”
“Oh,” said Draco.
“Hm,” Harry nodded. “It’s really important. Like, the most vital mission they’ve announced in years. Since the war, probably.”
“Sounds interesting,” said Draco, though it very much didn’t. It sounded like danger and fear and sleeping alone.
“Yeah,” Harry agreed, his voice laced with strained enthusiasm, like he wanted to be excited but couldn’t quite bring himself to be. “I can’t really say much. Not that I don’t want to-- it’s a magical contract. I literally can’t. But it’s a cool destination. I don’t really agree with what the Ministry is doing, but… Well, it’d make for an interesting trip.”
Draco’s pasta wasn’t appetizing anymore. He folded his napkin onto his plate and took a long, drawn-out sip of his wine.
“When do you leave?”
Harry grimaced. “Draco, I haven’t been-- I don’t know if I’ll be going.”
“Of course you’ll be going,” said Draco simply. “You’re always chosen. In case you’ve forgotten, you’re Harry Potter.”
Harry snorted. “D’you know how many times someone’s said that sentence to me?”
“Not enough, apparently.”
“I’m well aware of who I am, thanks,” Harry sighed. Always sighing, Harry was. He was rarely angry. Anger, to Harry, always seemed to translate to exhaustion. “Listen, I just-- would you be mad? If I took the opportunity?”
“No,” Draco replied, because it was the truth.
He wouldn’t be mad at Harry for pursuing the things that he wanted to. Harry was passionate about his job. He worked harder than anyone Draco knew, and he’d done so for his entire life. Only, Draco wished that he’d just rest. Draco wished that Harry would never lift a finger for the rest of his life, and Draco could wrap him up in wool blankets and make him tea and brush his hair and take care of him.
Harry didn’t know how to relax. Harry would take care of Draco, as well as the entire world, and Draco would continue to wonder how to get through to him.
“Okay,” Harry sighed. “Okay.”
Draco had a nightmare that night. He’d gone a week without one, which was excellent for him. He had been doing well.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” said Harry, while Draco screamed. He couldn’t stop the screaming; he’d been trying for years. His bed at the Manor had silencing charms woven into the wooden frame.
“I can’t,” Draco gasped, though he was unsure of what exactly he couldn’t do. In the moment, it was an overwhelming everything.
“Oh, love,” Harry murmured. He had one hand rubbing up and down Draco’s arm and the other kneading into his hair, which was thick with sweat. Harry was adamant that he didn’t mind. “You’re safe. We’re safe. It’s okay.”
The screams calmed to cries, then the cries to sniffling. Draco’s head was buried into Harry’s chest. His entire body shook, each nerve twitching and trembling.
“Would you like to come with me to the kitchen to get some water, or should I summon it?”
A glass of cool water was part of the routine. Draco screamed. Harry held him. They drank water. They went back to sleep.
“Summon it,” Draco whispered. The kitchen was so cold, and Harry’s chest was so warm.
“Accio thermos.”
They drank their water in silence, passing the thermos back and forth wordlessly. When they’d finished, Draco curled into Harry’s side and closed his eyes, Harry still tracing patterns into his scalp.
Harry was gone within a week.
Harry leaving was not unusual. He’d gone on work missions before; three days, two weeks, a month. At the start of their relationship, he’d been flaky, tending to up and leave in the night if he felt anxious. It wasn’t startling for Draco to wake up alone. Though he woke up and brewed enough coffee for two, and he reached for Harry’s side of the bed when he had his nightmares.
When ten months had gone by and Harry wasn’t home, Draco didn’t worry. It was Harry’s longest work trip yet, sure, and he hadn’t written a single letter home, and the DMLE wasn’t giving out any information, but Draco didn’t worry. He was used to Harry’s absence. He was used to being alone. He wouldn’t be alarmed.
When a year had passed, Hermione cried on the sitting room sofa, worried that Harry would miss the birth of her child. Draco patted her shoulder, grimacing, and tried not to scream. He did enough screaming in the night as it is. He woke each morning with a raw throat.
When fourteen months had gone, the Ministry pointedly denied that anything was wrong. Ron was an Auror. Draco owled the Granger-Weasley household nearly daily to ask if he’d heard anything. The response was always the same; Not yet, mate, but I’m sure there’ll be word soon. Hope you’re holding up well. If you need anything just let us know. Draco stopped buying wine for his dinners when he noticed his tendency to drink several glasses too many. It was the only thing that let him sleep. He woke, he worked, he ate, he drank, he slept.
When it had been a year and a half, Draco became a godfather. Rosie was a happy baby, Merlin knows how. It was silent when Draco held her for the first time. There was an empty chair in the room that no one dared touch. Draco wrote to Harry to tell him the news. His owl roamed the city aimlessly for a few hours and then returned to Draco with the letter still tied to her foot. It’d been worth a try.
When the two year anniversary of Harry’s departure came, Draco quit his job. Nothing seemed very important, these days, potions being of no exception. Work had always been an option, anyhow. He certainly didn’t need the money, what with his inheritance and the hush money the Ministry had paid him in an effort to keep him from suing over the disappearance. That’s what they were calling it: the disappearance. He’d almost sued anyway, for the hell of it, though he’d never win. Harry wouldn’t have wanted for him to sue. Harry wouldn’t have wanted for him to quit his job, either, but Draco selectively ignored that.
Draco stopped going to the Burrow for Sunday dinners. There’d been a standing invitation for him as Harry’s fiancé, but when it had become apparent that Harry was not coming home, Molly Weasley had taken every photo of Harry off of the walls. She did the same with Fred, Ron said, as if it was any sort of comfort. It’s how she copes, Hermione had mumbled in his ear, six-month-old Rosie in her lap.
Draco stopped keeping track of how long it had been.
Ron and Hermione started inviting Draco to the pub on Fridays. It had been one of Harry’s favorite parts of the week, pub nights. Draco knew it was only because of his connection to Harry that they reached out. He was a vault of memories. He had stories of Harry they’d not heard. Pictures. Still, he went, and they talked about Harry and drank beer and smiled too much or too little depending on the day.
Eventually, Draco stopped going to pub nights. He stopped visiting Luna’s flat and stopped owling Blaise and stopped meeting his mother for brunch. He stopped going grocery shopping.
Kreacher tentatively cooked each meal, then. He did all of the cleaning and tended to the finances. The elf was cruel and cold to Harry, but had always been polite to Draco. He brought Draco soups and tonics. Reminded him to bathe.
Draco would’ve been unaware of the three year anniversary of Harry’s disappearance had it not been for Hermione’s sudden apparation into his kitchen.
Draco was sat at the kitchen table, his knees drawn to his chest, drinking a lukewarm mug of tea and reading a letter from Luna. The two had grown oddly close after her time in his cellar. (She’d never stopped writing, though Draco scarcely answered. He loved her endlessly. He’d love her even if she had stopped writing.)
“Oh, Draco,” said Hermione, as if Draco had done something very pitiful. Draco frowned.
“Oh, hello,” he said blankly. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I knew you were coming by.”
It was then that Draco noticed Hermione’s outfit. A dress. Heels. All black.
“I wrote to you a few weeks ago,” said Hermione, too gently. “There’s— we’re having a service today. For Harry. I thought you’d want to be there.”
Draco stiffened. His knuckles went white around his mug.
“No,” he said. “I wouldn’t.”
Hermione’s face twisted into an expression that Draco couldn’t place, before falling back to pity. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t mind waiting for you to get ready, it’s no trouble at all—“
“Thank you, Granger, but I’ll pass,” Draco snapped.
Hermione’s face hardened, and Draco remembered who she was to him, who he was to her. She only cared out of courtesy. She only tolerated him because Harry loved him. Harry had loved him.
“You need to realize that he’s gone, Draco.”
Draco willed his jaw from dropping. He blinked, swallowed.
“I’ve very well realized,” he said.
“I don’t think you have,” said Hermione. “I spoke to Theodore Nott, did you know? He said you haven’t been in touch with your friends in months. Months, Draco. You have to understand that Harry is gone—“
“You think I don’t understand it?” asked Draco, incredulously. “You think I— You think I’m unaware? Trust me, Hermione, I am impeccably aware. I’m aware of it from the moment I wake to the moment I fall asleep. There’s nothing that doesn’t remind me of him. He’s everywhere. I wake up screaming every night and he’s not there. I read a letter from Azkaban from my father and fucking— fucking freak out and he’s not there. I caught dragonpox and he wasn’t there. I’m very aware. I can’t not be. I’m— I know. I’m aware.”
Draco wasn’t sure when he’d started crying, or when Hermione had stopped looking angry and started looking sad, so very sad.
“Oh, Draco, I’m sorry,” she said, pulling him into a hug. Horrendously, Draco pressed his face into her shoulder and cried, wailing in a way that he hadn’t allowed himself to since he was a child, or since his last night with Harry. “I miss him too. We all do.”
“You don’t understand,” said Draco between gasps. “I loved him. I love him.”
“I don’t understand,” Hermione agreed. “What you two had… frankly, I was always a bit jealous.”
“Sometimes I miss him so much it’s as if I’ve lost one of my senses,” Draco said, still crying openly into Hermione Granger’s collar. “Sometimes something will happen and it’ll just hit me, and I’ll just realize that he’s gone, and I’ll never see him again, and—“
“I know,” she said. “Let’s go sit, shall we? Shh. I know.”
Three months later, two Aurors turned up at the front door. They didn’t knock; Draco had heard the apparation and opened the door before they had the chance.
He’d always hated the Auror uniforms. Stiff, flashy. He’d always hated helping Harry put his on in the morning. Each button of his coat felt like a warning. Lacing up the leather boots felt like a death sentence.
In unison, the pair of Aurors took off their hats.
“Afternoon, Mr. Malfoy,” said one of them. A few strands of her hair had fallen from her ponytail.
“Afternoon,” Draco repeated faintly.
“May we come in?”
Draco knew how this went. Knew how it was supposed to go, at least. Still, he shook his head.
“No.”
“Sir—“
“No,” Draco repeated.
The Auror with the loose hair nodded. The other — a man, older, perhaps in his early sixties — pursed his lips.
“Mr. Malfoy, I’m sorry to inform you that our team of investigators has found evidence that suggests that the team of Aurors of the mission that your— your partner, Auror Potter, was a member of, were killed. Our team of detectives have further confirmed this and have concluded that the members of Mission 46 have died. We are very sorry for your loss.”
Draco blinked. A muscle in his calf twitched.
“What was the evidence?”
The Aurors looked taken aback, if only briefly.
“The bodies of two teammates were located. We are very sorry, Mr. Malfoy.”
Draco considered this.
“Were either of them Harry?”
“...No,” the older Auror said, hesitating a bit. “We cannot legally disclose exactly what was found, but — no. His body was not located.”
“Our team of investigators and detectives are very thorough and have analyzed their findings to the best of their ability. They have solidly confirmed that all members of Mission 46 are deceased.”
Draco nodded.
“Very well. Thank you for your time. Goodbye.”
Draco closed the door in their faces, walked to the toilet and lost his lunch.
When he’d finished with that business, Draco changed into the nicest outfit he’d worn since his engagement party. He slipped on his loafers — a green leather so dark that they were nearly black, sleek with polish but scuffed just enough to show that they’d been loved — that were a gift from Harry on their first Christmas as a couple. He pulled off his engagement ring and added it to the chain around his neck, the one that held his mother’s Black family ring and his Slytherin school ring.
Hermione and Ron would be getting the news now. Hermione would cry. Ron would pour himself too much firewhiskey.
Draco looked himself up and down in the mirror. He looked tired. He was thin; thinner than he’d been when he was with Harry. Harry did love to cook.
Draco steeled himself, felt for his wand in his pocket, and apparated to Paris.
Draco remained in Paris for a week and a half. The first night that he was there, he did twelve shots of cheap, lukewarm vodka and slept in a hotel with far too many staircases. The woman who ran the desk told him that if he vomited, he needed to do it in the bathroom. Draco laughed at her, because he was a wizard, and he had a vial of hangover potion in his side pocket. He was a smart wizard. He’d come prepared.
No, but he hadn’t, had he? He wasn’t prepared. He wasn’t prepared for a life without Harry. Draco wasn’t prepared at all.
The second day Draco spent getting lost in shops. He spent two months’ worth of grocery money. He didn’t care. His Gringotts account was practically overflowing, now. He could do whatever he wanted. He had nothing to worry about, and no one to worry about him. He could spend the rest of his life getting fucked up in city alleyways. No one would come looking.
The rest of the trip Draco spent wandering through the city. He went to clubs, but only to drink. He drank a lot and ate very little. He visited landmarks and ordered l’escargot. (It was terrible.) He slept in the steep hotel. He smoked expensive weed on the balcony.
The Ministry released the news about Mission 46 on Draco’s tenth day in Paris. Draco was only made aware of this when he’d gone to the wizarding section of the city that night for more hangover potion, only to find the headlines plastered with Harry’s face. Photos of Harry with text that read déclarés morts and manqué par tous.
Draco watched as a teenaged girl walking with her friends did a double take at the newsstands. She was wearing a t-shirt with Harry’s face on it. She burst into tears. One of her friends pat her back awkwardly, while the others had begun to read the article aloud.
“—Auror Potter was killed doing a great service to our kind. He was a diligent and passionate worker and a vital member of society. He was known for killing the dark wizard Voldemort and winning the second Wizarding War at just seventeen. We thank Auror Potter for his bravery and compassion and send our love to his family and friends—“
Draco had decided that that was quite enough, thank you, and swerved himself into an alleyway to apparate back to the hotel when it happened.
He wasn’t sure how it happened, really. Maybe it was the weed, or the daze that had been over him for nearly four years, but it was difficult to discern what was going on. One moment Draco was walking, his loafers from Harry clicking softly against wet cobblestone, and the next he was being slammed against a brick wall, a hand at his throat.
“No way you’re innocent,” a man growled, his accent heavy with anger and obvious intoxication. “No way. A man like Harry Potter doesn’t get all close with a death eater and then fuck off and die.”
Draco would have said something, if not for the hand around his neck. Something like what are you talking about or let me go.
“It was you,” the man spat. Draco could hardly see him. He was broad and pale, as pale as Draco. His beard was unkempt. “You killed him. Admit it, filthy bastard. You killed him.”
Draco did not say anything, as there was no oxygen in his lungs, and that was a vital component to speaking. The man, however, did not seem to realize this.
“Say something, you fucking coward!”
When Draco was silent, save for his wheezing breaths, the man laughed, manic and low. He touched his wand to Draco’s chest and muttered crucio.
Draco lost consciousness fairly easily after that. Later, he’d blame that on his weak immune system, or the various things floating around in his bloodstream. When he woke, minutes or hours later, the man was gone, and every one of Draco’s nerves was screaming.
Eventually, he apparated himself to St. Mungo’s. He’d only managed it because of the time he’d spent there in sixth year; how familiar the hospital had come. Snape had helped enough to save him, but with a spell like that there was too much damage to be healed in one go. He’d spent a few weeks there alone. Voldemort hadn’t let him have visitors.
After that the days passed in an indistinguishable haze; not that they hadn’t been previously. Draco slept. Healers cast complicated charms over his body that made little lights glow yellow and red over his chest. Luna sat by his bedside, or perhaps he’d imagined that. Draco slept more. A Mediwitch charmed him clean each afternoon.
“Harry would want you to wake up,” Hermione said into his ear at one point, either in a dream or in reality.
When Draco did wake, he found that he was fine. His limbs were all in tact. He could breathe. Nothing hurt. He was quite alright.
“Ah, hello there, Draco,” said the Healer at the end of his bed. She had mousy hair and a toothy smile. “Do you know what day it is?”
Draco shook his head.
“Tuesday, the 18th,” she said. “Do you remember what happened before you came here?”
That Draco did remember.
“Did the Aurors find him?”
The Healer nodded. She looked young, no more than a few years past Hogwarts age, and yet she was masterfully casting complicated charms over Draco with barely any focus.
“He got you pretty badly, I’m afraid,” she said. “He meant to make you sleep forever. Of course, he didn’t account for the high amounts of toxins in both his bloodstream and yours.”
“So his spell failed?”
The Healer grimaced. “No. It took. We were able to lift the sleeping effects within a week, which we wouldn’t have been able to if it were cast under different circumstances.”
Draco nodded. He could see her hesitating, the way she’d part her lips but grit her teeth. She had more to say to him.
Draco wasn’t anything special, these days, but he considered himself to be of decent intelligence. He was smart enough to know what this would mean for him.
“I’m going to be cursed for the rest of my life,” he said.
Three months later, Draco dozed on the living room sofa, Luna and Ginny Weasley braiding his hair.
The two had all but moved in after Draco’s diagnosis, mostly at Luna’s insistence. She’d told him, a bit too bluntly, that he’d die if he were alone too often. He hated that she was right.
Luna had started “going out” with Ginny only a few months after Draco and Harry had. They weren’t exactly together, according to them, but they shared a flat and went out every night and were loyal to each other. Draco wasn’t sure what else there was for them to do in order to be considered a couple.
“Your hair is so healthy,” Luna sighed.
“Isn’t it?” said Ginny. “I wonder what conditioner he uses. Draco, get up. Show me your conditioner.”
“You’re getting needy in your old age,” Draco mumbled. Ginny had turned twenty-six the day prior.
Draco pulled himself out of Luna’s lap, unhooked his cane from the back of the sofa and led the pair up the stairs. Hermione had charmed them to be less steep than they’d been before. He hadn’t asked for her to, but he’d quietly appreciated it nonetheless.
The three were stood in the bathroom, Ginny examining Draco’s shower caddy with giddy excitement, when a sharp crack rang out from downstairs.
All of their heads snapped up. Children of war, easily startled.
“Did Hermione pop in?”
Ginny shook her head. “She’s with Rosie. Ron’s at work.”
“Who else can get through the wards?” Luna asked, her thin brows furrowed.
Draco blinked. Nobody. No one else could get through the house’s wards without invitation.
Slowly, the three of them made their way down the stairs, Draco first. He was blatantly the least capable fighter, and each of them knew it, but he maintained his dignity in leading the way.
Draco saw him first, naturally.
Harry was slumped on the sofa, right where Draco had just been. His hair had grown out and his skin had tanned, but that aside, he was exactly the same as he’d been the day that he left. He didn’t look hurt.
Harry’s head turned towards the staircase, where Draco stood frozen mid-descent.
Calmly, Draco asked, “Am I hallucinating?”
It happened sometimes. Hallucinations. Draco was always half-asleep. It did funny things to his mind, every now and then. It was no problem. He’d adjusted. He was adjusting.
“No,” said Harry, Ginny and Luna at the same time.
Ginny was crying. Draco could hear her quick breaths. Luna snaked an arm around her waist and the two apparated out. The force of the apparation nearly made Draco stumble.
Harry grinned. His eyes were the same.
“Surprise,” he said, only a bit weakly.
Draco came down the stairs as quickly as he could manage and all but poured himself against Harry’s chest. Harry’s face faltered, something akin to worry flickering across it, before he resumed his smiling. Draco was crying, too, he realized, when Harry began to shush him.
“What— you’re— you— you’re—“
“Shh,” said Harry, patiently, the way he had five years ago when Draco had nightmares. “We’ll talk in a minute. Don’t worry about that now.”
Draco wouldn’t argue with that. Pitifully, he nodded against Harry’s collarbone. He was crying hard, now, with sobs that shook his entire body.
“It’s okay,” said Harry. “It’s alright now.”
“You’re home,” Draco croaked, when the crying had abated enough.
Harry drew himself back enough that he could look at Draco. For a moment, they sat only looking at each other, inspecting each other. Draco’s eyes raked over every part of Harry’s skin that he could see. No new scars. No bruises. No bandages. Harry looked worn out, maybe, like he hadn’t been sleeping well. But he looked okay. Safe.
“I’m home,” Harry agreed.
“You’re not hurt?”
Harry shook his head. “I’m fine.”
“But the Aurors said—“
“Fuck the Aurors,” Harry snapped. His face had gone cold, his eyes stern and his mouth set in a firm line. “Fuck the Ministry. Fuck all of them.”
“Harry, that’s your job,” said Draco. He had to force the words out. Harry’s job, the one that had sent him away for five years, the one that had made everyone think he’d been killed, the one that had gotten Draco cursed.
“Are you kidding?” Harry asked. He had calmed; his eyes soft, concerned, his jaw relaxed. “Draco, I haven’t seen you in five years. I didn’t even know if you’d still be living here. Or if you’d even still— or— I missed five years of your life. I missed our wedding date. Hermione must’ve had her baby. I have no idea what you’ve been doing for five years. It’s all I’ve thought about. I’m never putting you or me in that situation ever again. I’m so, so sorry that I ever did.”
Draco gulped. “It’s not your fault. It was only supposed to be six months.”
“That’s still too long,” said Harry. He was shaking his head as he spoke. His eyes were unfocused. “I should never have agreed to leave for a mission like that. I’m so sorry, Draco. I’m so, so sorry.”
Draco curled his head into Harry’s chest. He didn’t say it’s alright, because it wasn’t, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Harry was alive, alive and home.
“Feel like I’m hallucinating,” Draco mumbled.
“I’m right here. You aren’t.”
Draco reached a hand up to trace the line of Harry’s jaw. He’d gained weight; muscle. He felt firm and powerful under Draco’s hand. Safe. Harry felt safe.
“You’re okay?” Draco asked.
“I am now,” said Harry. He was still shaking his head. “God. I can’t believe you’re still here. I was half expecting you to have moved out or something.”
Draco gave a soft laugh. “What, and leave Kreacher to fend for himself?”
Harry smiled, though it was quickly replaced with a frown.
“You’re not-- you haven’t-- are we okay?”
“Are you asking me if I’ve cheated on you?” asked Draco, after a moment.
Harry blinked. “I-- I just mean-- it’s been five years, Draco, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you, and I’ve been thinking about you every second of every day, but I just didn’t-- part of me was hoping that you weren’t alone. I never wanted you to suffer.”
“Harry,” Draco breathed. “I couldn’t-- it wouldn’t ever matter how long it’s been. Any time that I’ll spend without you is time that I’ll spend waiting for you. You’re it, Harry. I’m not going anywhere else.”
Harry closed his eyes, then, and a tear traced a line on his cheek, then dripped onto Draco’s face. He wiped it off and sat up, bringing his hands to cup Harry’s head.
“You’re okay?” Draco asked, again.
Harry nodded in Draco’s hands, though his tears were coming steadily now, and he’d evidently given up on fighting them. Draco’s thumbs swiped at them absently.
Draco had only seen Harry cry once before, when he’d visited a home for war orphans and broken down in the bathroom. That was the only time Harry had ever spoken to Draco of his childhood, of the cupboard and the days without meals and the abuse. Harry wasn’t fond of speaking about the things that still troubled him.
Harry’s breath caught on itself and he shuddered.
“Oh, my darling,” said Draco, “Where have you been?”
“It was an island,” said Harry, eventually. He was speaking into Draco’s shoulder, voice muffled by the fabric of his sweater. “The Ministry sent us to an island. It was remote. They’d detected use of magic. They wanted us to find the source. We got there and realized that there hadn’t been any fucking use of magic, because there was no magic, it was some sort of fucking dead spot. No spells worked besides the most basic charms. It was mostly forest, so there were lots of animals, and we had no way of defending ourselves, so we just -- we just hid and we tried to stay together and we did our best. We were running out of food, so we… we had to duplicate our food supply, and then duplicate the duplicates, but each time it’d lose so much sustenance that it was like eating air. People starved. We put their bodies on the beach in case anyone came looking, so they’d see that it was going wrong, and we’d get help. They never did.”
Draco stroked Harry’s cheeks while he spoke. Harry was staring blindly into his own lap.
“Oh, Harry,” whispered Draco. “Darling.”
Harry shook his head. “Stop. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have agreed to go in the first place.”
“You did what you thought was right,” said Draco, gently. This is what Harry had always told Draco in regards to the war. You did what you thought was right. You can’t be blamed for that.
“No,” said Harry. “I did what was expected of me. What I thought was right was staying here with you. I went because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. It was never what I wanted to do.”
Draco ran his fingers over Harry’s face. Touching his eyebrows, his temples, his cheekbones.
“You can’t help this, Harry,” said Draco. “It’s all you’ve ever known.”
A wave of lightheadedness hit Draco, then, and his eyes threatened to roll. He felt himself tilt forwards. Harry’s hands shot up to his shoulders, keeping him upright.
His entire demeanor had changed. He was alert, focused. Through the mud that was encasing and soaking through his mind, it made Draco sad. Harry needed to rest. He didn’t deserve to have to take care of someone.
“Draco?” he asked, the words rushing out of his mouth. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I’m fine,” said Draco airily. “Just need a second.”
Harry held him until he sat up again, blinking himself back to reality. Harry was frowning intently. His eyes were red, his nose raw and shining.
“What was that?” he asked.
“Just got dizzy,” said Draco. “Happens. I’m alright.”
“Happens?”
Draco shrugged. He’d have to tell Harry eventually, he realized, though all he wanted to do in the present moment was take Harry upstairs and tuck him into bed and bring him a bowl of his favorite soup.
“I-- I got hit with a curse,” said Draco. “Two years ago. I don’t really remember, I was high as shit.”
“You-- what?”
So Draco explained the curse to Harry. He explained the curse, along with the trip to Paris, and the Aurors at his front door, and the service the Weasleys had held, and Rose’s birth, and everything else that had happened in the past five years. Draco cried. Harry cried. Draco kissed him. Harry held onto Draco’s waist as if he was anchoring him to the ground.
“You’re going to be sick for the rest of your life because I couldn’t turn down a mission,” said Harry.
Draco shook his head. “I’m sick because of a drunk man attacking me.”
“Which wouldn’t have fucking happened if I had just put you first,” Harry snarled. “I put work before you. Any decent partner wouldn’t have gone. I don’t--”
Harry’s tone fell through, and suddenly he was crying again. Draco reached to comfort him, but he shrugged away, tugging himself out of reach.
“I’m so tired of hurting you,” said Harry. “I’m so tired of hurting you and everyone else and myself. I’m just-- I’m just tired. I’m so tired.”
“I know,” said Draco. “Darling. I know.”
“I’m so tired,” he said again.
“I know.”
“I think-- I think I need to go back to therapy,” said Harry, eventually.
Harry had dropped therapy after barely a year. Said he’d found it draining. Privately, Draco had always wished for him to go back.
Harry had been good to him. Harry took care of him. How Harry treated others was not at all the issue, and the fact that that was what Harry thought to be the problem was evidence enough that he should be seeking further treatment. The issue was with how others had treated Harry.
“That’s a good idea,” said Draco, softly. “I’m proud of you.”
Harry nodded, but was quiet. He held one of Draco’s hands in both of his own, inspecting it. His hands were far warmer than Draco’s. It was nice to be held.
“Why don’t you go up to bed?” asked Draco, gently. “I’ll come up after you in a minute, alright? I think we both need some rest, love.”
Harry nodded again, still silent, and wandered off to the bedroom. When he was out of sight, Draco stood and found himself going to the kitchen. His limbs moved of their own accord, carrying him across the tile and to the refrigerator, where he pulled out the water jug. Shakily, he filled a glass and carried it to the bedroom.
Harry was curled on his side of the bed, the left side, the side that had been empty for five years. He’d put his glasses and wand onto the nightstand in the same places that he always had. His clothes were in a pile on the floor.
Draco climbed into bed beside him and handed him the glass. Harry drank it, his adam’s apple bouncing as he swallowed.
“I love you,” said Draco, when Harry had finished.
Harry tucked his head into Draco’s chest.