Work Text:
Harry isn’t sure how it started. How it became so normal. So needed. But it did.
~
Everyone had different coping mechanisms after the war. Hermione went to Australia, to find her parents and forget England in the process. Ron, in withdrawal from Hermione leaving, discovered his talent for baking, and opened a cafe adjoining Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.
Harry found music.
Petunia sent him a letter, a month after the war, with no apologies, but filled with stories of his mother’s love for music. She sent him Lily’s Walkman and hundreds of her cassettes and tapes, and Harry discovered he truly was his mother’s son, when it came to music. He spent hours lying in the overgrown grass of Grimmauld, earphones plugged in, blocking out the voices of all the dead who screamed that it was all his fault.
Music made it all slightly more bearable.
When the letter arrived from Hogwarts, inviting him back for his ‘Eighth Year,’ he accepted.
~
With no Ron, no Hermione, Ginny maintaining an awkward distance after their break up, Neville spending all his time at the greenhouse, Dean and Seamus too wrapped up in each other to bother with anyone else, Luna off hunting Thestrals with her father, and the rest of the school wary of him after Skeeters articles of his supposed post-war breakdown, Harry was quite lonely at Hogwarts. The lessons didn’t interest him anymore – what more could he have left to learn, anyway? He turned down MOM’s Auror training offer – how many more Dark Wizards was he expected to fight?
If not for his mother’s tapes, Harry would have turned back around from the front gate.
But back he stayed. Night after night, Harry sat on the low walls near Hagrid’s hut, ignored by the teachers, ignored by the students, cared for only by Prince, and Jackson, and ABBA, and Floyd, with the occasional appearance from John and Queen. Harry loved these moments, where he could get to know his mother through her love for music. Which artists she liked the most, which tapes got stuck often due to lack of use. He liked to imagine her humming these songs to him as she put him to sleep. Her dancing in the kitchen with his dad. Her laughing with Sirius and Remus, wine glass in hand, vinyl spinning in the background.
When his imagination took him down those roads, he couldn’t help but wish either Avada had struck him. Then, at least, he wouldn’t have had to remember.
~
There was no solace quite like his mother’s music. Sleep evaded him anyway. When he did manage to fall asleep, he was plagued by nightmares of Remus, Tonks, Fred, Sirius, Colin, Moody, Snape, Dumbledore, dead bodies everywhere. Everywhere. So why bother, when he could stay up, under the shining moon, feel the night breeze through his hair, imagine his dead mother’s voice and wish he himself were dead.
~
For Harry it seemed, all good things come to end. Draco Malfoy eventually became the end of his solitude.
~
Harry was shuffling through the corridors on his way to the pumpkin patch, not bothering with the Cloak, because no one bothered with him anymore. His tunnel vision was interrupted by the gleam of the moonlight on pale hair.
Harry stopped.
There he was. Draco Malfoy, with his back against the wall of the windowsill, legs drawn up to his chest, long nose buried deep in a book. His fringe fell into his eyes, no longer gelled back, curling softly behind his ears. White light moved across his face, reflecting something akin to peace, to contentment.
Harry didn’t know why he moved towards him. Maybe he wanted to feel that same contentment he saw on Malfoy. It must have something to do with the bench, he concluded. And so, he sat, mirroring Malfoy’s position, stuffing the earphones into the Walkman.
Malfoy looked up, a carefully blank expression adorning his face. He stared and Harry stared back, until Malfoy looked back down at his book, and Harry felt the ripple of a Warming Charm being cast over him. It felt like acceptance.
For the first time in a long time, Harry thought about his dead mother without wishing he could join her.
~
The pumpkin patch was abandoned by Harry. Now, each night, he followed the gleam of moonlight on blonde strands to the quiet company of Draco Malfoy. The same Malfoy who had made his life so much more difficult than it already was. The same Malfoy who nearly killed Katie and Ron, and got Dumbledore killed. The same Malfoy who let Death Eaters into Harry’s home.
But wasn’t he also the same Malfoy who refused to identify him at the Manor? The one who gave up his wand without a fight. The one who clung to Harry, flames licking at their feet, all sides of the war forgotten. The one who’s life saved Harry’s, because of a mother’s love. Again.
They were children. Both of them were forced into their roles in the war, and left to deal with the consequences on their own. How was any of it fair?
So, Harry sat. He ignored what they should have been doing, because he was tired of people telling him what to do. He ignored the last seven years, and only concentrated on the gentle lick of Malfoy’s boots against his sneakers.
And finally, there was sensation outside of the music thumping in his ears. Finally, there was heat travelling up his leg, so vivid that he forgot he was supposed to be crying.
~
They didn’t talk. Malfoy always sat with his feet up, book in his lap, and cast a wandless Warming Charm when Harry arrived.
Harry knew exactly what they both were thinking. The situation was strange. So strange, because when did Malfoy become his peace? They were both looking for solitude, he knew, but somehow it was nicer being alone together.
~
The window burst open with a fresh gust of gale. Harry shivered, but found himself unwilling to move, unwilling to even yank his wand out and close it with magic.
It snapped shut anyway.
Harry glanced up at Malfoy. “How did you learn do that?” His voice was rough from lack of use. Simply saying words out loud felt like crossing a line, crossing the boundary they had created to protect themselves from the threat of each other. He could almost see the words carrying through the air between them, landing in Malfoy’s ears.
He definitely couldn’t look away when Malfoy’s lips formed words. “Necessity,” he said pointedly, with no real venom. Harry had missed the sound of his voice. Through all the turmoil in his life, Malfoy had been the constant. He always knew what to expect when it came to the blond git. Though this was uneven ground for the both of them, Malfoy’s voice reassured Harry that some things just become a part of you.
He had no reply to Malfoy.
~
Now that he had had a taste of Malfoy’s voice, the silence felt oppressing. Harry let one earbud dangle down, and leaned forward slightly. “What are you reading?” he asked.
Malfoy looked up at him through the tops of his frames. He had reading glasses now, a translucent green designed to match his school tie, his eyes grayer and bigger behind them. He’d only wore them a few times, but Harry found it a lot harder to concentrate on his morbid thoughts whenever he did.
“Little Women,” he replied.
“Muggle?” Harry asked non-judgmentally.
“I’m trying my best to rebel against everything Lucius ever taught me. What’s better than reading about a bunch of independent Muggle women who are happy even without heaps of money?”
A surprised laugh filled the air. It took Harry a second before he realized it was him.
Merlin. He could still laugh. Now that was something new.
“Maybe you could tell me more about the book sometime,” Harry said, somewhat shyly.
“But I thought you grew up Muggle?” Malfoy said curiously.
Harry took a deep breath. He was fine. It didn’t bother him anymore. The Dursley’s weren’t here anymore. “My relatives were, to put it nicely, arseholes. They didn’t exactly let me read anything. It was mainly just anything my cousin didn’t want.”
Malfoy was silent for a moment. Then, he replied cautiously, “I’ll lend it to you if you tell me what those things in your ears are.”
“It’s called a Walkman. It’s a device that plays Muggle music. My mom’s. Want to try?” Harry offered up the dangling earphone. Malfoy’s eyes sparked as he reached for it. Harry moved closer to stop the bud from falling out, the tips of his knees now pressing into Malfoys, as they sat facing each other, the Walkman resting easily in Harry’s hand.
He was transfixed. By the way Malfoy’s eyes shone with curiosity, the way his fingers twitched as though wanting to tap to the beat of the song. Harry spent the rest of the night counting the number of times Malfoy’s eyes moved across the page.
~
Winter bled into spring, and still Harry spent each night with Malfoy, now only watching him, as Malfoy became absorbed in his book, his foot tapping along to the beat of the song. The distance between them had reduced, therefore also reducing the amount of oxygen available between their faces, but somehow, Harry found it easier and easier to breathe.
~
Harry couldn’t stop staring. Malfoy had shunned his robes in favor of the creeping heat, and was sitting there in a white t-shirt and black jeans. Actual jeans. They hugged his thighs snugly, and their effect was rivaled only by the way his t-shirt dipped inwards, accentuating his slim waist.
Malfoy looked up from his book, when Harry just continued to stand there. “What?” he asked, puzzled.
“You’re wearing Muggle clothes,” Harry replied hoarsely. “I told you I’m trying to piss off Lucius,” Malfoy said with a soft smile.
Harry couldn’t find it in him to laugh. He was thinking too hard about the way his stomach flipped over at the sight of that smile.
~
Harry Potter was rapidly becoming obsessed with Draco Malfoy. There was no other way to put it. What else could explain the fact that Harry only saw Draco’s blond head bent over his book at the end of the Slytherin table, through the sea of people in the Great Hall? How else could he justify dreaming of silver eyes and crinkly smiles? What else could his doodles in History of Magic mean?
Only the thoughts of nights with Draco got him through the day. The way Draco would now look up when Harry approached, and scoot over so they could fit side by side on the windowsill. Heads resting against each other’s, the Walkman resting in the space between their legs, the music background noise to Draco’s voice reading out his book, with his own sarcastic comments injected into the sentences. The way Draco would glance up from his book to smile at Harry, and now, instead of counting the movements of his eyes, Harry could count each individual eyelash framing his hypnotizing eyes.
When had Malfoy become Draco anyway?
~
April brought with it such inviting sunshine, that Harry couldn’t stick to just being happy at night. He convinced Draco to lie down by the lake with him, the Walkman again resting between them, as they stared up at the tree, counting the leaves that gave them shade from the spring sun.
Draco laughed at something Harry said, turning his body entirely to bury his nose into Harry neck, his whole body shaking. Harry dropped one hand down from behind his head to run his fingers through Draco’s silky hair, as he continued to breathe into Harry’s neck. The sunlight seemed to warm him from within.
Harry wondered if this is what being in love felt like.
~
Draco wasn’t there. Harry felt slightly panicked. His eyes darted about, praying that Draco was just hiding out of sight to mess with him. But as the windowsill remained empty of Draco Malfoy, Harry felt his panic grow. Where was Draco? Why was he taking so long? Didn’t he know that Harry couldn’t breathe without him?
Harry sat down on the sill, breathing heavily, as he wondered if Draco had finally fallen asleep. He couldn’t fault him for that. But he didn’t want to sit here without Draco’s presence filling the area either.
Harry trudged back to Gryffindor tower, preparing himself for a night of tossing and turning.
~
Draco wasn’t at breakfast the next day. He kept his head down in classes, and avoided eye-contact with Harry.
He’ll tell me tonight, Harry assured himself. Don’t worry.
Except he didn’t. Draco wasn’t there that night either, nor the next.
Harry had to do something before the lack of oxygen killed him.
~
“Draco.” Harry’s voice was soft. He’d finally pulled out the Map, and tracked Draco down to an empty corridor. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a Conjured wooden slate floating in front of him, aiding his homework.
Draco startled and spilled ink all over his essay. “Sorry,” Harry murmured as he sat down across from him. “You’ve stopped showing up.”
Draco stared at him for a second, but didn’t say anything.
“Draco?” Harry urged. “Did I do something wrong?”
“You mean did you fail at your pet project?” Harry was taken aback. Draco’s voice held venom – venom from years ago, lifetimes ago.
“My pet project?”
“Yeah. Me. Should have known the Savior just needs something to occupy his time,” Draco spat, his eyes hardening. Harry heard something crack. It might have been his heart.
“Draco, what are you on about? You’re not a pet project, you’re my friend!”
“Oh yeah? Go tell that to all of Hogwarts would you, because they’ve all been very kind in letting me know that this was your plan all along. Nothing like reforming the Ex-Death Eater to get back into the papers huh?”
Harry stood up. It was exhilarating feeling so much emotion suddenly, but did the emotion have to be anger?
“Malfoy, what the fuck.”
“Leave, Potter.”
Harry left.
~
Just to spite him, Harry went to the windowsill that night. He sat down and he plugged his earphones in. But he had to stop as soon as the music started. Where once the notes used to carry sounds of his mother’s laughter, they were now interlaced with Draco’s. The sound of his voice as he narrated Treasure Island to Harry. The feel of his fingertips resting lightly on Harry’s knee, as they faced each other, talking till dawn.
Harry pulled out the earphones, gasping. He couldn’t breathe.
~
The Walkman stayed buried in his trunk for the next week. Harry had taken to sitting in the common, only able to count the stains on the walls. He stopped going down for meals. What was the point? It’s not like anything solid got past the lump in his throat anyway.
Harry knew now. He was definitely in love with Draco Malfoy. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to stop.
~
Harry blinked against the brightness of the image in front of him. Everything was dark. The moon had disappeared behind clouds, the stars stopped twinkling, a reflection of Harry’s mood.
But there he was. Shining so bright it hurt to look at him. The slope of his nose, the pinkness of his mouth, the slenderness of his fingers as he drummed them against the windowsill. He was sans book, staring out of the window, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
Harry let out a soft gasp. Oxygen filtered into the room.
Draco turned at the sound of the gasp, standing up quickly. He fiddled with the ends of his t-shirt, as though unsure what to do with his hands. He was looking at the floor, taking deep breaths.
Harry stayed quiet.
“I’m sorry,” Draco mumbled.
Still, Harry stayed quiet.
Draco looked up, and must have seen something in his eyes, because suddenly he was ranting, “I’m sorry, Harry, I’m sorry. I let my insecurities get in the way; I believed the first thing they told me. Of course you don’t want attention from the papers I know that. What I just could not grasp was the fact that you really wanted me.” He sighed running a frustrated hand through his hair. “I just- fuck, everything was so shit for so long, and I’d finally found comfort in something, and then you came along and I thought well hell, here it goes down the drain, but you just made everything better. And you kept making it better. Merlin Harry, the sun itself couldn’t compete with your smile and your warmth and the way you make me feel. I’ve never been so safe in my life as I was sitting next you, and now you’re gone and it feels so wrong, everything has lost its color and there’s this pain in my chest and Merlin I can’t breathe-“
Harry didn’t care about the rest. He didn’t care about how he got from five feet away to right up in Draco’s space. All he cared about was the feel of Draco’s jaw in his hands, his warm tears slipping between Harry’s fingers, as he pressed their foreheads together.
Draco’s hands came up to grasp Harry’s wrists. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispered again and again. “I’m sorry, I love you, I’m sorry.”
That’s when Harry kissed him.
It was nirvana, the feel of Draco’s salty, wet lips under his, moving slowly, soft whimpers escaping both of them. Harry held on tight, because what else could he do? The ground was shifting under his feet, the world spinning, as he could finally, finally breathe again.
~
The train jostled under Harry as he lay down on the seat, his head in Draco’s lap. He was reading Wuthering Heights out loud to him, but Harry didn’t hear a word, too focused on the way Draco’s lips shaped around the syllables.
“Stop staring, you creep,” Draco laughed, swatting at Harry’s forehead.
“I’m appreciating beauty, Draco. Would you ask a person to stop staring at paintings in a museum?”
Draco smiled softly, leaning down to press a kiss to Harry’s lips.
Harry settled back down, feeling absolutely content. “I expect you to read to me before bed each night, by the way,” he announced.
“I knew that was the only reason you asked me to move in with you,” Draco huffed.
Harry laughed, his ribs expanding easily, as he breathed in lungsful of sweet, sweet oxygen.