@drarrymicrofic | prompt: But(t) | wc: 571 |
Unfortunately, Draco was very used to hearing but.
“Mr Malfoy, thank you for your Healer application. Your NEWT scores are exemplary, and we thoroughly enjoyed reading your dissertation. We would love to offer you a position at St Mungo’s, but we’ve decided to move forward with a candidate whose public profile is less complicated.” “Draco, I know our parents want us to get married, and whilst I think it wouldn’t be a terrible arrangement, I just can’t do it. You’re lovely and all, but I have to think of any children we might have. It would be so difficult for them to have a Death Eater as a father.” “Darling, you know I adore it when you visit. I really do live for them… but perhaps it would be easier if you came when it was dark out? So the press didn’t see you.” “You can work in the DMLE admin department, Malfoy. The pay is as shit as the hours, but it’s probably more than you deserve.”
So used to hearing but was Draco that he lived in a constant state of flight. One foot out the door. His heart tucked away safe and sound. It was easier to keep his guard up than risk the pain of letting someone close enough to wound him properly.
You would think, with so much practice, that his walls would be impenetrable. It took Harry Potter returning to England after years abroad for Draco to learn this was simply not true.
Polite smiles as they passed each other in the corridor became small talk in the cafeteria queue. Small talk became shared jokes over lunch. Shared jokes became Harry waiting by Draco’s desk at the end of the day, asking if he wanted to get a drink. One drink became two, became Harry’s hand on the small of Draco’s back, became trysts in the supply cupboard, nights at each other’s homes, weekends away, until somehow—impossibly—all of it became whispered promises between the sheets that Draco didn’t believe.
But gods, did he want to.
He wanted to believe so badly that, despite half his heart constantly bracing for the inevitability of but, the other half lived in hope of a full stop.
It came on a Wednesday evening. Harry and Draco stood side by side at the hob, both tired from work, both still in their shirtsleeves, cooking dinner together like they did most nights.
“You’re going to burn the garlic,” Draco said, reaching past Harry to turn down the heat. “Add the stock now.”
Harry did as he was told. “That enough?”
“Perfect. Add the rice and let it simmer for fifteen.” Draco glanced at the oven. “I think the chicken is almost done, you know—”
“I love you.”
So sudden it was that Draco froze. He braced himself, waiting for the but.
I love you, but this is difficult. I love you, but people will talk. I love you, but I don’t know if I can.
Only, it never came. Instead, Harry took his hand, threaded their fingers together, and stood so close that they were chest-to-chest, and Draco began to wonder.
“I love you,” Harry said, softer this time. “That’s all.”
Draco swallowed. His heart was no longer tucked away safe and sound. It was right there in his throat, beating itself half to death because it was true.
“I love you too,” he said, his voice trembling.
