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Harry looks at the pictures on the mantle. Draco is present in almost all of them. He smiles at Harry from the top of a mountain in Iceland. He holds little Rose when she was just born. And he hugs Harry on the day of their first anniversary.
A tear falls from Harry’s eye as he raises his wand. It’s the only way. Harry has tried everything else. Even two bottles of whiskey hadn’t been enough. It’s time to take drastic measures.
“Evanesco,” he whispers. The pictures on the mantle disappear, only leaving the one of Harry and Teddy, the only picture that doesn’t include Draco.
Harry turns away from the mantle and looks around the room. Next to the couch stands a basket filled with magazines and books. Harry points his wand and utters another Evanesco.
He does the same with the blanket on the couch, the vase on the window still with dead flowers. Maybe Harry should have just thrown away the flowers and kept the vase. It was a present from Hermione when she and Ron moved out, something to remember them by. Draco always made sure it wasn’t empty from the first day he’d set foot in this house.
“Really, Harry, you can’t leave a vase like that empty. It’s made to hold flowers,” Draco had said.
Harry closes his eyes as he pictures Draco cutting stems in at the kitchen counter, placing the flowers with care into the vase. Harry had watched him do that a million times and it never bored him. It was one of their routines that helped Harry to stay calm, to forget all the horrors they had gone through.
“I wish I could see you arrange flowers one more time,” Harry says to the room. Nobody answers. The house has been quiet for weeks now, the only sounds Harry’s cries and screams of anguish.
The kitchen is next. Harry vanishes Draco’s favourite mugs, his special tea that helps him sleep. The plates Draco had made for them for their wedding. The pictures on the wall disappear, just like the pile of Muggle newspapers Draco liked to read. It all has to go. Harry doesn’t want to question a single thing in his home when he’s done. It needs to be Draco free. Everything he left behind needs to go.
Harry vanishes Draco’s coat, his running shoes, his broom. The sweater left on the stairs. Harry’s favourite sweater that he never got to wear.
“You have your own sweaters,” Harry once complained.
“But none of them are as comfy as yours,” Draco had said. He smiled at Harry and then placed a kiss on his cheek. “This one is just so soft. And it smells like you. It’s the perfect sweater for a night on the couch.”
If only Draco hadn’t pulled off the sweater that final night. If only he had stayed at home instead of going out to help his mother.
Harry tries not to think of that night. He’s got a job to do. He needs to clean the bathroom of all the products Draco loved to use. And then the closet. Draco’s clothes. And all the fancy stuff he got Harry. Clothing Harry would never buy for himself, but that made Draco smile when Harry wore them. Harry had never minded. He didn’t care what his clothes looked like. And the look of longing on Draco when Harry would make an effort was worth letting the man be in control of Harry’s wardrobe.
The piano has to go too. There is no way Harry can keep it. Not after all the nights he found Draco sitting in front of it, his hands on the keys producing the most amazing sounds. Harry could sit at his desk all night, trying to get work done, but being mesmerised by Draco’s singing voice. A voice Harry will never hear again.
Harry slides his hands over the keys.
“I can teach you,” Draco says. “It’s not that hard, you know.”
“I’ll be horrible,” Harry answers.
“You always say that about everything. And you know it’s rubbish. You’re a quick learner,” Draco says. He pushes a key and the sound fills the room.
“You’ve heard me sing. I will never be able to do what you do, makeup notes and words and make them work. You should have become an artist,” Harry says as he sits down next to Draco. Draco takes Harry’s hand and places it on the keys. He pushes the fingers down as he leans his head against Harry’s shoulder.
“But we could play duets,” he says.
“I prefer to just listen.” Harry turns his head and kisses Draco on the top of his head. Draco sits up straight and places his own hands on the piano.
“This one is just for you,” Draco whispers as he starts to play.
It had been beautiful. Harry wishes he had recorded it so he could listen to it one last time, the song Draco wrote just for him. Instead, the piano disappears and Harry falls on his knees on the empty spot.
“Why did you have to go?” he screams at the floor. “Why did you leave me?”
Nobody answers. Nobody will ever answer him again. Not in the way Draco would do when Harry would lose it. When the pain and wounds of the war would open him up at random moments. When Harry would think life would never get any better.
Draco was the one that made it better. And the idea that the next time Harry breaks down he won’t be here to help Harry pick up the pieces is paralysing.
In the end, Harry sits down on the bed. Draco’s pillow is gone. His book on the nightstand vanished. The picture of his mother on the dresser gone. Nothing in the room reminds Harry of Draco anymore. The only thing left is the ring on his finger. Harry stares at it. He can’t do it.
“Harry, with this ring, I promise you to love you till the day I die,” Draco said with a massive grin on his face. His fingers shaking while he pushed the ring onto Harry’s finger.
It had been the best day of Harry’s life. The day Draco became his husband.
Six years have passed since that day. Six beautiful and loving years. Until two months ago. Until the worst day in Harry’s life.
Harry had waited up for Draco to come home. He’s gone out to help his mother who was struggling with something at the manor.
Only it hadn’t been Draco that had returned. It had been Ron that had come in through the floo to pull Harry to St. Munges. To have him sit in a chair hoping the healers would be able to save Draco.
They hadn’t.
And Harry can’t stand it.
The pain is indescribable.
Harry just needs to forget he ever knew Draco. He needs a fresh start. One without the memories and the pain inside his heart.
He leaves the ring. He might not understand why he has it after tonight. He might take it off and never glance at it again. But it’s too much to vanish that too. The last evidence of his life with Draco.
Harry points his wand at his temple. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He thinks of Draco one last time before he says ‘Obliviate’.