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“Will miss be needing anything else?”
Astoria twirls her glass, the cabernet sloshing dangerously up the side. “No, that will be all.”
The sharp crack of Mitsy’s apparition rents the stuffy air of the dining room. Astoria doesn’t flinch, simply continues to stare at the beautiful food laid out before her. It looks delicious, carefully prepared and including all her favorite dishes.
She knows if she takes a bite, it will taste like ash in her mouth.
Draco’s late—for the third time this week—and it’s inarguably deliberate. There was a time when she believed it unintentional, his attention drawn to work or family obligations, but she no longer questions the nature of Draco’s absences. Anger and resentment, simmering right below the surface, threaten to spill over as she thinks of the hollow apologies she will hear later tonight.
Astoria rises from the table, leaving the entirety of the meal behind, and grabs the wine bottle on her way to the sitting room. The cold meal can serve as a reminder to Draco of the effect he has on her. She’s satisfied that he will be just as disheartened and wretched as her.
It wasn’t always like this. They had been in love, Astoria is certain of that. She simply could not have imagined all those sweet smiles, desperate touches in the dead of night, whispered words of comfort. Despite their Pureblood upbringings, neither of them is capable of that level of deception.
Astoria had pulled Draco from the edges of society, he’d been ostracized—lonely and abandoned—following the war and the imprisonment of his parents. Once Narcissa had been released, Astoria had provided a sanctuary for him, shielding him from the recriminations of a society that would not forgive him and a mother that could not love him more than her loathsome husband.
They had made a home together.
Draco had been by Astoria’s side through the untimely death of her sister and the implosion of her parent’s marriage. He had held her as she cried night after terrible night, lost to her relentless grief. She was certain, still is, that she would not have survived without him.
They saved each other.
They loved each other.
The sitting room is freezing, and she considers the utility of starting a fire in a room in which she does not intend to stay long. It’s already half eight and she has no desire to eat, but would thoroughly enjoy falling asleep in a drunken stupor. A dark chuckle breaks free from her tight chest and she swallows the rest of her wine. Certainly it’s enough to keep her warm—warmer than Draco’s kept her in months—and she considers the obscene commonness of drinking straight from the bottle before refilling her glass. Mother would not approve of a lack of manners, no matter the depth of Astoria’s melancholy. The wine curdles in her stomach as she contemplates telling her mother that they are more alike than either of them would like to believe.
It’s pathetic—she’s pathetic—pining away after a man, after a life she isn’t even sure she wants.
Astoria’s comfortable and it’s so dreadfully pedestrian that she hates herself for wanting to cling to that feeling. They’ve been together for years, already discussed marriage, children, and their future. Many promises have been made, promises Draco and Astoria have been unable to keep.
There was a time when she wanted nothing more than Draco, now she’s only certain that they’re both hopeless. Always alone, even when in the same room. It’s appalling how fiercely despondent she is, but the idea of losing him, losing them…the pain is so unbearable that she can’t hold the thought in her mind for more than a moment, lest she drive herself mad with despair. Astoria’s unwilling—unable—to move beyond their doomed relationship. She’s too caught up in the past, too caught up in what’s expected of them.
An echoing knock from the front hall pulls her from her depressing reverie. Whoever it is, she sincerely hopes that Mitsy will send them away without disturbing her; all the elves know to stay away when she’s in such a mood. However, Mitsy appears in front of her a minute later, wringing her hands with color high in her cheeks.
“We is having a visitor, miss.”
Astoria sighs, setting her wine on the table, and rubs her temples. “I don’t wish to see anyone tonight.”
“But miss, it is being Harry Potter,” Mitsy whispers, the blush darkening her face further as she beams.
Well, that explains why Mitsy is unusually starstruck. The illustrious Boy Who Lived, deigning to visit Astoria. She knows what he wants and she certainly has no desire to speak with him.
“Send him away.”
“Not until you listen to what I have to say,” says a deep voice from the doorway.
“Leave us, Mitsy,” commands Astoria, and the elf Disapparates with a sharp crack. “What can I do for you, Mr. Potter?”
Astoria does not rise as he walks into the room. He’s unwanted, an intruder in their home—her life—and she owes him nothing, most especially deference. Harry’s black hair is wild around his face, hiding the infamous scar; he’s imposing and formidable, so much taller and broader than she remembers. But, of course, she avoids being in his company.
Draco sees him often enough for the both of them.
“I want to talk to you.” He settles onto the ottoman across from her, she catches the tremor in his hands before he rests them on his thighs, and this blatant display of unease momentarily disarms her. “About Draco.”
“Absolutely not,” she scoffs, adjusting her posture, spine snapping into a straight line. Shame is not an emotion she will endure, and she cannot lose her composure in front of him. “You dare come into our home—”
“Astoria, please.” Harry reaches his hand out, as though he intends to stop her from leaving, before lifting his gaze to hers.
“Why should I listen to anything you have to say?” she asks, aiming for indifference but her tone edges on disdain. It’s his utter lack of regard for boundaries—he’s in their sitting room, trying to discuss Draco with her. As though she’s some naïve ingenue, ignorant to his true motivations.
“Because I care about Draco as much as you—”
Astoria wills away her sneer and tightens her jaw, as if he has any idea of the weight and scope of her feelings for Draco. As if he knows what they mean to each other.
“—and I know that he won’t say anything.”
Anxiety tightens her every muscle, her blood running cold—what has Draco told him? She’s felt the heavy silences, can practically hear the words that Draco’s unwilling to say, has almost spoken the truth of her own heart into the quiet night. Although she’s complicit in their torturous and disintegrating relationship, she’s not so noble that she’ll admit it to Harry Potter, of all people. He’s contemptible, and the reason Draco has drifted so far from her.
She vows to give him nothing.
“You don’t know anything about us.” It’s a poor attempt, she knows it before the words have even left her mouth, but it doesn’t stop her from lacing every word with derision. Harry and Draco spend practically every free moment together, if anyone knows Draco as well as her, it’s Harry.
“I know enough.” His lips quirk into a small smile and Astoria wants to claw it from his face.
The pain of his candor shreds what little self-control she has left. “You have five minutes,” she says, aware she will only allow him three.
“It’s important that you know Draco has no idea I’m here, in fact, I’m sure he’d be livid if I told him. You see, I told him I wouldn’t…” Harry runs a hand through his already tangled curls and pins her with his bright eyes. He’s burning—anguished and heartsick—and she cannot possibly bear his grief, as well as her own. “Draco loves you, he really does, but he’s not in love with you. He’s just too stubborn and he cares about you too much to leave, even though…he’s trying so hard to make it work and it’s, just—I don’t want to overstep—”
“Too late. You would do well to remember your place,” Astoria interrupts.
Her words have their intended effect and a flush creeps up Harry’s neck, but his gaze never wavers. “Yes—well, I’m sorry.” He clears his throat. “Draco’s unhappy, it’s obvious to everyone and I know you must see it. I’m asking…I’m asking you to be stronger—braver—than him and end it. You’re the only one he’ll listen to, he trusts you…so please, let him go. Let him be happy. Not just for his sake, but for yours, as well. From what he’s shared with me, you’re—”
Astoria’s cool demeanor cracks as she rises from the sofa, cursing her lack of a wand, and she clenches her shaking hands into fists. “Leave. Now.”
“I’m truly sorry, more than you know,” he says gently, standing and walking to the doorway. “Just think about it.”
“You assume if he leaves me, he’ll go crawling to you,” she says. Fury pulses through her; how dare he break her so easily, only to leave with a worthless apology. “Do you honestly believe that you can make him happy?” She laughs cruelly, her temper shattering her resolute stoicism, and she’s tormented by the fact she’s giving Harry power over her—over her life.
“I don’t know, but I have to try. Even if he doesn’t…” A tear tracks down his cheek, face etched with agony as he meets her fiery gaze. “I love him.”
They stare at each other for a long moment, each unwilling to be the first to break. Astoria’s devastated, far beyond anything she’s ever felt before. The idyllic future she’s always imagined has been ripped from her by the man intent on taking her place beside Draco.
Except, Harry has handed her weapon after weapon to use against him. She could run to Draco right now and ruin any chance they have at a relationship. Fool that he is, Harry wears his heart on his sleeve. The only reason she won’t is that his profound pain is obvious, and he’s so damn forthright about his own devastation it makes bile rise in her throat.
She knows that he loves Draco with his whole being, she can see it written in every line of his shuddering body. Despairingly, she must concede that Draco loves him as well; it’s been clear to her for months, despite her best attempts to pretend otherwise. Draco will leave her, no matter what she says or does. She’s powerless against the fates that continue to bring Draco and Harry together again and again.
The choice is no longer hers to make.
Harry closes the front door and Astoria falls to her knees. She’s never been more alone, shattered and bereft in the home she once shared with Draco. It’s now a mausoleum, a tomb of their own design, and they will languish here—heartbroken and trapped—unless she can find the courage to set them free.
-----
“Astoria left me.”
All the air leaves Harry’s lungs. He stares at Draco where he leans wearily against the siding and resists the urge to drag him inside. He looks like shit, all rumpled clothes and bloodshot eyes. It’s been six weeks since Harry confronted Astoria—calling it a conversation would be a stretch—and five weeks and six days since he’d last heard from Draco.
It’s been hell and now that Draco’s here, Harry has no idea what to do. He knows what he wants to do. He wants to confess his love, wants to get Draco into his arms, wants Draco to be his…finally.
Harry wants and wants and wants.
The waiting had nearly driven Harry mad. He’d been pacing his sitting room, restless at work, wandering the streets of London, anything at all to outrun his heartbreak. It hadn’t worked. The rhythm of his footfalls matched the troubled tempo of his thoughts.
Draco. Draco. Draco.
It had all been too much. Harry’s misery was excruciating and unrelenting, an ache all the way down to his marrow. He’d wanted to rip the heart from his chest, wanted to stop hurting, wanted to numb the pain of being without Draco.
And now Harry’s genuinely so distracted by Draco’s sudden appearance, he hardly notices his fading agitation as he takes a deep breath for the first time in weeks.
He wonders if Astoria told Draco what he said, she has no reason to protect Harry, to keep his secrets. She has every right to call him out on his shameless deceit. Maybe Draco—
“Are you going to make me recount all the sordid details on your front step or can I come in?” Draco asks in his characteristic drawl.
“Oh—shit, sorry.” Shaking his head to clear his unsettled thoughts, Harry steps aside and gestures at Draco. “Yeah, come in.”
Once Draco’s in the hall, he hangs his coat on the rack and heads to the kitchen. Harry’s struck by the normality of it all, in spite of Draco’s disheveled appearance. It’s like every other time Draco’s come to his flat and he doesn’t know whether to be comforted or alarmed by Draco’s eerie calm.
Harry trails after his retreating back. “Draco, I—”
“Please, Harry—just, for once in your life, be patient.”
Harry hops onto the counter, keeping a wary eye on Draco’s relaxed movements. Draco seems to have an agenda, a list of things he must do before he can talk about what happened: biscuits, tea, firewhisky. And it’s almost too familiar, as though nothing has changed when Harry’s certain they’re standing on the edge of a precipice. This is where everything changes. They can’t go on as they have been, or at least, Harry can’t.
Harry’s never loved anyone the way he loves Draco; doesn’t know how to live with his tender heart open and laid bare, how to endure this vicious need, for a love he can’t have, destroying him from the inside.
But most of all, Harry doesn’t know how to live without Draco.
Lost in his anxious reverie, it takes a moment to register Draco’s nearness, and the heat of Draco’s body takes Harry’s breath away. Draco’s staring at him with an inscrutable expression, he’s gorgeous in the muted light, and so close, so close, Harry can count the freckles on his cheekbones. It tears at Harry’s chest—the wanting. It hurts so much to see him like this—like he’s finally home, like he could belong to Harry—that Harry averts his eyes to his hands tangled in his lap.
Draco plants his palms on the counter, bracketing Harry’s tense thighs, and Harry can feel the ghost of a breath on his cheek.
“Harry…look at me.”
“I can’t,” Harry whispers.
One elegant finger traces Harry’s collarbone before tipping his chin up, and his heart constricts painfully as Draco’s warm grey eyes meet his.
“Tell me to stop.” It’s barely a whisper. The touch of Draco’s lips is the softest Harry’s ever felt and it frees something deep and raw in Harry’s soul. Pulse pounding in his ears—this, this, this—Harry surrenders to Draco’s reckless mouth. It’s sweet and cutting, beautiful and torturous, exquisite and agonizing. It’s everything Harry’s ever wanted, and unbearable in its perfection.
Just minutes ago he’d been a shell, Draco’s absence carving him open and leaving him empty. Now, Draco’s kissing him. They’re in Harry’s kitchen, he’s wrapped in Draco’s arms, and it’s so unbelievable that Harry sinks his hands into Draco’s bright hair to ground himself. It drags a quiet sigh from Draco and tears spring unbidden into Harry’s eyes.
It’s too much. What if Harry gets exactly what he wants? What if Draco’s only here because he misses Astoria? What if Draco leaves again?
What if what if what if?
Harry doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve this overwhelming happiness, doesn’t deserve Draco.
“Wait—”
But Draco doesn’t wait, his mouth moves to Harry’s neck and Harry can’t stop his soft moan. It’s bliss, Draco’s lips a benediction. Harry wants to lose himself in this aching relief, wants to let Draco absolve him of his sins, wants to live in this moment forever.
But, Harry knows Draco deserves better.
“Draco, please…stop.”
He stills, muscles stiff and unyielding in an instant, and the air between them becomes unbearably thick.
“I thought you…” Draco swallows audibly, staring past Harry’s shoulder. “I thought you wanted this too.”
“I do. Draco, I want you so much I can barely think straight.”
“But?”
“But—but not like this. Not because you’re upset, because of…of Astoria—”
Draco twists out of Harry’s grasp and stalks out of the kitchen. Sweat beads on Harry’s neck as dread coils, intense and scalding, in his gut.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Draco’s panting harshly, back turned towards the cold hearth, emotionless mask back in place when Harry steps into the sitting room.
“I just don’t understand. I had all but convinced myself that you felt the same way and then—I’m here and I kiss you and…what do you want? Because I’m at a loss—”
“Goddammit Draco, I love you! I want you, all of you, every fucking part.” Draco’s back hits the mantel as Harry advances, anger and fear and longing pushing him forward. “I want you every damn day. I want to be with you, more than anything—the last five weeks have been hell. But not like this, not because you’re in pain and you think fucking me will make it all better. Not because you miss her. I want you when you’re you. When you want to be with me because I’m Harry and you’re Draco and we’re meant to be together.”
As Harry says it, the truth of his words shock him into near silence, and he whispers, “You’re it for me. I’ll never love anyone like I love you.”
Draco’s hands clench into shaking fists and Harry’s sure that he’s about to be struck, sure that Draco’s about to hurt him in any way he can, sure that he’s pushed Draco too far. Harry’s never been able to hold back when it comes to Draco—to them and their always intense relationship.
It takes a moment for Draco’s fake bravado to crack, and he stumbles forward, collapsing into Harry’s arms. His hands clutch at Harry’s shirt as sobs wrack his thin body, and Harry’s heart breaks all over again, even as hope burns, heady and irresistible, in his veins.
It’s a confusing tangle of elation and despair, and Harry forcefully pushes aside his own feelings to focus on Draco.
Because there’s no one else to blame for Draco’s pain, it’s all Harry’s doing. It’d been an impulsive decision to visit Astoria, even if he knew without a doubt that it was the only option left for him. The regret, had he kept quiet, standing idly by as Draco suffered even more, would have been unbearable.
Nevertheless, Draco’s overwhelming grief—hot tears soaking Harry’s shoulder as Draco’s anguished cries echo in the small room—rips through Harry, leaving him hollow and ashamed. It’s all his fault.
You did this.
He wants nothing more than for Draco to be happy, with or without him, and Harry’s willing to suffer through the agony of losing him. But he never counted on Draco’s sorrow, never anticipated that Draco would come apart at the seams without Astoria there to keep him together.
Harry can’t deny his own selfish motivations, he’s been in love with Draco for years and wants to be with him. He’d spent months trying to convince Draco to let Astoria go, for both their sake’s, to no avail. It didn’t matter that Draco was committed to Astoria and the façade of their happy relationship; it didn’t matter that, in the end, it might ruin both of them.
Harry’s never been more desperately in love.
Whether he meant to or not, Harry hurt the man he loves. Both Draco and Astoria have had more than their fair share of heartbreak and Harry, shortsighted and selfish, forced himself into their relationship, causing irreparable harm.
What made Harry think he had the right to make the choice for them?
Sick with guilt, Harry holds him as Draco falls apart. “Shhh, I’m here. I’ve got you.”
How can Harry say he loves Draco, while causing him so much pain?
It takes several minutes—Harry fighting the urge to confess even more as he clings to Draco’s trembling body—before Draco’s calm enough for Harry to lead him to the sofa.
Draco collapses onto the cushions, groaning as he combs his fingers through his tangled hair. He looks utterly wrecked and Harry wants to wrap his arms around Draco again, keep him safe, guard his gentle heart.
Harry sits on the nearest armchair, unwilling to test his dubious self-control by sitting next to Draco. “What happened? You don’t have to tell me, if it’s too…”
“As I’ve said, Astoria’s left. She tried to leave weeks ago and we fought—I thought we could work it out but she said she’s done, that she knows I am too. We can’t do it anymore.” He chuckles humorlessly, grabbing a pillow and hugging it to his chest. “Just like you said—told me time and again—it’s been over for awhile. We—I should have ended it ages ago. We’ve always made much better friends than lovers. Then, there’s you and I—I don’t know, well…” Draco trails off, and turns his tear-stained face to Harry. “I don’t quite know what to do with myself.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t lie to me,” Draco says sharply, wiping his eyes, and Harry has to look away.
“How could you think—it doesn’t matter what…if I want you to be with me. I hate seeing you like this and I know you care for her, love her even. You’ve been together a long time, it’s not easy to…just leave. You must remember how I was after Ginny. We both knew, and still—everything in you fights it.” Harry sighs and drags his sweaty palms along his trousers.
Harry’s never been good with words, he can’t figure out how to explain that he’ll wait, wait even longer, if it means he can have Draco. Harry wants to explain that he’s no more threatened by Draco’s love for Astoria than Draco should be of his own for Ginny. He wants to explain that Harry’s certain they were made for each other.
What can he say, other than I love you, please stay?
“Even if it’s inevitable, it still hurts. And I wouldn’t expect—what I mean is…” Harry stops, unable to continue speaking around the lump in his throat.
Harry looks at Draco, and doesn’t see the broken man he is, but the whole and happy man he could be. He sees their future, laid out before him in perfect detail, years and years of unending happiness—together, always. Harry takes a deep breath and gives Draco the truth, and his heart along with it.
“I’m yours. Yours, however you’ll have me. I just want you to be happy and I really believe I can do that—make you happy. We’re perfect together. And I can wait, for as long as you need. But if that’s not—if you can’t love me like that, then I’ll be your friend. I’ll be whatever you need me to be.” Tears are falling thick and fast down his cheeks, and he can barely make out Draco’s blurred form moving from the sofa. “I love you, love you so much, Draco. Please, just don’t—don’t leave again.” He’s sobbing, chest heaving, as Draco kneels in front of him.
He tucks himself between Harry’s legs and wipes the tears from Harry’s cheeks, whispering, “Shh, I’m here—I’m here. Oh darling, I’m so sorry. I’m not leaving, I’m never leaving. I love you.”
Love.
It cracks Harry open, everything he’s feared and hoped and wanted, ready for him. If he’s brave enough, if he’s willing to take the risk.
Harry wraps his hands around Draco’s delicate wrists, willing it to be true. “It’s going to be hard—harder than anything we’ve ever done. We can’t run away, even when we want to. Even when it hurts. And it’s going to take time, so much time. But I promise it’ll be worth it. I’ll give you anything—everything you want. Just, please…”
“I’m ready. I’m already yours, have been for a long time.” Draco smiles softly and presses a chaste kiss to Harry’s lips. “And I’m here as long as you’ll have me.”
“Forever.”