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“You’re breaking up with me.” Draco stared at Harry. Harry stared blandly back.
“Yes,” Harry said, and Draco’s heart broke into a million pieces. He staggered over to the armchair, and barely managed to sit in it before his legs gave way.
“What?” he whispered. “Why? What did I do?” Harry sighed in the way he did when Draco did something particularly vexing, like remind Harry of his own place in the war, or how he still visited his father in Azkaban, or spoke to Pansy occasionally.
“You’re just too high maintenance,” Harry said. “You’re too needy.” Draco closed his eyes, clasping his shaking hands together.
“Needy,” he repeated. “I- I…” He didn’t know what to say. Harry had always told Draco off when he clung too much after sex, when he owled Harry too often. Draco had thought he’d managed to change.
“I can do better!” he said desperately. Harry snorted.
“Not bloody likely,” Harry muttered. It was like the Dark Lord, no, Voldemort (Harry insisted on Voldemort, even though his mark burned whenever it was uttered) had crucioed his heart.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Please, Harry, please give me a chance.” To his horror and shame, a tear trickled down his cheek.
“Oh, please don’t cry. It makes me uncomfortable,” Harry said. Draco angrily wiped the traitorous tear away. He knew, knew, that when he cried Harry hated it, thought it was pathetic. It was. Harry was right. Draco was needy. Harry deserved to be with someone who could appreciate him.
“Okay. Okay,” he muttered.
“See you at work,” Harry said, and disapparated with a crack. Draco curled in on himself, and allowed himself to finally sob. Harry was gone, his mother was dead, his father imprisoned, his friends had abandoned him… what did he have left?