After the Party

After the Party

Harry let himself fall on the sofa, heaving a deep sigh and only reluctantly risked a glance. God, what a mess his friends had left behind! More than 50 guests had been celebrating his 25th birthday, and the state of chaos his living room was in bore ample witness of this: innumerable bottles of wine, beer, whisky, liqueurs, and all kinds of juices, glasses - empty or still half filled -, cutlery, plates, and cups lay scattered around the room, and three - if he counted correctly - forgotten jackets were still carelessly draped across the back-rests of the chairs their owners had been occupying only half an hour ago.

He looked around for Draco - who, for sure, would want to tidy up immediately - but his partner was nowhere to be seen. Most likely he had already withdrawn to the kitchen. "Draco, don't..." Sighing, he got up and followed him. "I'll help you, but can't we wai-" No Draco. Harry frowned. "Draco?" A muffled sound emanated from their sleeping room. Curious (and, despite the fact that he was really, really tired, a little bit aroused), Harry shoved the door open and stepped into the room. Draco was standing in front of the window, leaning heavily onto the sill, his head bent so that the long silvery hair hid his face from Harry's eyes.

Yet Harry didn't need to see his face to be worried - for the entire evening, Draco had been behaving very weirdly, overly cheerful at one moment, moody and withdrawn at the next. "Have you had a serious row?" Pansy had inquired, with this very special tone in her voice, this mixture of protective instinct, concern, and reluctant acceptance. "No," Harry had said - truthfully - "but he..." and then he had shrugged, unable to put his apprehension in words. Pansy had frowned, but hadn't pressed for an answer.

"Draco? Are you okay?" Draco spun around, obviously having been startled out of his thoughts. He nibbled at his lower lip, eyes wide, and Harry thought he saw an involuntary shiver run through the length of his body before regaining control by wrapping his arms around his chest. He looked worn, exhausted and.... wistful? A sudden wave of tenderness hit Harry, a strange combination of joy and sadness he could not quite sort out. Hesitatingly, he took a few steps towards Draco, his right hand reaching out for him. "Dear, what's it? What's the matter?"

But Draco had kick-started himself into his merry mode again. "Why, nothing," he chirped - had Harry been mistaken or had Draco actually stuffed something into the drawer of his bedside table? An envelope? - and brushing past Harry he pecked him quickly on his mouth, without moving let alone opening his lips. A chaste kiss from Draco Malfoy - then something must most definitely be wrong, Harry tried to cheer himself up but the anxiety inside him grew.

Draco was standing in the middle of the living room and was casting one cleaning and tidying up spell after the other. Harry watched him for some time, knowing better than to interrupt, and in the meantime racked his brains about what might have upset Draco - to no avail. The look in Draco's eyes was what worried him the most, his face was determinedly displaying happiness, but his eyes seemed detached somehow, as if he were trying to reach out for something that was beyond Harry's grasp.

Thou shalst not be possessive, Harry repeated mentally over and over again, if something is worrying Draco, he will come and tell you whenever he wants to. But the fear of losing him sat deep - "This fear has nothing to do with me," he could almost hear Draco say - and more than three years ago, this nightmare had become true for six long, terrible months. "You can live without me," Draco had claimed, and had left him, and Harry had never fully understood why. Until this very day, he was deeply ashamed whenever he thought of the overwhelming happiness he had felt when Draco had finally returned, three days after Snape's funeral which Harry had been attending from a distance (and had nearly bitten through his tongue with the effort of abstaining of running to him). Draco had Apparated into his bedroom in the middle of the night, had crawled between the blankets and cuddled up to him, without uttering a word, shivering. Harry had wrapped his arms around him, and after a few minutes Draco had begun to sob. Harry had simply pulled him closer and had held him for the rest of the night. And Draco had stayed.

Yes, so he had proved that he could live without Draco, he really could - but would he want to? No, never again, Harry thought, and the idea that he one day might chilled him to the bone. Of course they had their little rows from time to time, and witnessing them never ceased to cause Ginny's eyes to light up both hope- and gleefully, and make Pansy nod in approval. They'd even turned it into kind of a play, hardly ever missing an opportunity to perform a little bit of their bickering in public - and the subsequent reconciliatory, passionate kiss.

Yet not tonight. Whenever Draco refrained from teasing and mocking him it was usually a sign of him being either really cross with Harry (but why? why?) or not feeling we- and Harry felt as if a bucket of iced water had been poured out over him. Hadn't Draco been at St. Mungo's last week? "Only to have one of my old wounds examined, the one, you know, which is still giving me trouble", he had explained, and Harry had believed him - no-one who had survived the war had managed to remain unscarred, unmarked. But what if-?

In the meantime, Draco had finished tidying up, with some listless and admittedly rather counterproductive help from Harry - which had earned him some of Draco's Most Serious Glares he was absurdly grateful for: at least they were of genuine emotion. Harry weighed the options: talking to Draco when he so clearly didn't want to? Trying to endear, to make Draco feel comfortable? Thus, he got hold of Draco's arm and steered his partner towards the sofa, then rushed to grab a half-empty bottle of FireLagavulin, on his way back enchanting one of their Bach recordings, whom Draco stubbornly refused to acknowledge as a Muggle and whose music always seemed to calm him down notwithstanding the mood he'd been in before. He tried to steady his jittering nerves with a deep breath, and, smiling promisingly, he pulled Draco's feet into his lap.

He'd always loved Draco's feet, had considered them irresistibly erotic - and had become a true master in massaging them. A purring Draco had once admitted that one of Harry's foot-massages might even count as a full foreplay, but they enjoyed them not only for the following sex but simply as a way to relax after a long and stressful day; one of those homey scenes which were as essential to their relationship as everything else. It didn't work tonight, though; if anything, Draco seemed to tense up even more, his long toes literally cramping around Harry's fingers.

Didn't his skin look paler than usual? Harry stared at Draco's instep, the cream coloured skin through which the blue veins were shimmering, and ran his finger along the elegant curve. No response from Draco, who was staring into a far distance, holding the tumbler from which he hadn't even sipped so far with trembling fingers. He couldn't be really sick! Suddenly, Harry found himself unable to bear it any longer. He seized both of Draco's feet and put them rather ungently back onto the floor. "Draco, I know something's going on."

Draco breathed deep, as if steeling himself against - what? "We must talk, Harry," he said, eyeing him seriously, his voice steady enough to almost convince Harry whose stupid heart was beating like the wings of a colibri overdosed on caffeine by now. "Draco," he croaked, "please...". But Draco had already turned away, he got up and walked hastily into the bedroom. Before Harry had managed to struggle himself out between the cushions, he had returned and sat down at the opposite end of the sofa. With growing anxiety Harry watched him close his eyes and press his quivering lips together. His feelings overwhelming him for a second, he lifted his hand and caressed Draco's temple, stroking back a strand of hair which's silky touch caused tenderness to well up inside him so strongly that it almost choked him. Draco flinched and averted his face.

"Draco, what is the matter? Please, tell me... you're worrying me." Despite his awareness that it was usually futile if not risky to push Draco, and although he realised that he wasn't even listening, Harry was now unable to stop himself. "Draco, please, you know that you can tell me everything, that we can talk about- at least I thought we could. We'll endure it together, whatever it is, I will stand by you, always, always," and Harry was firing up by now, "and you can't leave me again, you are not going to, are you, because-"

"Harry," Draco finally turned his head, eyes shining bright, his index finger silencing Harry, his other hand clenched around a small object. "Will you marry me?"