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Harry feels like he's about to go crazy. Like his world has fallen apart around him and he himself is still in the middle of a free-fall, about to plummet into the ground. He's constantly shaky, has the feeling of a million ants underneath his skin and simply cannot stand it.
His friends and family are concerned, but they're not fairing much better. Harry can't stand the emptiness in Ron's face when he remembers that his brother isn't coming back. Harry doesn't dare to look at George, Molly, or Arthur at all. Hermione tries to keep them all sane, babbling on about normal things like gardening and cooking but Harry can't find it in himself to humour her.
As his birthday is approaching, something finally snaps and he has the overwhelming desire to be somewhere else. Literally, anywhere else. He realises that he wants his birthday to mean something. Because he is still alive. He immediately feels sick for being so selfish. So many people have died for him and all he can think about is turning eighteen. He cannot help himself. He is glad to be alive. But he doesn't want to burden anyone else with it.
He purchases a portkey to Denmark and rents a little hut by the beach for a whole week. Even though the sun is shining, there's a constant wind blowing which makes Harry feel better. Like he can breathe. It is only then that he realises how much the British air is suffocating him on top of everything else. The warmth, the wind-still air.
He takes walks on the beach, kicking pebbles with his bare foot. Every time he starts feeling lonely, he starts talking to the birds around him and hopes that noone will notice. That's the beauty of Danish beaches: there is nobody there. Most days, he is completely alone and he enjoys it. Even gets a bit sunburned on the night before his birthday. The pain of the sun burning on his body makes him giggle. Makes him feel.
He remembers his last birthday where he was scared to death. He remembers the ones before that were filled with laughter and joy and parties at the Burrow. And food. Way too much food. He remembers his early birthdays, where he wished that someone would come and rescue him from the Dursleys. Then he remembers the best birthday of all: The day someone finally did.
At precisely midnight, he blows out the single candle he has lit in the middle of the table.
“Happy Birthday,” he whispers with a small smile before falling asleep right there.
He only wakes up when an insistent tapping sounds from the window. He stares at the owl. Everyone had promised him to let him be. They'd all looked at him with their mouths forming a thin line of disapproval but had ultimately agreed to leave him alone. He can't help but feel a bit irritated that someone had broken that promise.
He opens the window and unties the package that the owl carries. He doesn't recognise the animal but strokes it anyway. Gives it a treat before sending it on its way.
He sits back down to open the rather plain package. There is no note, no letter. Only a book.
“The Collected Poems of A. E. Housman,” Harry reads aloud and takes a look at the battered old paperback. He cracks open the cover and sees it. There's an inscription. It reads:
Potter-
Housman didn't fight our war but the sentiment is the same. He's put it into the words I never could. I hope his work gives you as much as it gave me. I'll leave you with this:
There was a war.
It was horrible.
You survived.
Be happy about it.
I know I am.
Happy birthday. Celebrate your alive-ness. I will.
-DM
Harry reads the few lines over and over again. There is only one Person he knows with those initials and a hundred different emotions start bubbling up in him. For a couple of minutes, he just sits there and blinks, trying to comprehend that Draco Malfoy would be celebrating his alive-ness today. Trying to comprehend that Malfoy cared enough to send him a gift. Harry hasn't seen Draco since his trial, has not heard from him at all. Yet there is a part of him that longs to see him. Ron had joked that Harry had a crush on several occasions and Harry had always been very clear in denying such accusations. In the quiet of his mind however, he could admit that Ron had been right. Is right. The muted feelings for his supposed enemy flaring alive again as he flips through the book idly.
He is surprised to find it full of notes in elegant script and to find a lot of lines highlighted in bright colours.
He let's his fingers trace the colourful lines.
He starts at the beginning, reading the poems with interest and always stopping at the highlighted lines.
“The saviours come not home tonight: Themselves they could not save.”
Next to it, in a tiny scrawl, Harry reads what Malfoy has added: “What if they are coming home but they can't save themselves anyway?”
His breath hitches as he is once again overwhelmed with emotion. He stares at the question and tries not to cry.
He soon figures out that a lot of the poems are about war. About soldiers. About death and about life.
He reads:
“I heard a wise man say 'Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away;”
and strains his eyes to make out Malfoy's addition that says: “Bit late for that”.
Harry stares. His stomach twists in what feels like jealousy, like longing. Of all the feelings he wouldn't let himself feel before. Suddenly, they're all just there and Harry feels breathless with the realisation. He reads on:
“There pass the careless people that call their souls their own: Here by the road I loiter, how idle and alone” the poem reads, highlighted in bright pink. And next to it: “They will never understand what it feels like to be trapped in a free fall forever.”
Harry thinks about his own feelings. Of feeling lost. Of feeling breathless and of feeling like he can't stop spinning. And he knows that Draco understands. He turns a few pages until he stumbles upon a poem where Draco had highlighted every line. Granted, it isn't very long but it stares Harry in the face in neon-yellow:
“You smile upon you friend today, Today his ills are over; You hearken to the lover's say, And happy is the lover. 'Tis late to hearken, late to smile, But better late than never: I shall have lived a little while Before I die forever.”
Harry is hit with the regret and the heartbreak that seems to be oozing out of the words and he thinks that nobody had ever given him such a wonderful gift. Next to the poem, he finds Draco's notes: “I wish I told him how I feel about him.”
Harry stares. For the first time in forever, he feels something besides grief. Besides dread. It is almost as if... does this feel like hope?
He looks around himself and listens to the wind howling outside.
“What the fuck am I doing?” he asks himself quietly, before he packs up the few things he's brought with him and makes his way to the Portkey-station. He clutches the book in his hand, presses it to his chest as if he's scared of letting it out of his sight for a second.
He taps his wand against the gates of the manor, alerting the occupants of his arrival. A second later, a houseelf is standing in front of him, asking him to follow her. He gets more and more nervous with every step he takes. When he reaches the front door, Draco is leaning against the door frame, looking casual and relaxed and gorgeous. Harry has read enough of his notes however, to know that the first two probably aren't true.
“Happy birthday, Potter,” Malfoy snarls, a small smile tugging at his lips as his eyes land on the book Harry still holds to his chest.
Just like that, all the determination has gone out of Harry and he asks himself what the hell he thinks he's doing. But he needs to do this.
He nods and holds the book up.
“Thank you,” he mumbles, somewhat anxious.
“Would you like to come in?”
Harry follows Draco into the sitting room. Trying not to think about the last time he was here. How does Draco stand being here? Something must have shown on his face because Draco snorts.
“It's horrible if you must know. Mother has escaped to France. I'm just here until I can go back to Hogwarts,” he says, sitting down in a large armchair and gesturing for Harry to take the one beside him.
“I wasn't...”
“Yeah, you were.”
Harry nods, sighs and grins.
“Okay, yeah,” he bites his lip nervously, not quite sure how to continue.
“So, any reason for you to be here on your birthday instead of with... well I don't know, your friends and family?” Draco asks and seems to be genuinely interested.
“There is... one poem,” Harry starts, flicking through the book to find it. He reads it out loud and looks at Draco when he's finished. Draco looks nervous. His mouth is a thin line and he looks like he's run his hand through his hair several times during Harry's reading.
“It got me thinking,” Harry continues. He stares at Draco's note.
“Saw your note, too.”
A violent blush starts spreading across Draco's face as he buries his face in his hands.
“Oh Merlin, I completely forgot about some of the notes... please just, forget it?” he gets out, muffled through his hands.
Harry laughs and for the first time in months, it doesn't feel forced. It feels like a small weight is lifted from his chest and he feels confident enough to continue.
“No, I think the poem is right. I think you are right. Which is why I'm here to...” he sighs, “Merlin this is hard. So look. Ron... Ron has this theory.”
Draco stares at him, slowly blinking.
“You read it to Weasley?”
Harry quickly shakes his head.
“God no. I was alone. Nobody knows about... the book. But Ron, he thinks that... I have a crush. Have had it for forever in fact and... and I think he's right. And I think that the poem finally gave me enough confidence to, uh, address it.”
Draco's eyebrows shoot up.
“What?”
Harry sighs. “The crush, is on... you. I kind of... like you, Malfoy. Have liked you for... gods, a while? Fourth year? I think? And -”
Before he can say anything else however, he finds himself occupied with a lap full of his favourite Slytherin. In one swift move, Draco cups Harry's face and brings their lips together, kissing Harry deeply. Harry's eyes flutter closed as he takes hold of Draco around his waist, clutching onto him for dear life and moving his lips against his. This, he thinks, is everything he's ever dreamed about.
When they finally part, Draco lets out a nervous chuckle and leans his forehead against Harry's.
“Potter?”
“Yes?”
“The note? Is about you.”
Harry thinks the smile that spreads over his features might break his face apart and there is this spark inside him that he didn't know even existed anymore.
“I'm so glad you're alive,” Draco whispers while pressing butterfly kisses to Harry's cheek and the corner of his mouth.
Harry grins.
“Me too,” he admits and catches Draco's lips with his again. Whyever did he think that spending his birthday alone would be a good idea? This. This right here was exactly where he was supposed to be. And he couldn't help but feel lighter than he had in years. He felt happy.