Chapter 12
Harry was late for work the next day. He woke up in a panic to a silent house, rather than the impatient banging on the door and the smell of coffee he'd quickly got used to. Parvati wasn't speaking to him, he remembered, and ran all the way to the shop, to find her silent and scowling, turning her head when he wished her a nervous good morning.
He supposed he deserved it. He'd started to have doubts about what he was doing even as he got to the airport, but it was only as the plane was actually taking off that it dawned on him that he might have overreacted, just a little. By then, of course, it was too late.
Once he'd got home, he plugged his phone in to charge, and was then too nervous to turn it on, kept wincing at any noises outside, in case it was someone charging up the staircase to bang on the door. He almost hoped they would – hoped Draco would – because then, at least, it would be evidence that Draco cared. No one did though, and eventually he cracked, turning on the phone and watching, wincing, as a stream of texts came through.
What the hell do you mean, you're going back to London? Where are you right now?
Have you gone insane? Are you seriously leaving without talking to me?
Can you answer my bloody calls, please?
WILL YOU FUCKING CALL ME.
The notification for missed calls read – horribly – 27. Harry hit the voicemail button, feeling like the lowest of the low, but still horrendously angry. If Draco hadn't wanted to Harry to leave, then he shouldn't have fucking left first, should he?
Draco had only left two messages. In the first, he sounded odd – flustered, bunged up, as if he had a heavy cold. "Harry? Are you – what are you doing? Call me back when you get this." In the second, he just sounded angry. "I thought Gryffindors were the brave ones?" he snapped. "Reception told me you've checked out. More fool me, I suppose. Well, screw you, Potter. I hope you have a really terrible life."
Potter.
It had hurt more than when Draco had broken his nose back in fifth year, which felt like a hundred, million years ago.
Harry had called Parvati, not wanting to deal with this. It didn't matter, anyway. Even if Draco was pissed off with him, it wasn't like they had a future, was it? He just wanted to fix the spell, fix his life, forget it ever happened. Maybe, by the time he died, he might even have managed to forget how much he loved Draco.
Parvati had not been helpful. "You did what?" she said incredulously.
"He wasn't there when I woke up!" Harry protested, feeling hot and ridiculous.
"He probably just popped to the shop!" Parvati said.
"The hotel has a butler! He has a bodyguard! He could have called Pansy!"
"You're a complete lunatic," Parvati said, actually sounding disgusted. "If you didn't want a boyfriend in the first place, you shouldn't have led him on." And then she'd hung up, leaving Harry feeling worse than he'd started.
He'd tried to call her back, but it went straight to voicemail, and he ended up babbling about work rather than doing what he actually felt like – which was crying. He wasn't going to cry though; he was going to get on with it.
Harry had spent the rest of the day waiting for it to be night time, the hours punctuated by unpleasant texts from practically everyone he'd ever met, with the exception of the one person he really wanted to hear from. Luna told him how disappointed she was. Ron told him he was a wankstain. Pansy left a short voicemail to tell him, her voice scathing, that she'd given him one job.
"He upset me first," Harry snapped at the phone, pressing delete.
And when darkness finally fell, he spent practically the whole night dangling himself out of the window, casting Finite Incantatem at the stars, and wishing out loud – in every way he could think of – that things would go back to normal, that reality would go back to normal, that he could end, finish, stop, halt the wish magic and go home. "WILL YOU JUST STOP!" he yelled out of the window when he caught a vague flash of something that could have been a shooting star, could have been a plane, at the top of his lungs, and then had to hastily bang the window shut and flee when several lights across the street turned on at the noise.
Fairly obviously, he thought now, trying not to fall asleep at the convenience store checkout, nothing he'd done had worked. And just to be helpful, Parvati slid over a copy of the Daily Mail as soon as it got quiet, open at the Showbiz section, which featured a large picture of Draco looking pale and irritable, the story underneath full of faux sympathy for how well he'd coped performing with what was clearly a terrible sore throat in his latest Paris show, but also packed with little digs about his lack of energy, his poor memory for his own lyrics, and his avoidance of his fans, who'd been 'waiting for hours' to see him but were disappointed when he didn't stop to sign any autographs as usual.
"Yes, all right, I'm a wanker, but—" Harry started indignantly, shoving it back to her, but she just let out a derisive sniff, turning her back again, and Harry didn't have the stomach to go on.
After his shift – because he was clearly a glutton for punishment – Harry wished the still silent, still fuming Parvati goodbye, and then called Hermione. Hermione was very sniffy, which at least meant that things were going well with Ron, Harry thought gloomily, but at least she agreed to see him.
When he got to hers, she didn't offer him a cup of tea, just glared at him and told him to explain himself. So, he tried to, getting more and more miserable in the attempt, and finally she sighed, cutting him off, and went to switch the kettle on.
"Anyway," Harry said when he had a steaming mug in his hands, and shifted uncomfortably on the hard chair. "I didn't come for advice about Draco. I came here for advice about the spell. I don't know what to do. I've tried everything – every variation of a wish I can think of! But it still hasn't worked. I mean," he added gloomily, "I haven't actually sat on my roof and tried it, but I can't see why that would be the key to the whole business, and there's a good chance I might Splinch my leg off in the process, anyway."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "You did come here for advice about Draco, though, didn't you? Any idiot can see you're in love with him, despite the dreadful hash you've made of things."
Harry burnt his tongue on the tea.
"This isn't news to you, is it?" Hermione asked doubtfully. "I mean—"
"Of course it's not," Harry interrupted, before she could go any further down this dreadful road. Was it really that obvious to everyone that he . . .? He tried not to wince. Was it obvious to Draco, too . . .? "That's not the point, though, is it?" he said firmly, and stared into his steaming mug. "Draco's not in love with me."
Hermione made a small noise, and when Harry looked up at her, she was giving him a frown that suggested she thought he'd lost his mind. "You're an idiot," she said faintly.
Harry frowned back. "I am not an idiot."
Hermione leaned forward to give him a patronising pat on the head. "You are an idiot," she said, more firmly this time. "One hundred percent."
"How do you know that?" Harry demanded, thinking this whole conversation was ridiculous.
"That you're an idiot?" Hermione said wryly. "Well, I have eyes, and ears, and a brain." Harry glowered at her. "Or if you mean how do I know that Draco has feelings for you, well, I have eyes, and ears, and a brain," she repeated facetiously. "Oh, and I, er, might have talked to his best friend a few times recently as well," she said, resting her hands together primly on her lap.
"Ron?" Harry said, disbelievingly, and took a gulp of tea that burnt his throat.
"He's taking me to see Draco perform in Oslo next week," Hermione said, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary. "I don't know how I'm going to make up the missed lectures, but I suspect I can crib the notes from a friend," she added, a note of anxiety in her voice.
"Right," Harry said, drinking more tea because he didn't know what else to do.
"So you'd better have made up by then," Hermione warned. "I want him on top form! None of this sore throat nonsense." She sniffed. "Poor thing," she added, and returned to glaring at Harry.
"Say I did believe you about Draco," Harry mumbled, adding quickly, "which I don't, by the way. How would I, er, make up with him?"
It was back to the 'looking at Harry as if he were an idiot' routine again, Harry noticed with irritation, but he bit his lip and tried to keep his temper. He supposed he had been a bit stupid.
"Say sorry?" Hermione suggested, taking a sip of her own tea.
Harry considered this gloomily.
"Tell him how you feel?"
"No way," Harry said. He couldn't do that! He was dying on the spot just thinking about it.
Hermione wrinkled her nose, clearly unimpressed. "It's up to you, of course," she said. She took another sip of tea. "And as for the spell," she said, and then paused, the steam from the tea spiralling upwards.
"Yes?" Harry said, leaning forwards.
"Have you considered that wishing to end the spell isn't working because your heart's just not in it?"
^^^^^^
. . . because his heart wasn't in it.
Harry tried twice – no, three times – as hard that night when he wished, trying to time his words to the sporadic, faint shooting stars. Was his heart really not in it? He wanted to go back to the wizarding world so badly he felt sick with it. But he couldn't deny that the way he felt about Draco was just as intense, if not more so. He couldn't stop thinking about him, Hermione's words rolling round and round in his head. Even as he tried to wish for reality to reassert itself, he was thinking about Draco. What he was doing right now. What he was thinking. What he was—
It was no fucking good, was it? Harry closed the window, giving up for now. Whatever he was doing, it wasn't working. Maybe, he thought, feeling his head throb, he just wouldn't be able to fix reality, had fucked it up too badly to ever set it right again. But this thing between himself and Draco . . . He took a deep breath, and then another. And then he went to text the word Sorryto Draco, before he could change his mind.
It didn't work, of course. At least, the text went through, but Draco didn't respond. So in the morning, Harry tried again: Draco, I'm really, really sorry.
When he told Parvati later, she partially defrosted towards him, and suggested he add a Please forgive me for being a tosspot, so he did, even though he thought that Draco really should offer the same apology in response. He didn't say that though, and Draco didn't respond, in any case.
Ron, later that evening, suggested he send something filthy, and Harry didn't, thinking this would go down about as well as a teaspoon of cold sick. Ron sent his own message that he wouldn't let Harry read, only to receive something that made him go red. He slapped Harry on the arm, bought him a large drink, and said, with forced cheerfulness, "Don't give up!" which didn't inspire much confidence.
The week slid by, agonisingly slowly. The press was full of pictures of Draco looking ill, his skin the colour of egg white, and Parvati seemed to have developed a perverse habit of looking at online discussion boards and printing out the most concerned of the fan comments, to slide to Harry whenever he wasn't serving a customer.
Harry even called Pansy straight after one shift near the end of the week, leaning on the wall outside the store as customers walked in and out. He'd been hunting for the business card she'd given him all week, and had finally found it. When she answered though, he wished he hadn't bothered. She ranted at him for several minutes straight, without giving him a chance to speak. "I wish he'd never met you," she said finally, very cold. "I wish you'd fuck off and die."
And just as Harry was digesting this, feeling a bit like punching the wall but thinking this might lose him his job, he heard Luna say, "Hello? Harry?" into his ear.
"Hi, Luna," he said.
"Are you sorry?" Luna asked, her voice clear. "Really sorry, I mean? Not just pretend?"
"Yeah," Harry said, feeling flat. "Really, really sorry."
"Well, that's good then," Luna said. "Draco's very sad, you know."
"Yes," Harry said uncomfortably. "But you know, Luna, he won't reply to my texts."
"Draco would like flowers," Luna said dreamily. "And balloons. And chocolates. He loves chocolates. And a love letter. Don't you think?"
"I – balloons?" Harry asked dubiously, leaving the 'love letter' thing well alone.
"Yes," Luna agreed. "Everyone likes balloons, don't they? You should send them soon, and come back and travel with us. There's still plenty of cheese to get through," she added. "Or I could post you some?"
"Don't worry," Harry said hastily, having visions of weeks-old cheese arriving through his letterbox, to stink out his house for the rest of eternity. "Balloons. Got it."
"I'll see you soon, then, Harry," Luna said cheerfully, and hung up, leaving Harry staring in bemusement at his phone. He was more bemused, though, when Parvati came over to him and gave him a hug. A proper one. He thought she'd already gone home, and this freely offered affection made him come over all pathetic. He had to sniff hard, not to blub on her shoulder.
"God, you're a wanker," she said, and ruffled his hair annoyingly.
"Were you eavesdropping?" he demanded, trying to pull himself together.
"Yes," she agreed, apparently without shame. "You sure about balloons?"
Harry wasn't sure about balloons, no. How did you even send international balloons without an owl? Or with an owl, for that matter, the thought of Hedwig's expression if he'd tried to send her on a long journey attached to half a dozen balloons making him smile. He still missed her, to a ridiculous degree. "Draco will probably just pop them," he said gloomily, which made Parvati snort.
"Worth a go though, eh?"
^^^^^^
How you sent balloons, it turned out, was that you called Hermione, and passed her over to Parvati, and soon you ended up in an amazingly expensive florists in Chelsea in the company of a convenience store heiress, a dentist in training and a premier league footballer. Then they all argued loudly and took the piss out of you, while you picked flowers, chocolates and a ridiculous, shiny purple balloon, and then they tried to read over your shoulder as you attempted to write a love letter in a card with a picture of a sad teddy on the front, without saying anything that contained the words 'I' or 'love' or 'you'.
In the end, Harry had written, I freaked out. I'm an idiot. Please forgive me. and just as he was about to seal it up, something ridiculous came over him and he added, I think I've fallen in love with you and then shoved it in the envelope before he could think better of it.
Then he'd paid what must have been his life savings – thank fuck Muggle Harry was good with money – and after some embarrassing faffing about, Ron calling Luna, to speak to Pansy, to find out the address of the hotel Draco would be in the next day, the deed was done.
After, they went to the pub, and Harry attempted to drown himself in vodka, to wipe out the thought of what he'd just sent Draco. He could feel himself cringe, whenever he remembered, and by the time he was on his third vodka and coke he'd almost convinced himself that tomorrow he'd wake up and the world would be normal again – apart, that was, from Draco, who'd send the card directly to the Daily Prophet, so the world could laugh at what a hopeless, pathetic, idiot Harry was, falling in love with someone who didn't even like him. Even the flowers now seemed embarrassing; he'd chosen the same blooms Luna had been wearing in her hair, that evening when everything had been so perfect that Harry could barely stand to think of it now.
Ron slapped him hard on the back. "It'll all be over soon," he said bracingly, which Harry supposed was one way of looking at things.
A couple of pissed men wobbled over, pushing paper napkins at Ron, who signed them cheerfully but then told them to piss off when they threatened to stick around and talk football. "Sorry, professional hazard," he said, taking a sip of his pint. "Can I get you another drink, Hermione?" he said, turning solicitous. "Peanuts? Crisps?"
Hermione hid her grin with her gin and tonic. "No, thank you," she said.
"Oh, er, Parvati?" Ron said, and Parvati smiled back and nodded, which made Hermione bristle, until Ron put a casual arm around her. She went pink, but didn't shake him off.
It was nice, Harry thought fuzzily, the alcohol fizzing through his bloodstream, and then he remembered all over again that he'd sent Draco a card that said I think I'm falling in love with you, and he wanted to put his head in his hands and die.
^^^^^^
"It's your own fault if you have a hangover," Parvati said as Harry slumped against the shop counter, feeling like the world had landed on his head.
"It's Ron's fault," Harry said firmly, because he could remember Ron buying him at least one drink. That had undoubtedly been the drink that had tipped him over from tipsy to full-on drunk. He couldn't even remember how he'd got home last night, although he could remember leaning out of the window and wishing some stuff out loud that in the cold light of day he really didn't want to remember.
"Draco's probably got your parcel now," Parvati said dreamily, and gave him a nudge with her elbow.
"They said they'd deliver it about nine," Harry said, I think I'm falling in love with you making him cringe all over again. "And he's going to ignore it, like he ignored my messages," he added.
Parvati grinned. "OK, Draco's nearly got your parcel now. I bet you he'll call at . . . ten past nine."
"If he doesn't, I'll take my lunchbreak first," Harry replied.
"You're on," Parvati said, and turned to serve a customer with a welcoming smile.
Harry took first lunch. By half past two, Draco still hadn't called. He hadn't at two thirty-five. Or at two forty. Two forty-five came and went, sliding into two fifty. Harry began to feel like he was going to go mad, waiting for something that wasn't ever going to happen.
"The delivery company probably cocked up," Parvati said with a sniff, giving him a friendly shoulder barge at two fifty-five, and then turning back to her customer. The shop was busy at this hour, full of kids bunking off school early and parents popping in to pick up milk before doing the school run.
"Yeah, maybe," Harry said, knowing they hadn't. All that had happened was that he'd embarrassed himself horribly, and proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that Draco really didn't like him that way. He'd been right to walk out like that, he thought miserably, and wished he'd realised it earlier. It would have saved him a lot of grief.
Parvati made a choking noise, and Harry turned to ask her if she was OK. She didn't appear to need a glass of water, though; she had her hand in front of her mouth, and she made another, different noise – sort of an excited squeak.
Harry turned, to see . . . His knees went weak. There, in the queue, although the people around him were starting to turn and look, a buzz of excitement running through the shop, was Draco Malfoy. He was wearing what looked for all the world like pyjamas – thin bottoms and an oversized T-shirt – with trainers and no socks, and he'd made no attempt to disguise himself. His mouth was set, and angry, and in his hand there was . . . a large, shiny, purple, heart-shaped balloon.
Harry served the next few people mechanically as the shop filled up, almost faster than the speed of light, people taking out cameras to snap amateur shots of a famous pop star standing in a tiny supermarket holding a balloon in his pyjamas. Where was Mark, the man mountain? Harry couldn't see him. Could only see Draco. Angry, balloon-toting Draco.
"Um, hello," he said when Draco finally made it in front of him. "You, er, got my—"
"What is this?" Draco said, his voice sharp enough to cut glass.
"Um, it's a, er, balloon," Harry said.
"Yes," Draco said. "I can see that."
They stood and stared at each other for a while; Draco arsy, Harry feeling like it would be ideal if the floor opened up and swallowed him down into it.
"I came to return it to you," Draco said. "Given that I'm the only one of the pair of us who appears to have any manners."
"You . . . came to return it?" Harry repeated, feeling his forehead pucker as the crowd around them surged.
"Yes," Draco said, not moving. "I flew over."
"You . . . flew with the balloon," Harry repeated nervously.
"It had its own seat, of course," Draco said, very cold. "I'm not a monster."
Harry laughed nervously, then tried not to, when Draco didn't join in.
"I also got your note," Draco said.
Harry felt himself go a violent red. "Right," he said.
"Did you mean it?" Draco said, still cold, his eyes looking almost colourless in contrast to the dark circles under them.
"Draco, I, er, hate to interrupt," Parvati interrupted, "but, er, maybe you should come and hide in the staff room, before you're crushed to death?"
Draco blinked at that, and seemed to notice for the first time that he was surrounded by people. Proper photographers had turned up now, and were pushing through the crowd with enormous cameras. One took a photo, making Draco blink again, blinded by the flash, and when he tried to step away, he banged into the woman behind him, who reached out and stroked his arm.
Parvati banged open the door in the counter, and Draco dashed through it, his balloon bobbing along behind him. "I think I'll have to call the police," Parvati said. "Dad's going to go mad." And then she picked up the landline receiver and started dialling, shooing Harry away from her.
Harry took the hint, pulling Draco through the door that led to the lunch area and out of sight of the crowd behind him.
Draco sat sullenly on one of the orange plastic chairs, still clutching the balloon. "So this is where you work?" he asked, looking around as if he'd never seen anything so horrific in all his life.
"Er, yes," Harry said, also sitting down. "You can, er, give that to me, if you want," he said awkwardly, gesturing to the balloon.
Draco clutched the string even tighter. "You can't give me a present and then ask for it back!" he snapped, making Harry jump.
"You said . . ." Harry started, and then decided it would be best not to continue. Draco looked a bit like he was ready to snap. He was in his pyjamas, Harry thought, although he was wearing a hooded jacket with bulging zipped pockets over the top.
"Say it out loud," Draco demanded, making Harry jump again. "To my face."
Harry went red all over again. "I'm really sorry!" he said.
Draco looked at him very evenly, finally letting go of the balloon, which rose to nestle against the low ceiling. "Not that," he said.
Right, right. Of course not that. "Um," Harry said.
Draco waited.
"I, er," Harry said, wondering if it would be easier if he looked over Draco's shoulder, or maybe if he closed his eyes? Or perhaps he could just drown himself in beans; there was an enormous tower of them, just behind Draco, although it might take a while to open them all, and he didn't have a tin-opener.
Draco made an impatient noise. "I thought as much," he said, and then stood up.
Harry lurched forward, grabbed him by the wrist. "Don't," he said. "I . . ." He took a deep breath, Draco's tense and upset face blurring in and out of focus. Harry tried not to panic. But why would Draco have come all this way, not even stopping to get properly dressed, though, if he didn't like him back? He grabbed hold of his courage, and said, his voice wobbling all over the place, "I really like you, OK? I . . ." He tried not to hyperventilate. "I love you, Draco. Merlin. I love you."
Draco didn't move, seemed unable to breathe, his eyes enormous. And then he started shaking, and he stumbled at Harry as if he were a drowning man reaching for a lifebelt, clinging to him. Harry clung right back, digging his face into the side of Draco's head, feeling ridiculous and overwhelmed.
"So, er, you like me too?" Harry managed eventually, when Draco's grip had loosened infinitesimally, his breathing starting to stabilise.
"No, you're a complete shithead," came the tart response.
Harry supposed he deserved that, but just as the words so, where the fuck did you go that morningthreatened to spill out and ruin the moment, Parvati cleared her throat, and Draco sprang away from Harry, wrapping his arms around himself and looking hugely embarrassed.
"Did you know your manager reported you as missing to the police?" Parvati said to Draco, her eyebrows raised. "You should probably give her a ring."
"Thanks," Draco said stiffly, not moving. "What a shame there's no phone reception in here."
"Pansy's sending a car to pick you up and take you back to the airport, anyway," Parvati said. And then she grinned. "So if you want to run, you should probably do it now."
Draco grimaced, sat down again, fishing his phone out of his pocket and glaring at it. Then he dialled, turning away from Harry.
"Um, is it safe to go outside?" Harry asked Parvati.
"Nope," Parvati said cheerfully. "I mean, it's safe to go into the shop, because we've had to close, but everyone's just lurking out the front now, herded there by the police. It might be a good idea to slide out the back alley, where the bins are."
"I'm sorry," Harry said, thinking this couldn't be good for the shop.
"Oh, don't be," Parvati said, raising her voice as Draco raised his own, conducting a tense, shouty argument with the person on the other end of the line. "This will be amazing for business. We'll be packed, now people think there's a chance they might meet a real-life pop star having a nervous breakdown whenever they come in to buy a loaf of bread."
"OK, let's go," Draco said fiercely, shoving his phone back in his pocket.
"You all right?" Harry asked.
"Of course not," Draco snapped. "I'm meant to be in Prague, performing for fifteen thousand people, in six hours' time."
Harry's phone started to ring in his pocket, and when he fished it out, it was Pansy. "Tell him to get on the fucking plane right now!" she yelled in his ear. "I know the arsehole's with you. You can come too. Tell him."
"Do you want to?" Harry asked Draco. "Go back to Prague, I mean. I . . . I'll go with you, I suppose," he offered awkwardly, even though the thought of it made his heart sink.
Draco scowled at him. "Harry, you fucking ran away from me. I'm not going anywhere. Tell her I'm dead, if that helps."
"I don't think she'll believe that," Parvati murmured, and Harry and Draco turned as one to glare at her. "All right! All right!" she said, raising her hands and backing away slowly. "I'll leave you to it." And she turned and walked back into the shop, a chorus of cheers ringing out as the crowd outside clearly caught sight of her, expecting Draco.
"Sorry, Pansy," Harry said, and hung up on her cry of rage. "I, er, suppose you can postpone the concert," he offered, feeling awkward under Draco's heavy stare.
"Yes," Draco said, but he didn't sound convinced. He stood up straight, straightened the neck of his T-shirt. "Are we going back to yours then? If I have a London place, I don't know where it is."
They fled the shop via the bins, and although there were a few fans lurking out the back, Draco broke into a run, and the fans looked too startled to chase after him. Draco seemed to know the way, and soon they were at Harry's front door, Harry fumbling for his keys as photographers clicked away, and then they were inside, Harry sliding the door bolts shut behind him.
"I think we should probably stay away from the windows at the front of the house," Draco said, looking around dispassionately, and he wrinkled his nose. "What a mess. What did your last house-elf die of?" he asked, and then seemed to realise what he'd said, turning a dark, mottled red.
"Your aunt," Harry said levelly, trying not to punch him and only just managing it.
"I didn't mean – fuck it. You know I didn't mean that," Draco said, and then he let out a harsh breath. "This sort of thing is the reason I said we could never be friends," he added bitterly.
"You didn't say that, though," Harry said irritably, striding across the hall and through into the kitchen, Draco following behind him. "You said you didn't want to be my friend."
"I say a lot of things I don't mean," Draco snapped, and slouched into a chair, shoving off his hoodie. He drew his hands through his hair. "It's odd to be in here," he said, looking round without much interest. "I haven't been in this house since I was a toddler. I remember it as more unpleasant than this."
"We took down the rows of house-elf heads," Harry said flatly, putting the kettle on, for something to do with his hands. "In case you were wondering."
"Yes, all right," Draco said tetchily. "I said I was sorry."
"Are you though?" Harry said, whirling round.
Draco frowned. "About what, exactly?" he asked, a cautious tone to his voice.
Harry sat down next to him, slumped in his chair. "I don't know," he said. "I just feel . . . you should be."
Draco was silent, seemed to be thinking. "I am about some stuff," he said, voice spiky. "If you want me to beg you for forgiveness, though, you'll be waiting a long time. You never apologised for slicing me open, by the way," he added sarcastically. "That one stung a bit."
"You were going to Crucio me!" Harry protested.
"Ah," Draco said, and shrugged. "You've got me there."
"Do you mean you do want to be my friend?" Harry asked, his head catching up with the conversation.
Draco flinched. "No, not really." Harry felt his mouth do something horrible, and Draco let out a soft noise. "I don't want to be your friend, you idiot. I want . . ." He trailed off, didn't finish his sentence.
"Yes?" Harry prompted, and then, when Draco still didn't answer, just stared at his hands on the table in front of him, said, "Where were you that morning when I woke up, anyway?"
That seemed to rouse Draco. "Oh, er, I," he mumbled. "I went out to buy some croissants," he said. "For breakfast."
"No you didn't," Harry said, because that was the most obvious lie he'd ever heard.
"I did!" Draco protested.
"In every suite of yours I've been in, there's been a bell to ring for a pet slave to fetch you things," Harry said sternly. "Are you telling me—"
"I did go to buy croissants!" Draco interrupted crossly. "Fucking hell. All right, I went by myself because I needed some time and space to freak out, but I did go to buy the sodding croissants. Which, I might add, I didn't eat, because when I got back, you'd fucking run away, so you fucking owe me one!"
Oh. Harry began to wish he'd chosen a more comfortable setting to have this conversation in. Draco had . . . freaked out?
"You're not the only one capable of having a crisis, you know," Draco said with palpable irritation. "I'm allowed to have one too." He sniffed. "I came back after my crisis though," he said, his voice hardening.
Harry slid his hand along the table, and Draco grabbed it, held it tight.
"Say it again," Draco demanded, not looking at him.
It didn't seem reasonable for him to keep saying it, while Draco very much wasn't saying it back, but Harry couldn't help himself now. "I . . . love you," he mumbled.
"Yes," Draco said, not sounding very happy about it, although he clutched Harry's hand even tighter. "You love me here."
What did that mean? Harry blinked, tried to think, but Draco had turned and was there in front of him, face open and wanting, and then they were kissing, and Harry couldn't think at all.
Harry didn't know how much time had passed when Draco finally pulled away – it could have minutes, it could have been half an hour – but Draco's cheeks were wet, and he couldn't remember either of them crying.
"Do you still want to go home?" Draco asked, the words pushed out as if they'd been forced.
"Yes," Harry said, because he couldn't say anything else; nothing else would be true. "But nothing I've tried has worked. I don't think we can go home."
"I . . . think we should try again tonight," Draco said faintly. "Together. Perhaps that will do the trick."
"Do you think so?" Harry asked, feeling doubtful. "I suppose we could."
Draco looked like he was fighting a battle inside himself, and losing. "Yes," he said eventually. "If you really do want to go home."
"It's a while till nightfall though," Harry said, without thinking.
"Yes," Draco agreed, his voice now dry. "I wonder what we should do to pass the time."
Harry felt himself go red, wondering if blushing so much was bad for his health. "I didn't mean—"
"Well, I mean," Draco said, and he stood up, still holding on to Harry's hand. "Show me which one's your bedroom."
^^^^^^
They spent the rest of the afternoon in bed, barely talking, except for what was necessary. Harry could barely breathe, at any rate, he was so overwhelmed. He didn't believe that they'd fix the spell later, but a small, bright spark of hope kept flaring up within him, making him choke on it. And it was hard to think at all when he was with Draco. Particularly now, with Draco seeming insatiable, making Harry come over and over. He barely seemed to care if Harry touched him, although he made enough noise when Harry did, instead focusing all his attention on Harry in a way that was almost unnerving in its intensity. Harry came inside Draco, and then again, the second time in the shower, everything wet and slick as he fucked Draco hard against the slippery wall. When they finally emerged from the bathroom, Harry made them tea, and Draco let it go cold; Harry came in Draco's mouth, with Draco's fingers twisting inside him in a way that made him orgasm so hard he almost saw stars.
The fourth time took the longest, might have been the hottest, Harry didn't know. Could only whimper as Draco drizzled their cocks with lube and they lay side by side, legs tangled together, slowly grinding themselves back to hardness and finally to completion, over endless, aching minutes, kissing the whole time.
Finally their hips stilled, their stomachs, thighs, both slick with each other's come, and they just panted in each other's arms. Harry's lips felt sore, and his whole body ached. He didn't think he'd ever come so many times in one day, tried to work out if he'd been selfish. He thought Draco might have come at least once without even being touched, the thought making his cock twitch, even after its busy afternoon.
"Was – was that OK?" he mumbled, feeling foolish.
Draco snorted. "Adequate," he said, against Harry's chest, his voice rough. "If I could move, I'd try again, just to check, but I can't, so."
Harry stroked a hand over Draco's hair and down the side of his neck, over his shoulder, enjoying how Draco shivered beneath him. "Are you sure?"
"The Gryffindor sex god rules supreme," Draco said sarcastically. "Want me to write a song about it?"
Harry laughed. "No, thanks," he said, and then wondered. "So, who's your latest single about?"
"What, the imaginatively titled 'I love you'?" Draco said, sounding a little strange. "I wonder."
"Is it—" Harry started, very quiet.
"Don't push it," Draco interrupted, sounding very tired now, so Harry left it alone. "What time is it?" Draco asked after a while, and Harry peered at the clock on his bedside table. "Almost quarter to nine," he said, almost surprised at how late it was. "You hungry?"
"No," Draco said, but he sat up, rubbing the back of his neck. "I suppose we'd better get dressed."
"Yes," Harry said, not moving. He was uncomfortably aware that Draco meant they should get ready and do the whole wish upon a star business. Any other day, Harry would have been happy to hear it. Today, however, the idea of it felt curiously deadening to his spirit, as if someone had laid a heavy blanket over his senses.
Draco reached for his underpants, pulled them on, before going for his phone. "Fuck," he said, pulling a face at the screen. "My mother called."
"What's she like?" Harry asked, and Draco twisted towards him, startled.
"What do you mean? Surely you remember meeting my mother, Harry. You both get on so well."
Harry pulled a face. "No, I mean . . . She's not really your mother, this version, is she?"
Draco shrugged. "She feels like my mother. We've only spoken a few times, but . . ."
"Pansy said you'd never introduce me to your parents," Harry said, and then wished he hadn't; he felt like he'd accidentally turned himself inside out, so that Draco could stare into all his secrets that weren't for sharing.
Draco didn't seem to know what to say to that. He glanced away, frowning again. "You don't like my parents," he said eventually.
"No," Harry agreed.
"And they don't like you," Draco said.
"No," Harry agreed.
"I . . . suppose my mother likes you marginally more, these days," Draco said, still frowning. "Although, I think if she found out I'd spent the whole day, give or take, with your cock up my bum, that might change again."
This conversation, Harry thought, was deeply unproductive.
"She doesn't know I'm gay," Draco said dryly. "Neither of them do, I mean – real mother or fake mother. It seems in both worlds, pure-blood heir or not, I'm too cowardly to tell her."
"Draco, I—" Harry said, wanting to take Draco's hand, but Draco stood up, and cut him off.
"I'm just going to go and call her back. I suppose it sounds stupid to you, given that she won't exist soon, this version, but she's my mother, and I love her. I'll try not to be too long," he said, and he left the room, gathering up his clothes as he went.
Harry dressed too, could hear Draco talking quietly in the hallway outside as he did so, and tried not to listen. It was none of his business.
In only ten minutes or so, Draco was back. "Um, how's Narcissa?" Harry asked, feeling it was the polite thing to do.
"She's fine," Draco said, his face stiff. His whole body was stiff. "I suppose it's time, then. Have you got the wand?"
Harry opened the top drawer in his bedside table, pulled it out and tossed it over to Draco. Draco caught it automatically.
"Do you trust me?" Draco asked.
"Of course," Harry said, which seemed to take Draco by surprise, but he shook his head slightly, held out his hand. Harry took it, and soon felt the sickening sideways tug of Apparition, the world squeezing away into nothing, and then resolving itself once again on the roof of Harry's house.
Draco shivered, even though it wasn't cold.
"Thank you for not Splinching off my toes," Harry said gravely, not letting go of Draco's hand.
Draco tried to smile. "You're welcome," he said grandly, then cast a Cleaning Charm on the ground under his feet and sat down, tugging Harry down next to him.
Harry tried not to roll his eyes, and instead looked upwards, towards the sky. The night was clear, a stiff breeze blowing, and it was newly dark, but the sky was still muffled, the world around flinging out electric lights as far as the eye could see. It was almost impossible to see the stars at all.
"You cast some sort of darkening charm, I think you told Hermione," Draco said, shivering again, and Harry pulled him closer, putting an arm around him.
"Yeah, Deluminato," Harry said. "It's one I worked on in the Auror office. Not as good as Dumbledore's actual Deluminator, of course, but you know. It does the trick, and isn't as blinding as Peruvian Darkness Powder."
"You invented a new spell?" Draco asked, leaning into him. "I'm impressed."
"Not really," Harry said, feeling uncomfortable. "The Unspeakables helped unpick the magic underlying the Deluminator first, and then I sort of converted that into a charm."
"Show me," Draco said, tossing the wand back over to him.
Harry took a deep breath, concentrated, and said the spell. It worked, albeit more weakly than usual, the majority of the streetlights around him flickering off, with only a handful sparking intermittently, their lights dull and low.
"All right, I suppose now we just wait for a shooting star," Draco said, sounding odd. "Then you make a wish."
Harry nodded, finding himself unable to speak. They sat there for ages, heads close, bodies pressed tightly together, and finally a shooting star streaked across the sky and Harry . . . said nothing.
It faded away, leaving behind a sparkling trail, and Draco turned to Harry and said, low and angry, "What the actual fuck?"
Harry couldn't explain why he hadn't wished. He felt caught between two impossible choices, paralysed by it all. He couldn't stay; it wasn't his home, it wasn't where he belonged. But at the same time, how could he return them both to a world that was so patently shit for Draco? And this reality – it wasn't so bad, was it? Draco seemed happy enough. And he – he could find something meaningful to do, in a world where he hadn't defeated the Dark Lord, couldn't he? He refused to believe that his entire purpose, his entire existence was bundled up in Voldemort. Take away Voldemort, and there was still Harry. He still meant something. Still had something to offer.
"Harry," Draco said, when Harry didn't answer, "it was you who wanted to do this, and now you won't fucking do it? What's wrong with you?"
So what if his life ambition was to be Head Auror, Harry thought dully. He could find another life ambition. He could suck it up, for – for Draco to be happy.
"I – I can't make the choice for both of us," Harry said, staring up the night sky, too scared to look at Draco. "You want to stay here, don't you? I don't want to force you. I'm not that kind of man. I . . . I want you to be happy too."
Draco didn't say anything. Neither did Harry. They just sat there, Harry feeling cold to the bone, staring up the stars. And finally, with horrible inevitability, a shooting star streaked across the sky again, vibrant and beautiful. Harry pressed his lips tight together, his eyeballs feeling hot and prickly.
And Draco said, very deliberately, catching Harry's hand back in his own, "I wish things were back the way they were."
Harry felt himself go all shivery, and this time not with cold. He turned to Draco, and it felt as if it was in slow motion, the world going fuzzy round the edges.
"You're not the only one who made a wish, you complete idiot," Draco said, his voice suffused with bitterness, and he wrenched his hand away again. And as he did so, the world seemed to crinkle, defusing of colour until it all went black.