hujan bulan juli

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Beyond imagination, Malfoy falls to his knees.

Everything blurs. The rain is hot against Harry's eyes. His feet are still rooted to the earth. Drenched pale hair is bowed down. Strange to look at from this angle. Potter, let me. You did enough.

This isn't right, Harry never says, call me stupid. Fight me. Give me a cold shoulder. Scold me when you have to bail me out or sit next to my hospital bed. But let me go.

But Malfoy is on his knees.

Tell me what I should do, you know I’m more than capable, the fingers clenching Harry's hands were pruning and rough. Harry's lips started to tremble. His feet are getting cold. He should—

This isn’t in the script.

Malfoy is on his knees.

The thing about Malfoy, he doesn't touch anyone unless it’s absolutely necessary. But now, against the odds, those bony hands wrap themselves tightly around Harry’s cold fingers.

Harry falls to his knees.

Noses so close they can touch. The rain is hard, but Harry’s will is harder. He keeps his eyes wide open—catching the details on Malfoy’s angular, harsh face. Harry doesn't like to linger, but this time he does. Through the pouring water, Malfoy looks like a thin, white flower, bowed, but keeping itself open, bravely facing the heavy fall.

Harry takes their entwined hands together. He cradles them and lets his lips fall onto Malfoy’s wet wrist. Tasting the cold skin covering delicate blue veins. Malfoy watches—eyes wide, as grey as the sky.

Maybe this isn’t written in the script either.

There is no hesitation. If there is anyone Harry would not let to jump to the hell he's in, it is this man.

.

Grey eyelashes resting on burning cheeks. Noisy breath as his chest rose and fell. Flesh-pink lips on folded arms. Wet splotch on his sleeve. White hair all over the half-written report.

Harry took his mobile and snapped a picture.

Malfoy drools in his sleep, he wrote to Ron. Stop sending cursed images, Ron sent back, missing the joke.

It was funny. Harry laughed every time he looked. Malfoy, crumpled and messy as he slept. Malfoy, looking stupid. Malfoy and his disgusting drool.

The picture brought Harry endless glee.

Malfoy would die if he saw it.

But it had been a week since Harry had it. He was still waiting for the perfect opportunity to show it to Malfoy. In the meantime, Harry kept it safe in the mobile, in his pocket. But he didn't care much about it.

Harry only looked at it when he woke up in the morning and before he went to sleep. He looked at it whenever something troubled him. To lift his mood, of course.

“Just print and frame it on your desk, if you like it that much.” Malfoy didn't even look up from his paperwork.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Or,” Malfoy stood. Their desks faced each other in this cramped office. When Malfoy leaned in, he was hovering over Harry. “—you can just sleep in my bed. Look at the real thing, it's always better.”

“That's not—”

“Really? You don't want that?” Malfoy's face was smug and punchable.

“Well,” Harry leaned back, creating a gap between them. He licked his lips, stared at the mobile on his desk. “I didn't say that, exactly.”

“And?"

Harry took a deep breath, finally looking up, right at Malfoy, who wavered. It gave Harry a little bit of confidence. Those damn grey eyelashes were trembling—the way it did when he slept. Those cheeks were still burning. Those lips—

A lifeline couldn't look like a letter, could it?

Definitely not one in a familiar, cursive handwriting. Fragrant, cold, and neatly folded.

Not caring and worrying. Like Hermione's. No jabs and jokes. Like Ron's. Not concerned and motherly. Like Molly's. It was a demand.

Will you return my wand?

So Harry sat in the faintly-lit pub. Not knowing what to do with his limbs; as a pensive, alive, and breathing Draco Malfoy sat in front of him. Posing with his straight back and tight mouth. His dress robes had no wrinkles. Not a strand of white-blond hair was out of place. Harry felt small in his old Gryffindor jersey he'd worn for a week. Or that he hadn't bathed in… days? Which Malfoy readily agreed out loud. “You look like shit.”

“Fuck off.”

Harry put the wand on the table, wanting to go home and rot in his bed. Malfoy didn't even look at it. His grey eyes were set on Harry, too intense, too much. Harry met his gaze. Who did Malfoy think he was?

“You should drink.”

Harry took the pint. But its content vanished in a blink. Malfoy conjured liquid into it. Not with the Hawthorn wand.

Harry wondered if he should just throw the pint at Malfoy. No chance he would drink the fucking water.

Pale fingers touched Harry's as Malfoy take the glass from him. Despite his neat appearance, Malfoy drank clumsily. The water ran past his pink lips, trailed to his chin, his neck, then his chest, and vanished under his shirt. He licked his lips twice after he was done. It was strangely audible in this vacant pub. Fucking uncomfortable.

The glass clinked when it hit the table.

There was a stain on the rim.

Same shade of pink.

Malfoy conjured more water.

“Drink.”

Harry took it. It wasn't intended, but maybe the stain was now inside of his mouth. After a relieving gulp, he realised it was the first one he had in a (or two) day.

Malfoy's lips were pulled to one side when Harry was done. The unnerving pink is as unnatural as it should. Harry was caught in a trap.

“Fished you out, didn't I?”

.

“You acted almighty but you called for my name in your sleep.” Potter sat up, blinked sleepily, legs folded on the bed. Not for the first time since they were assigned roommates, Draco desired to hex his smug face.

“It's a nightmare, idiot.”

Potter casually stretched, shirt pulled up, showing a little more skin under the low light. His teeth glinted as he grinned. “Still, you think of—”

“You dreamt about Voldemort.” Potter's face dropped like rain. Draco's blood rushed in triumph. He won. “Exactly.”

“Prickly.” Potter shrugged. He fumbled through his drawer in darkness. Draco wondered if he should cast Lumos. Before he moved, Potter offered a vial. “Drink.”

Draco hated how small this place was. How there was barely a space between their beds. How achingly reachable Potter's sleepy face was. “Just fucking take it. I know it's subpar, but beggars can't be choosers. Unless you fancy weeping in my funeral in your sleep.”

“If it's your funeral, I'd celebrate.”

“Draco.” Potter's tone was too gentle to Draco's liking. He uncorked the vial, took Draco's hand, and wrapped Draco's finger around it. “Drink.”

Draco wasn't immune to the saviour's ability to command the universe to his liking, no matter how hard he tried. Potter was smug once again as Draco laid back down, mouth bitter from both the potion and Potter's audacity. “Now sleep. Try not to profess your undying love when unconscious."

“I did nothing of such.”

.

“It's one of the moon magic.” His eyes matched with the smoke from his open mouth. And his skin. “Binding the ocean.”

Harry looked. Those foul, pale lips curled around a wretched cigarette. Harry's own tingled, a faint echo. It must taste bitter. Merlin.

“You know that the moon is magical, right? Werewolves? I know you're greatly confined within the limitations of your Muggle upbringings. But gravity, was it? I finished Muggle Science with an O—” I know “—interesting way to explain things beyond their understanding.”

“...”

“Stop gaping and flushing while looking at me.” Grey eyes firmly set to the sky like a devotee. “One might mistake it.”

“You fucking wish.” Harry lied, swallowed, tasting the stench of salty ocean. “Why did you call?” after so many years “—is this what you're up to? Locked yourself up in that creepy manor—” never was seen, never showed up “—trying to talk up the fucking moon like a lunatic?”

Those lips curled. It wasn’t a smile. Not on Malfoy. “Looked out for me, hm? One might misunderstand, you know.”

“I’m not joking.” Harry looked at the tide; the moon swam in it; a chaotic, wavering reflection.

“I’m not fooling around. I’m studying. The moon—” was reflected in your fucking eyes “—was gentle. But it bonded me. Accidentally.” Malfoy inhaled his smoke. “What can a human being offer but their soul?" Then, he finally looked at Harry. Tired and frail, devoid of colour. “Come here. Fix it.”

“What—how?” Harry frowned. Malfoy grabbed his jacket and pulled. Harry stepped closer, involuntarily inhaling the smoke. Bony hands with soft fingertips skated along Harry's nape. Sending shivers, blocking airways. Malfoy was so close that his eyelashes were countable.

“Like this.”

.

Pain shot through Draco's cursed legs. “You're already holding my hand, it's gonna be weird if we aren't actually dying.”

“Charming. We're definitely dying, don't worry.” Potter sighed.

Draco couldn't get his eyes off the bleeding wound on Potter's lips. He wet his own to compensate for the need to fix Potter's. “Dying should feel grander. This feels like any other Tuesday.”

Potter's eyes, this close, were forest green in contrast to his grey skin, the gloomy wreckage of this building, and his dusty crimson Auror robes. “Maybe we really should retire.”

Draco's body felt heavy. His eyelids were drooping. He opened them when Potter let out a pained noise. “Maybe you and I have met, you know, in our past lives.”

“No,” Draco said flatly. “But I'll find you in the next life so I can torment you better.”

Potter let out a dry laugh. “You can't do it any better than this.” His rough hand was squeezing Draco's. They were head to head. If they really died today, the last thing Draco saw would be Harry Potter's annoying face. His long lashes. Half-burned eyebrows. His ashy cheek. His lightning bolt scar. Green eyes. His whisper, saying, “We won't die. I want to know how far you can torment me.”

“The saviour's word is my command,” Draco managed. He pulled himself with all his might to get closer, so their foreheads would touch. Potter tried, too. But Draco's body couldn't—in seconds, Potter's face blurred, and the world fell into darkness.

When Draco woke up, Potter was lying beside him, holding his hand.

“Dying, are we?”

—

Draco had the soft glow of dawn's light on Potter's fingertips imprinted in his mind, with the snowflake-like white mark on that fingernail. It was as far as Draco could see, in that hazy, cold morning, succumbed to gravity on the grass. Draco tried to keep his eyes open—despite his mind floating in space—to see the hand that lit up in gold as it touched Draco's cold nose.

That one moment remained intricately woven into Draco's soul, a closeness, as if Draco's skin was split open, all of his insides so exposed in every single breath, as he divulged and confessed, you know, I don't think I'll make it past twenty two.

Green eyes were the brightest light Draco ever saw, dimming the world behind them. Gentle fingers ran on Draco's hair, no, even if you don't, I believe in you.

Potter, a stranger, an enemy, was closer to Draco's heart than his own artery.

Then the next day, when Potter diverted his gaze as he passed by, it felt like Draco's heart was being spat out like a slobber.

Maybe it was alcohol diluting the memory. How come there was no recognition in those eyes—other than enmity, the long surging disgust? Was it all a dream?

But Draco can't blame the alcohol, not when he has tasted the flavour Potter's plump lips from the mouth of the bottle. Not when he had the memory of those fingers delicately leaving chemtrails all over the lines on Draco's palm, and how they traced through Draco's purple, dead-like veins up to the space they disappeared in his arms, simultaneously warming Draco's skin.

He spoke as if he knew for sure how far Draco could still go. It was loudly told by the green in his eyes—which Draco barely saw as his sight were obscured by tears. And by his gentle whispers, not tonight, no, you will be alright.

It rattled Draco's soul. And his tired, faint heartbeat, making it shout loud and fast.

Draco did not take the leap then.

He was still here, breathing, albeit still heavily sometimes, thinking about that moment every night. When he was engulfed in anger, when he was decapitated by sorrow, when grief almost took it all, he held onto a forgotten history: cold skin on quivering pulse, and a soft spoken promise, you'll be alright.

And Draco was alright.

○

“Professor, how's your hair all grey at 36?” Malfoy's long fingers reached out to touch, it froze just a hairbreadth away. He smiled thinly and retracted his hand.

Harry stared at the single fleck on Malfoy's pale skin, a little crescent on the tip of his nose. “Thirty…”

Malfoy leans towards the fence, hair wild, swayed by the wind. Eyes reflecting the stars that he knew like the back of his hand.

Him, the same, always.

Any moment, his finger would point at a celestial object and recite its lore. And Harry would listen like he did years ago, in this very place, like a rerun. Back then, Malfoy had talked animatedly, eyes glimmering, youth etched in the way he slipped in immature insults between the lore—just to annoy Harry—pale skin under a thick Slytherin scarf. Harry remembered how he had smirked that one night, a day before graduation, his lips pink and wet. “Sinistra retired. I'll just take it, you know. Mcgonagall asked me.”

Harry had been young and stupid, he'd scrambled for excuses not to leave and begged McGonagall to let him stay a few more months after eighth year. He'd told himself he hadn't been ready for the world. Nothing more.

Little liar, you haven't even left since.

Malfoy moved, his pale long hair nearly swiping against Harry's face. A finger pointed to the sky. “You know how to find the Leo constellation?”

Harry shook his head. So, this was Regulus' night.

Malfoy described the constellation; introduced its brightest star; and asked… do you know that he was named after it? Then he recalled the stories he heard from Narcissa about the man.

Harry listened, patiently. Looking at his own hands, pretending he wasn't staring at Malfoy's long eyelashes or the little fleck on his nose. Or his icy grey eyes. Once Malfoy was out of things to say, it was Harry's cue. He asked, “So what about your namesake, professor?”

“Good question, you'd make my best student at this rate.”

“Better than Rose Weasley?”

Malfoy smiled, eyes faraway, maybe thinking about his most prominent student. “Never.” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Harry watched, agonised as he waited, as if anticipating for a miracle to unravel. There, the little smile on those pale lips. Eyelids opening to showcase the light in grey eyes. Malfoy leaned on his side to face Harry. “Draco is a constellation. It's shaped like a dragon.”

“Dragon?”

Malfoy was so close. He must have felt Harry's breath this near. He must have heard Harry's bloodrush. He must have seen Harry's mess of heart written all over his eyes. Those lips, so near. Harry gulped, still this anxious, even after all these years, even after reliving this a thousand times and more.

“The biggest star in Draco's constellation is called Eltanin, or Etamin. Do you know that?”

Yes. I asked every night. You always answered.

“Is it time?” Draco asked, this time, his voice is caught at the back of his throat. He sounded awfully young and tired.

Harry looked away. Refusing to see it unfold. He had enough of this. He closed his eyes, and waited.

There was, mercifully, no sound when Draco dematerialised.

The tower was quiet. The metal fence was cold under Harry's hand. The winter was unforgiving. Draco's office was dusty and vacant. Rose Weasley has long since graduated.

And Harry was a tired sixty year old.