#htuab

“You’re lucky I’m drunk,” Harry said, gaze fixed somewhere around Draco’s mouth. “If I were sober, I’d be embarrassed by how fucking pretty I think you are.”

That earned him a visible pause. Draco’s brow twitched upward like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard right—or if he wanted to. He was staring at Harry like he was trying not to. He looked like he was just handed a puzzle box and a blindfold, and didn’t know where to begin.

His mouth parted. He blinked once. And—were his ears pink? Were they? Or was it the candlelight playing tricks on Harry’s thoroughly overcooked brain? No, no, his ears were pink.

“Merlin,” Harry muttered under his breath. “Even your ears are stupidly attractive.”

anyway thank you @fiella for your gorgeous beautiful heartbreaking writing

“There’s an event,” Harry said, aiming for casual, though his heart was ringing like a death knell in his throat. “In London. Tonight.”

Draco blinked, just once, slowly.

“Just you and me. Possibly wearing something nice. No need to panic. Just—er—it’s an orchestra.”

“An… orchestra,” Draco repeated flatly.

“Yeah. You know—violins, cellos, possibly an old man flicking his wrist theatrically like he’s summoning spirits. Very serious. Very sophisticated. And—very much your cup of tea, if I’m not wrong to assume that.”

A beat passed. Draco stared down at the book for a long time, as though he was trying to find an excuse written somewhere on the pages. Slowly, his gaze lifted and he arched a brow. “Merlin, Potter. Are you—are you asking me on a bloody date?”

Harry’s brain imploded. “What? No. I mean—yes? I guess? Possibly?” He ran a hand through his hair, which only made it worse. “Fuck. I’m really bad at this.”

“You are aware that you suggesting classical music as a date is, frankly, deeply suspicious?”

“I thought you might like it,” Harry replied, gentle and honest. It was so honest, it hurt. It was so honest, it was a near invocation. Of course, he was not going to elaborate and say: I know you’ll like it because you wrote about Bach in your journal. I know you’ll like it because you used to sketch violins, instead of broken strings.  

Harry shrugged softly like his heart wasn’t already bleeding in his chest, and said, “So, what do you say?"

Draco gnawed on his bottom lip for only a second. “You really want me to come?”

It shouldn’t have sounded so disbelieving, Harry thought.

“Yeah. I really do.”

“No, it’s not—”

“Yes, it is!” Draco snapped, whipping around. “You can’t—you can’t just give someone a fucking breadcrumb after you’ve starved them for years and expect it to count.”

“Then what would count?” Harry asked, all breathless and fraught. “Tell me, Draco. Spell it out for me. I’ll fucking do it. Do you want me to build you a new world from scratch? Rewrite the last decade? Dig up every grave and beg the ghosts to forgive you? I’ll fucking do it—just tell me what.”

“You can’t fix everything, Potter,” he murmured, and the quietness was worse than shouting. “You can’t charm rot out of a tree once it’s in the roots. You can paint the bark, but it still dies from the inside.”

“I’ll build a greenhouse around you. And keep the bugs from chewing through your leaves.”

Draco made a sound—a laugh or a sob or both. “You don’t get it. I—I’ve got poison in my chest, Harry.”

“Oh, Draco. Then, I’ll drink it too. We’ll choke on it together.”   

no because oh my god.

Draco looked at him, skeptical and lost. It was so vulnerable, so childlike—something small and quiet and almost frightened—that Harry could feel it ripple through his bones. It wasn’t the face of a grown man, not really. It was the face of a boy who never got to be one. A boy who’d never been taught how to throw a ring for the sake of nothing. Who didn’t know that laughter didn’t always have to be earned.

It reminded Harry, vaguely and horribly, of being small and strange and always wrong. Shut in the dark, holding a broken toy he wasn’t allowed to want in the first place. Of watching from the doorway as Dudley blew out candles, not quite understanding why the cake wasn’t for him. Of being punished for not knowing the rules he was never told.

“Right.” Harry cleared his throat and pushed past Draco into the room without waiting for an invitation. “That’s enough of that.”

Draco frowned at him. “Potter, what do you think you’re—”

“I’ve, quite frankly, had it up to here,” Harry snapped, whirling on him with wild eyes.

“What are you—”

“Care to explain why you couldn’t open the fucking door two hours ago? Do you even want to know the state of numbness my arse is in right now?” Harry gestured vaguely behind himself with a flare of theatrical indignation. “I’ve become one with the marble, Malfoy. I’m probably fused to the bloody alabaster.”

“Potter—”

“And what, exactly, had you so busy in here anyway?” Harry narrowed his eyes and waved toward the desolate room. “Reorganizing your collection of existential crises? Alphabetizing them, perhaps? Oh wait—don’t tell me you were communing with the ceiling again. Because frankly, he’s a shit conversationalist.”