I'll Be Yours

I'd be lying to say that Harry hadn't moved from the lumpy hotel bed in months. He had, obviously, risen to take meals at the table, to shower, brush his teeth, and relieve himself.

Of course, it would also be a lie to say that Harry had performed these tasks all on his own. No, in every nonmattress-centered activity he had will enough to undertake, I more often than not found myself his faithful and caring handmaid.

Not that I minded. It wasn't as if Harry had intentionally ceased to lead a normal human life. Why would he? It had to be a bit embarrassing for him, if he even noticed at all, to be spoon fed his dinner, to have to be set down on the toilet to take a piss, to be unable to even wash himself. No one in their right mind would have elected to live like that.

And that was it precisely. Harry was not in his right mind and had not been in the six months since the war had ended. It had been a gradual deterioration. At first, I thought it was merely exhaustion, a post-war funk not unlike that which many members of the Order of the Phoenix, myself included, had fallen into. Harry had initially expressed his desire to be on his own, but I refused to leave him, fearing what drastic ends he might go to. Eventually, he gave into my pleas but demanded that we go some place far removed from all the wizarding world, the place where Harry would eventually slip into this eerie, catatonic state of depression.

So here we were, in this hellish two-room apartment in a filthy Liverpool hotel. There had been a time when the Malfoy millions could have afforded us a much more posh suite, perhaps in London, but those millions were no longer mine. For the time being, they were property of the Ministry of Magic, along with the rest of my family's estate, which had been seized by Ministry officials for post-war investigation. Who was there to stop them? My mother, a Death Eater, had been killed in battle, and my father, or what was left of him since the Dementor's Kiss had been administered, was locked up in Azkaban. As for me, I didn't want the money. That was Malfoy trash, and I was a Malfoy now in name only.

From my chair across the room, I examined Harry carefully. He lay on his side, his vacant gaze fixed on the television set, watching some mindless Muggle game show. On the pillowcase next to him was a large wet patch, created either by his weeping or drooling. Merlin knows he'd done plenty of both.

"It's eight o' clock, Harry," I said softly, glancing at the garish red light of the alarm clock beside our bed. "Don't you think it's time you had a shower?"

His eyes, dull as they had been for months, shifted languidly toward me as he lifted his back off the mattress and hung both legs over the side of the bed.

"Alright," he murmured, removing his glasses and setting them on the nightstand, which was cluttered with unopened letters from Hermione, Ron, Hagrid, Remus, practically every living witch or wizard Harry had called a friend. I knew those letters would never be read.

I rose from my seat and crossed the room "You need me to help you?"

Harry nodded, reaching for my hands, and I pulled him up from the bed as though he were nothing more than a sleepy child, helpless and needy after a long day at play. But when was the last time Harry Potter had known innocence like that? No, I thought to myself, he was no child, had never really been a child. That was something to which I could relate.

In the bathroom, I sat Harry on the side of the tub while I busied myself adjusting the temperature of the water pouring down from the showerhead. By the time I had completed that task, Harry had already removed his soiled T-shirt, a feat that secretly filled me with joy to see accomplished.

"Very good," I praised him, only mildly aware of how truly pathetic it was to have to praise an nineteen-year-old for being able to undress himself. "Now, stand up so I can take off your pants."

Harry obliged, steadying himself against the wall as he rose from the side of the tub. The steam from the shower must have been making him very drowsy, because he leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. With only the quickest glance at the numerous battle scars spattered across his chest, I unfastened the fly of his pants, then pulled both them and his briefs down over his slender hips until they hit the floor with a soft thud.

"I need you to step out," I instructed him. He took a moment before lifting one foot, then the next, out of the pile of clothing. "Good, good...." I let him doze against the wall while I removed my own clothing and discarded it with his. My hand against his shoulder was all it took for him to come alive again and follow me into the steaming shower.

"Stand under the water," I said, directing him toward the downpour. Harry tilted back his head and let the water flow over his hair. From the rack on the side wall, I grabbed the bottle of generic Muggle shampoo, squeezed a bit into my palm, and began to work it through the thick black mane, burying my hands deep beneath the suds. Harry's chest rose and fell against mine rapidly, and when he moaned, delighted, I supposed, by the sensation of my fingers massaging his scalp, there came over me a devastating urge to ravish his delicate mouth with kisses, if only to feel that moan reverberating against my own lips.

Merlin, this was unfair.... Did he know he was breaking my heart? Had I lost my Harry for good? Had he been replaced by this...this half-helpless statue of a man?

I didn't want to dwell on it.

I pulled my hands away from him abruptly, letting the water complete the task of rinsing his hair clean. Under the stream, with his neck gracefully arched and his lips parted, he reminded me suddenly of one of the beautiful Greek Olympic athletes as they'd been portrayed in art thousands of years before--strong, masculine, but weary after their trials.

"All done," he said softly, pulling me from my trance as he stepped away from the water. I went again to the shower rack, this time snatching up the soap. This stronger features of Harry's face went lax as I worked the bar slowly over his chest and shoulders, then moved onto his arms--upper, then lower.

"I have to do your back," I explained, reaching beneath his arms, and I began to slide the soap in small concentric circles over the skin. I pulled the bar away for a moment, long enough for the water to rinse off the soapy film, and then I knelt before him on the tile to wash his legs. I scrubbed my way upward, starting first with his shins and calves, then moving to his knees and then his thighs.

And then finally, when I realized where, exactly, I'd worked my way toward, I came to another abrupt halt.

"Harry," I breathed. My foot clung hard to the slippery tile as I made to stand, left hand clutching Harry's arm for balance. "Do...do you want to finish yourself?"

"You're doing fine," he said to me, distant, impassive, his eyes drifting. At any other time in the three years we'd been together, I would've thought Harry was merely being coy by saying something like that, but I knew better these days. This part of his body seemed to be of no more use to him than an arm or a leg might have been.

I refused to meet his gaze as my hands moved between his legs, gently stroking the soap over the long-forgotten organ. I couldn't ignore the stab of disappointment I felt when my touch elicited no physical response from him. But how could I have expected it to? We'd made love only once since we'd come here, and even then it had been emotionless. Emotionless, that is, except for heartache on my part and unbearable sadness on Harry's. It hurt more to touch him than it did not to, and so, with the exception of feedings and showers and the like, I'd learned to keep my distance.

Sighing, I let the soap fall to the tile and returned my eyes to Harry's. Vacancy there, that was all. What more did I want?

"You're all clean," I said, forcing the most cheerful smile I could muster.

Harry's brow furrowed slightly. "What about you?" he asked. "You need to shower?"

I shook my head. "I'm fine. You ought to be getting to bed. I'll just get mine in the morning. Are you ready to get out then?"

Harry simply stood under the flow of water, not answering me. I wasn't sure he'd even heard the question. But as I reached for the knob to turn off the water, Harry's hand stopped me, grasping my wrist tightly. I pulled my arm away and searched his face for an explanation.

"What is it, Harry?" I whispered.

He chewed diligently on his bottom lip for a moment while his eyes fluttered shut. I let myself think back over all the horrors those eyes had seen. I couldn't begin to imagine....

Or perhaps I could. I knew the things he saw now in his nightmares. Some of them--most of them--I had witnessed with my own eyes. Nymphadora Tonks and Mundungus Fletcher, taken down with one swift Avada Kedavra.... Neville Longbottom, suffering the same fate his parents had before being delivered into the hands of death.... My own mother, on her knees, sobbing, clinging desperately to my robes, begging for mercy before meeting her accidental end at the hands of her dear sister, Bellatrix Lestrange...the curse had been aimed at me.... Severus, my beloved godfather, in the middle of the Death Eaters' circle, Cruciatus Curses coming from all directions...traitor, the Death Eaters called him...screaming wildly, blood flowing in a crimson fount from his parted lips, eyes black and hollowed...Severus dead....

No...all that had to be forgotten. For Harry's sake. How could I tend to him if I dwelled on my own troubled memories?

Harry's hands grasped my upper arms and pulled me closer, so close that my body slid across his smooth, slick skin every time I took a breath. Tenderly, I wrapped my arms around him, letting myself feel him, really feel him, for the first time in ages. Merlin, I'd forgotten how warm he felt....

"Will you sing to me?" he asked. The request didn't come as a shock. Harry often asked that of me, and always I obliged. Part of me believed that the only time Harry truly listened to me anymore was when I sang to him.

"What would you like me to sing?"

"Doesn't matter," he murmured, tucking his head into the crook of my neck. "Something pretty."

Something pretty. Only Harry would ever make so simple a request. I smiled, if only for myself, then opened my mouth against the shell of his ear, singing softly for him and him alone.

I'll be your water, bathing you clean with liquid peace

I'll be your ether, you'll breathe me in, you won't release

I've seen you suffer; I've seen you cry the whole night through

So I'll be your water, bathing you clean with liquid blue

I tried not to let myself pay any mind to the words of the song, but as I knew them by heart, that proved to be a difficult task. They seemed a bit ironic--well, not ironic--coincidental, perhaps. This was a song I often sang to Harry, merely because the lyrics seemed fitting in our current situation and I thought, perhaps, that if Harry still had the capacity to listen to the words I sang, he would understand just how desperately I wanted to be the one to heal him, how committed I was to the task, to him. But now...I'll be your water, bathing you clean with liquid peace. How intriguing....

And how sad.

How very, very sad.

Harry's hands slid slowly down arms, and I felt the weight of his body disappear from against me. The break in contact pained me, but if Harry noticed, he didn't show it.

"Bedtime, then?"

Harry gave no answer, but turned away and stepped out of the shower, soaking wet, onto the bathmat. I did my best to restrain a litany of curses as I shut off the water. Why couldn't he feel something, anything? Was that so much to ask, after all we'd been through together, after all I'd done for him here, for him to just fucking look at me and tell me why it hurt so damned much, what I could do to change it?

I followed him out, planting my feet beside him on the already-soaking wet bathmat, and reached for two towels. I used one to wipe the steam from the mirror, momentarily despising my reflection--When had my hair grown so long? And where had these bags under my eyes come from?--and then wrapped it around my waist. I ran the second towel, a ragged purple monstrosity, over Harry's hair, dried the rest of him carefully, and then pulled the towel tight around his shoulders. Instinct, I supposed, compelled me to wrap my arms around him, as if he really needed the extra warmth in this veritable sauna.

Stupid, Draco, I thought to myself, not for the first time that night.

"Let's get out of here," I muttered, propelling him toward the bathroom door. He moved grudgingly a few paces ahead of me, then slunk toward the bed, let the towel fall to the floor, and crawled under the covers. Imagine that, I thought bitterly as I bent to pick up the tattered rag, unable to ignore the tears welling up in my eyes, you used to scold me for leaving my wet towels on the floor. I pulled my own towel from around my hips and carried them both to the hamper in the corner of the room.

Time to sleep.

I pulled back the sheets on my side of the bed, switched off the light, and fell heavily onto the creaking mattress, almost certain I never wanted to rise again. I was sure I could do it, just lie here forever, just like Harry did, but then who would be here to care for Harry? No, stop it Draco. Enough about Harry....

As I stared up at the cracked ceiling, I let my mind drift back to the painful memories I had conjured up in the shower. Why couldn't I have avoided that memory of Severus? Merlin, anything but that! What would you have done, Severus, if this had ever happened to me? Would you have stayed, taken care of me in my depression? Of course you would have. Godfather...no, might as well have been my father. Lucius never loved me, not like you did. I need you, Severus! I need you...Merlin, how I miss you....

"Draco?"

I wasn't sure what had startled me more--the sound of Harry's voice, or the sudden sensation of his hand sweeping over my stomach.

"Mmm...?"

"You still awake?" he asked softly, as if he were afraid to speak.

"Yes," I answered. "Is something wrong?"

Silence.

I rolled onto my side to face him. Even in the darkness I could see how his wet hair clung to his forehead, how the longer pieces veiled his green eyes. At least, I thought they were still green. I didn't really know anymore. Besides, he wasn't looking at me. He hadn't looked at me in a long time. He hadn't really looked at anything.

"I just..." he said suddenly, but trailed off. And then, "You loved me, didn't you?"

I smiled sadly. "Oh, yes," I sighed, stroking the side of his face with one hand. "I still love you, Harry. Very, very much."

"I miss you, Draco."

Tears were more than a threat now; they were a reality, flowing over my cheeks. I didn't have time to be thankful that Harry wasn't looking, because no sooner had the thought occurred to me than he turned his face toward me and sighed, his breath soft and cool against my face. It didn't seem at all real. It was like lying next to some specter, the specter of the boy he'd once been--innocent, loving. Happy.

I did then what I hadn't done in months. Holding Harry gently by the shoulders, I moved closer to him on the bed, closed my weeping eyes, and pressed my lips to his. Harry remained still, his mouth yielding to--and maybe returning--the kiss. I decided to press my luck. I parted his lips with my own, slid my tongue into the open mouth, explored momentarily, and much to my delight, I felt the quick, delicate flicker of his tongue against mine.

It was more than I could bear. I forced myself to withdraw.

"Oh, Harry..." I whimpered, lifting my hand to his forehead, tracing the famous scar with one finger. His breathing seemed to catch suddenly. Was he crying, too? My fingers trailed down over his eyes, tickled by the feathery lashes, and then stopped to soak in the damnable tears.

Harry's weight shifted so that his body sealed itself against mine. My arms enfolded him instinctively, clutching him so tight I thought he might shatter. If I couldn't force the pain away, I'd die trying.

Harry brushed his lips against my cheek and then brought them to my ear. "Will you finish the song for me?" he whispered.

"Of course," I said, nodding against his shoulder. "Anything for you, love...."

I'll be your liquor, bathing your soul in juice that's pure

And I'll be your anchor, you'll never leave these shores that cure

I've seen you suffer, I've seen you cry for days and days

So I'll be your liquor, demons will drown and float away

I'll be your father

I'll be your mother

I'll be your lover

I'll be yours

I'll be your father

I'll be your mother

I'll be your lover

I'll be yours

I sighed. Harry sniffled. I'd forgotten what a pregnant silence felt like. I had become so used to silence between us that it seemed so natural. But now the tension stirred. Or, at least, my own tension did. I couldn't be sure about Harry.

"Draco," he wept. "How can you stand it?"

I shook my head. "Stand what, Harry?"

He sniffled again. "Me," he said. "You must be very stupid."

"Not at all," I said. "Just very much in love."

For the first time in a long while, Harry's eyes met mine. Green, yes. Still green, even in the darkness I knew it. This was Harry, here. No matter how broken, no matter how scarred, this was my Harry.

Before I could say anything, he kissed me again, meeting my mouth hard, moaning--or still weeping, perhaps--against me. I reveled momentarily in the warmth of him, the taste of him, until I thought my heart might burst.

"Please, Draco," he pleaded. "I just want this pain to leave me...I want to feel again.... Please, Draco...please help me."

Merlin, those eyes...his eyes...I could lose myself forever in his eyes, couldn't I?

"I'm trying, Harry," I whispered. My hands crept down the length of his back, over his hips, and then closed tightly around his own hands. "You know I'd do anything for you."

And then, as if a blanket of hindrance had been lifted, after six agonizing months of empty hopes and hollow prayers, Harry smiled, understood, knew me, loved me, and it was all I could ever have asked for.

FIN