I Miss...

I miss you in the morning.

The way you warm the bed, despite your frozen toes scrunching against my thighs. I miss the shadow of your hair against the pillow, and the sleep that crusts in the corners of your eyes. I miss how you peer up at me through half-moon eyelids and smile in that slow, lazy way, and how that tiny smile pulls at your lips as if held on strings and controlled by forces out of your control. I loved your vulnerability; how you would slink across the sheets and curl into my side, burrowing your head into that space underneath my shoulder. I miss those small whimpered sighs that you would breathe against my skin; satisfaction in every husk.

I miss you at night.

The way you would pad across the carpet with bare feet, silk pyjama bottoms slung carelessly about your hips. I miss how you would raise one hand and rake it through your hair, and the way it fell back into place. I miss how you would look up at me with a feral glint in your eyes, and how that suggestive smirk would pin me down against the headboard. I loved your confidence, how you would stalk across the sheets and hold my arms down by my side, burrowing your lips into that space underneath my shoulder. I miss those small gasps of pleasure you would breathe against my skin; desperation in every husk.

****************

It had been one year, four months, sixteen days, five hours, twelve minutes and fifty-one seconds since he left, but it seemed like yesterday. I can still remember the bang of the front door as he let it shut behind him, and he walked into the living room where I sat on the sofa with the remote control in my hand. His eyes were focused on his shoes as he scuffed them back and forth across the hardwood floor, and he dug his hands into the depths of his jean pockets.

"We need to talk," he murmured, and I tore my eyes away from the ten o'clock news to look at him.

He was watching me from underneath lowered lashes, his bottom lip caught between his front teeth.

"Do we?" I asked, stalling for time; hoping that if I could buy enough of it then this conversation would finish before it could really ever begin.

He nodded and made a move to sit beside me, deciding against it at the last moment as he caught the warning in my eyes. I knew that this wasn't going to be a conversation for closeness. He walked towards the fireplace and leant against it casually, the open collar of his shirt slipping down to reveal a purple mark on his neck.

"What's that?" I asked, indicating with the remote.

He knew what I meant without having to look. "It's what we have to talk about," he said.

His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and I watched it's path. I tried not to think about what that tongue could do to me; how it could break me and fix me all at once. I tried not to think about where it had been last night, and the night before that - all those times he hadn't come home and I was left waiting in a rapidly cooling bed.

I waited in silence, my eyes magnetically attached to the mark.

"I'm...I'm seeing someone else," he finally said, the words rushing out as if through speed he could make it less painful; as if it were a Band-Aid.

I tore my eyes away from his neck and looked up at his face. His focus was still on his shoes. I wondered why I didn't feel anything; why I wasn't upset or angry. I didn't even feel betrayed. I suppose I just accepted it, accepted it because I had always known that we would conclude with infidelity. Nothing as pretty as Draco could be contained.

"Are you not going to hit me?" he asked, almost a challenge. He was looking at me now, those silver eyes reaching down inside me and daring me to fly across the room in a flurry of fists and bruise his skin.

But his skin was already bruised.

I refused to give him the satisfaction of my anger. I refused to ease his guilt.

I shook my head.

"But are you not angry?" he asked, confusion infusing into his voice.

"No, I am not angry," I said.

"But...I don't understand, Harry. You have every right to be angry. You have every right to hurt, and to hurt me in return."

"I'm not angry, Draco. I expected something like this. You have proven nothing apart from your predictability."

That hit home, and I saw him flinch. His head tilted to one side and he shifted his weight to the other foot. He expected me to continue. Moments passed.

"Who was it?" I asked, running my forefinger over the buttons of the remote, strangely soothed by their tactility.

"Nobody you know,"

"You never were a good liar, Draco," I admonished softly.

He swallowed.

"Blaise."

I hadn't been expecting that. Draco had always said he had hated Blaise, most probably because they were too similar. Looking back, I see that the boy was one to protest too much.

"Blaise," I repeated, rolling his name around my tongue as if I were testing a wine.

I swallowed and pulled a face. Unsatisfactory. Lets send it back.

"You're too good for Blaise, Draco," I said.

Another hit. Another flinch. "No, I'm not. I'm a bastard, just like him. How can you say I am too good after I have cheated on you?"

"That's the sad thing, Draco. You are too good. You have lowered yourself."

"I'm sorry...I...I..."

I held up my hand. I was bored of this. It was going nowhere.

"I'm not sorry, Draco."

"Wait. You're not?!" his head snapped up.

"No. I feel sorry for you, because you wasted a perfectly good relationship. I feel sorry for you, because you chucked away three years of us for what will be maybe...oh...a weeks worth of fucking. But I am not sorry that you did it, because now I know."

"I don't get it, Harry. I don't understand."

His eyes were pleading with me now, asking for an explanation; asking for forgiveness. I could provide the former.

"Ever since that first day when we announced we were together, people told me you would be unfaithful. I didn't believe them, Draco. I thought they were just against the idea of a Slytherin and a Gryffindor; of you and me. But the idea stayed somewhere in the back of my subconscious. I knew it would happen one day. I knew you would cheat on me. I even knew it would be with someone worthless. I just didn't know when."

My nails were digging into the rubber buttons of the controls, leaving tiny carved crescents in their wake.

"So why did you stay with me then, Harry? If you knew I was going to do something like this?"

I shrugged, as if it was the most unimportant thing in the world.

"I loved you. That's why. Love makes people stay. Love makes people hope that they are wrong."

That's when he cracked. I knew this would be coming, too. I knew he would be full of sweet apologies and empty promises that would never come true. I was prepared.

He launched himself at the floor in front of my feet and took my face between his hands. Our eyes met, and I looked deep down into those silver pools for what I knew would be the last time. He was crying; fast, steady, salty streams pounding down his cheeks. I reached up and wiped them away with my thumb.

"I'm sorry, Harry. I'm so so sorry. I don't know what I was thinking. You are so good to me. So good. I am such a pig. I will understand if you don't want to take me back, but I am begging you. I will make it up to you. I love you. I love you! Please..."

Draco trailed off and we sat there, looking at each other. I studied his face, committing his features to memory. I traced down that fine aristocratic nose with my index finger, and then leant in. My forehead nudged against his cheek as I rubbed my face against his. My eyes closed and I breathed in his scent. My lips found his and I pressed them together, drowning in the saline depths.

I pulled back. He was crying still, and I felt mirror traces on my own face.

"No, Draco," I whispered, and I stood up, pointing the remote at the television, and turning it off.

**********************

I don't miss you in the morning.

The way the alarm would go off an hour before I knew it was supposed to, and you would jump out and rush for the shower. I don't miss the way you would gel your hair and spend an extra ten minutes making sure your suit is perfect, but only on Tuesdays and Fridays. I don't miss how on those days you would forget to give me a kiss goodbye, and I would have to call you back, watching the irritation flitting across your face. I don't miss your annoyance, how you would lean across the bed and peck me somewhere between my mouth and my chin. I don't miss those small, irritated sighs as you closed the door.

I don't miss you at night.

The way you used to tiptoe in, five hours after I know you were supposed to be home, and creep towards the shower. I don't miss the way you would hum to yourself amidst the steam as you checked your body for signs of him. I don't miss how afterwards you would spray yourself liberally with deodorant; pretending you can mask his scent, when he is stamped all over you in circles of fingerprints. I don't miss your false-brightness, how you would bounce into bed and wrap your arms around me in a dramatic display of affection.

I don't miss those murmurs of his name as you slept.