Rating:
PG-13
House:
Astronomy Tower
Characters:
Draco Malfoy Harry Potter
Genres:
Angst Slash
Era:
Multiple Eras
Spoilers:
Philosopher's Stone Chamber of Secrets Prizoner of Azkaban Goblet of Fire
Stats:
Published: 06/21/2002
Updated: 06/21/2002
Words: 1,898
Chapters: 1
Hits: 2,534

Eternity

Abaddon

Story Summary:
Third story in the 'Sweet Dreams' sequence. A final visit to the graveyard. Some people will always find themselves second-best. Harry/Draco.

Chapter Summary:
Second story in the 'Sweet Dreams' sequence. Again, someone visits the gravevard, trying to make restitution. Harry/Draco.
Posted:
06/21/2002
Hits:
2,534

Enough.

A H/D (and potentially more) slashfic by Abaddon.

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The young man knelt at the grave, and laid a bouquet of flowers at its' foot. A mix of white and red roses; one red one for each month they had been together; the white for each year they had been apart.

The autumn spring whipped about him on the overcast day, but its' scent bore the promise of coming Spring, with new life and growth. Change was in the air.

His long blonde hair, so light it was almost silver, blew about him, as did the grey coat that almost came down to his ankles, but he didn't seem to mind. Or notice.

"Hello Harry", Draco Malfoy said, smiling gently, and he blushed, like a bashful schoolboy. "It's been a while."

He looked around him, and seemingly saw all the other tributes, floral and otherwise that had been laid around the grave, and his gaze grew unfocused.

"I'm sorry...it's been my fault, I admit...at first, it was just too painful...and then, I felt guilty."

He remembered...

The torture of watching the Boy Who Lived beat him, time and time again, and know that he was the one thing he couldn't buy, break or intimidate...

The exquisite feel of being curled up in bed next to Harry, holding him, gently, against the night, and having Harry whisper in his ear that he would never, ever, leave. And turning his face to Harry's Draco could tell from his beautiful emerald eyes that it was truth.

"Guilty you say? What would the great and wonderful Draco Malfoy have to feel guilty for?" He sighed and looked at his feet. "Love...Harry...about eight months ago, I met this guy. Michael." Draco kicked at a stone absentmindedly. "I wasn't doing much with my life really. After the War ended, I didn't exactly want anything to do with magic ever again so I -- I went to a muggle university." He laughed, a short sharp bark that cut through the autumn cold. "I know, it seems rather peculiar" -- his familiar drawl came through strongly on that word -- "seeing how I used to treat them, but thanks to the War, a lot of links were established, a lot of exchange of information. We started testing muggles at random, and found there's so many with latent abilities that fell through our sensing spells -- amazing really, not just witches and wizards, but people who can only do one thing, like, prophecy or augur or cast charms...you get the point." He paused, considering where to go next. "And after everything, after the War...I just wanted to get away from magic, to never look at a fucking wand again, because despite everything, despite all my power, I couldn't -- I couldn't save you. So I went to a muggle university. No spells, no potions, no curses. Not even Quidditch, but they have this sport called soccer which is almost as good. No flying, but hey, at least you can't fall off, eh, Harry?"

That night, in fifth year, when they'd met to finally have it out, and yet somehow ended up kissing instead, and Draco knew, really knew, that this was right...

And the absolute torture of the next three months of being unable to say it, of being terrified of being in the same room with him, in case Harry didn't need him the way Draco needed Harry, and yet totally unable to leave.

"Anyway...I was treated like a hero in a way, you know, this wizard, I'd killed Voldemort, ended the War, the whole lot. It was strange, but for the first time I understood what you meant when you told me you used to hate it. All the attention, all the gossip. Rita Skeeterhad reported on your death, and when I killed Voldemort, she did on a whole expose on me, the bad boy gone good for love, except -- cue the violins -- my one true love was dead. So, naturally, I was seen as fair game by every man and woman on campus. It was an...interesting induction into university education. The whispers, the giggles, the glances...the endless, endless invitations for 'coffee' or 'drinks' or even those more blunt ones who asked if I wanted a 'fuck'. I turned them all away of course...some politely, while others I just stared at, stonily, until they got scared and ran." He laughed, a pleasant, joyous sound, that didn't seem out of place in the graveyard at all, before his face grew serious again. "It didn't matter. How could anyone else matter? No-one else could complete me the way you did, Harry", his voice reduced to a husky whisper. "How could anyone else count, after knowing your soul on mine, the feel of our bodies entwined, your smell, your voice, your taste! I didn't think it was possible. And then, I met Michael." He shrugged. "It wasn't some great revelation or anything. He was just in one of my tutorials. Twentieth-Century History A. Quite interesting, really. Tells one a lot about the muggle perspective on life. We didn't even speak till I needed to catch up on some lecture notes and he happened to be sitting next to me. He was the first person in a long while who treated me like a...real person, I guess. And I liked it. We started 'hanging out' together, although there was never any question of us being more than friends. I didn't want anything more than friends, and I pretty much made it plain by dropping your name in every conversation we had. 'Oh, Harry would have liked this', I'd say, or 'that reminds me of the time when Harry and I would...'" He faltered for a moment, as if unable to reconcile what he said with what was to follow. "Hmm. Yes. Well, after about six months I was over at his place, watching television -- he could never get over the fact I looked at television like it was new, because it was so passé to him -- and I looked at him, and he looked at me, and we kissed. And then he asked me if I wanted to go out sometime, and I said 'yes.'"

The young man shifted awkwardly from side to side, and tightened his coat, only now seeming to feel the cold, while his other hand ran anxiously through his hair.

"I think it was then, I finally realised...I finally accepted that you were gone forever and you weren't coming back...I think part of me had always lain in hope, praying that somehow, this would all be a dream and I would wake up in your arms, and you would make everything all right...just as you always did."

His voice lowered itself to a tortured whisper. "But you weren't there anymore. You. Weren't. There. And I got so lonely, without you...I didn't use him...Merlin no, if I wanted to just use someone to fill the hole in my heart I would have taken the first person who'd flung themselves at me and bled them dry. I just realised...I wasn't as lonely, when he was around. And he was so nice to me, and a great friend, and a wonderful person...he hasn't replaced you, Harry, nor has he made me forget you...no-one could ever do that."

He remember the panic he felt when he'd woken up, in their special place at Hogwarts, a deserted classroom they'd both charmed and warded so much they didn't think a louse could get in with them knowing, when Draco had woken up to find the bed empty. Of course, at first, he'd assumed Harry had gone to get breakfast, but then he'd found Harry's robe and small clothes still piled on the floor from last night, and that was when he really started to worry...

And he remembered in exquisite detail the moment, hours later, once he had cried himself out a-worrying and now sat huddled in Dumbledore's office, when Hermione arrived and as he rose, he could tell, exactly what she was going to say, because she was crying too....and the teacup fell from his hands, and all he could recall was running outside, chucking the blanket they gave him away, but running and running until he saw Snape and some ministry people looking down at a lump in a ditch in the grounds, and seeing that it was Harry, his Harry, all mangled and broken, beaten and bloody, his beauty wrecked forever, and he was quite, quite dead..

He blinked the tears away. He'd done his crying a long time ago.

"But Michael makes me happy, and Merlin knows why, but he claims I do the same." A touch of dry humour entered his voice, and a wry grin crossed Draco's face, the blonde rolling his eyes. "He's not you. But he's enough, and more. I just wanted to tell you, I guess, get your approval perhaps, or just....I dunno." Draco's eyes brightened in recollection, and he smiled. "Michael asked me to marry him yesterday, on our two-year anniversary, and I, the romantic fool that I am, said 'yes.' It's going to be in three months, in this little old stone chapel in Cornwall, covered with moss and ivy. We found it on one of our treks. We get in the car -- I learnt to drive, can you believe it?! -- and just keep going until we want to stop. We invited Ron and Hermione, and their one year old, Lily, except she's far too young to do anything really, which is fine, and oh! Ginny's coming, and all the Weasley's, so Neville is too, with Percy, and....I'm babbling, aren't I, Harry, love?" He sighed, and sat on the ground, picking at a leaf. "You see, that's kind of my problem. I love you both. I probably love you more, and he knows and he forgives me for it. You'd like Michael, I think, Harry. And really, all I'm trying to do is be happy. Not a big ask, is it?"

And he remembered the way Michael looked out for him, and the way he held him tight, and rested his head upon Draco's shoulder, and never said he thought 'Draco' was a funny name...

He stood suddenly, and righted himself, brushing the leaves and other detritus of his pants. "Well, I guess I'll see you next time. I'll bring Michael here, after the honeymoon. Just to pay respects, and then, well, I might not see you for a while. I love you Harry, I always have and I always will...but I don't need you anymore. Not the way I used to." He walked off, and then turned, to look back at the grave. "But I hope you'll wait for me", he added, softly, before going back the way he came.

He remembered having to go through the charade of hating Harry, or taunting him, belittling him during the day, because that was what was expected, when every fibre of his body screamed against it, and his desperate attempts to make it up to Harry every night, by laying himself, bare and open and trusting to Harry's gaze and touch.

And finding that Harry never judged him, never used him, or hurt him, and always understood. Always loved him.

Always.

And that was what he had come to find.

And it was enough.