Six Days at the Villa

On the sixth day, he came to me out on the veranda, where the sun was still trying to throw up heat against the coming night, and took the wine flute from my fingers. He set it down on the railing, drew a chair up in front of me, sat down in it, and said, "You see, Harry, it's like this."

It's like this. There was a suitcase resting on the floor nearby. I knew, looking at it, looking at his determined face, eyes steady under furrowed brow, that my summer, as it was, had ended.

* * *

The first day, there was a breeze that struck the wind chimes out against the side of the villa so that they jingled in time with the door bell. I took it as a sign that it would be him standing there, and I was right.

He stood on my doorstep looking at me, and his hair was just a little lighter than I remembered, his skin beneath his white cotton shirt just a little more tanned than I was used to. He smiled uncertainly, said he was tired, and his name just fell from my lips.

"Draco. Come in. Please."

He entered, coughing a little and blinking in the cool darkness of the front hall. One suitcase. I took it from him and watched his shoulders hitch as he tried to still the coughing.

"The cab kicked up a lot of dust," he said, a bit hoarsely.

I nodded. "Sorry for that. Happens in the summer."

I took him to his room and he fell asleep, sprawled across the bed like he belonged there. I closed his door softly, went back downstairs, and read for an hour before the thought occurred to me that perhaps the house was still empty, that his arrival had been nothing but dreamy midday fancy. The heat of the sun does that to a person out here.

* * *

I scoured the same page over and over again until the soft tread of footsteps on the stairs announced to me that it had been no dream. He entered the room slowly, looking around, and I knew he had halted briefly and peered through every open doorway down the halls upstairs and downstairs. He started when I rose.

"Harry," he said, touching the doorframe lightly with one palm. He'd changed into powder blue, combed back his hair, and I could see he was waiting. His mouth was thin, cautious.

"Hello, Draco," I answered, and just like that, the uncomfortable wall was broken. He came forward, grasped my hand. Gave a small hiss when I pulled him into a quick hug.

"It's been too long, Malfoy."

He smiled at me then. "Indeed."

"Do you feel rested enough to take a walk?"

He nodded and followed me through the hallways of my home, staring up at the arched ceilings, down at the tiled floors. When he had seen the kitchens, the main hall, the upstairs suites, I led him outside through the garden into the vineyards.

"They aren't mine," I said, fingering the greeny-brown leaves of one plant. "They belong to the villa on the hill."

His eyes followed my pointing finger to the massive estate above, now bathed red-gold in the light of the setting sun. "They don't mind us, then? Walking here?"

"No."

He glanced at me and smiled, shoving his hands into his pockets. His face looked more alive than I had last seen it: shrouded in anger and disappointment in the white halls of the Ministry. The weak sunlight turned his skin bronze.

"I'm glad you came."

He looked at me for a long moment. His mouth opened and closed and he glanced up at the purple streaks of cloud overhead. I saw his shoulders rise and fall in a deep contented breath.

"I'm glad I came too."

* * *

I left the Ministry a month after he did. The office felt so empty during that time, and his desk was never removed. I wanted out before someone young and naive arrived to become my new partner.

I waited for an owl from him for weeks, then months, and finally told myself I'd given up on hearing his reasoning. It was lonelier then. I missed his voice waking me up by floo, telling me to get my arse to work, he wasn't going to do it all himself. I walked by the pubs on the way home and remembered a joke he'd told in each of them, and the one we'd been kicked out of.

But he didn't write, and he didn't return, and I handed in my resignation a month later. Under no terms will I be coming back, Minister. You've failed me in more ways than one. You've failed him, I wanted to write. Did write, over and over, and crumpled up, over and over. It wasn't on the letter I ended up sending.

I bought a villa in Italy, a half hour outside Florence. Left my fireplace unconnected to floo. Just basked in the stillness for two years. One day, feeding Hedwig, I thought about just how clever she was, and sent her away that night with a letter tied to her leg. And when she returned four days later, well-fed and glossy-feathered, I took the note and stared at it for an hour before actually reading it.

Then I got the guestroom ready.

* * *

The second night it was hot, and he woke me with his coughing again.

I went down the hall to the bathroom, filled a cup with water, and headed for his room. He'd left the window open, and the night breezes were gusting in. That was what did it, the hot dry air. Coming from England to the arid Italian summer played havoc with the lungs. When I'd first arrived, my week was spent adjusting to the lack of moisture.

I don't think he even woke. Just coughed, hitching in his sleep. I thought about closing the window, but a shaft of moonlight was drifting across his face, tingeing light golden hair white, and I couldn't bring myself to pull the blinds.

His spasms were easing already, just a fitful shiver every so often. I set the glass of water down on the bedside table and watched him sleep. He had such white skin, and the moonlight made it look milky, made my cotton guest sheets gleam like snowy silk. It felt voyeuristic, to be standing there in my pajama bottoms, gazing over alabaster muscle and sinewy limbs, but I stared anyway. I couldn't help myself. Something in the night air.

He shifted once when the wind rustled the parted drapes, coughed hoarsely and turned. The smooth skin of his face furrowed and he suddenly looked old, worn through. I looked at him and thought of white-walled offices, Auror badges, and raised voices. I had to swallow.

His final cough jarred him awake with me still standing there, and his eyes were blurry as he squinted up at me. He rubbed his chest with one hand.

"Harry...?"

"Brought you some water," I said, pointing to the glass. His eyes flickered to where it stood and then back to me.

"Thank you."

I nodded. Turned around and walked away with a whispered goodnight. Could still see the painful clutch around his features as he coughed.

* * *

On the third day we went to Florence. We sat in a restaurant shadowed by tall buildings much older than either of us and ate flat pizza with garlic and pesto. I remember liking the way he covered his mouth when the cheese stretched two far, ripping it hastily with his fingers, the way he sucked on the tip of his thumb to clean the grease from it.

After lunch, we climbed to the top of the Duomo, through the sweltering heat, unable to do anything but march upwards in the midst of a line of American tourists. When the door opened at the top, I came out into the sunlight, and the cool air against my face was enough to make me sway and shut my eyes. He made a small sound and grabbed my arm, five fingers gripping gently, and pointed out across the city to the mountains beyond. A sea of white and brown rooftops, and then gentle slopes in the distance blanketed by a soft silver fog.

I could feel all five fingers, warm through the thin fabric of my shirt. I'd actually lifted my own hand to cover his where it lay, but I don't think he noticed. He was looking away when I let it fall again to my side without touching him.

* * *

The last day at the Ministry, I wasn't supposed to have been there. I wasn't supposed to see.

My day off, and he'd laughingly ordered me to take it; he could deal with the paperwork, his and mine. It gnawed on me, sitting there reading in my cramped flat, because there was so much of it. My last day off for a month and I couldn't relax because I knew he'd be there late, turning through old files in our windowless office. So I went in. I remember thinking perhaps we could both get off a bit early. Pop over to the Moon Under the Water for a drink.

He wasn't in the office and it wasn't until I came around a corner by the lift that I heard the voices.

"...knew it was you I saw, Malfoy. All makes sense now, though."

The intensity in his answer stopped my feet. "Just leave it, Wallace."

"'Fraid he can't, Malfoy." That was McKenna. Wallace and McKenna. I could hear the sneer in his words. "No one in this office takes kindly to people like you."

"McKenna. I don't want any trouble." Defeated. His voice scared me. Made me move. Until.

"You're going to get trouble. No room for bloody fags here."

And I stopped. Couldn't move for trying to breathe. Wallace picked up where McKenna left off.

"The Minister would be interested to know where you spend your nights, Malfoy. I think everyone would. Especially Potter."

"Fancy him, do you?" McKenna said, sniggering. "Suppose you fancy all of us blokes. Every last one."

I didn't hear much else. Leaning against the wall, my mind running in circles, ears plugged full of fog. And I didn't move. I should have gone around the corner. Should have.

Suddenly he was walking past me into the lift. His face was pale, so pale, but determined. I saw his throat bob as he swallowed and just before the doors shut he leaned against them, closing his eyes tightly, and I felt as if my chest had gone hollow.

He didn't see me. I waited several minutes, then went home, ate a microwave bowl of noodles, dropped onto the sofa, and stared into space, wondering how I could have worked with him, side by side for four years, and not noticed.

* * *

The fourth night, we got back late, arms heaped with groceries. He'd promised to cook, and I remembered especially enjoying his fettucine from a Ministry potluck several years ago. He ended up making salmon with lemon sauce this time, and it took me three helpings to decide I was full.

I took the wine he'd purchased and made him leave the kitchen and the dishes where they rested on the table, smeared in pale yellow sauce. Pulled him into the living room with me. The doors out to the veranda were wide open, and there was cool air blowing in from the mountains, sharp with the scent of olives. He stood in one of the gaping doorways and breathed quietly for a moment.

"Do you have music?"

I nodded, got up from the couch, and put on acoustic guitar. It slipped from the speakers like water, flowed around the room. I shivered.

He sat down on the couch across from me and I poured him a glass of wine. He rolled it gently around the edge and watched as it coated before sipping.

It must have been midnight when I turned the second bottle on its head and nothing dripped out. My mind felt thick, but sweet, and surprisingly free. He looked at me and laughed, nudging my leg with a toe, and I focused on the way the sound tumbled from his lungs.

He put down his glass and rose, swaying a little and smiling. The guitar was thrumming, haunting and melodious, speeding up and then slowing gently. I tried to rise but my legs shook and I had to sit again. He laughed once more, and I looked at him.

He was swaying, but it wasn't the wine. It was the music. He was drunk on music. His body rocked sedately, eyes closed, and suddenly I couldn't hear the music as much as I could see it, in his limbs as he moved. He turned and held out a hand to me. Took a breath as if to speak.

And his eyes opened.

He stopped moving, dropped his arm, and the music rolled around him, oddly jarring. My head felt clear, suddenly, and cold. I looked at him, searched for the gentle flow, but it was gone. I rose from the couch, but he walked briskly to one of my armchairs and sat down, looking away toward the kitchen.

The guitar twanged harshly.

I sat, staring at the center of the room. As if he were still standing there. His unspoken invitation faded around me until I could no longer hear it.

"Draco?"

He smiled at me, but it was frozen on his face. I looked at my wine glass, listened to the guitar. He glanced away and did not meet my eyes again.

* * *

On the fifth night, we were drinking wine, and the music was playing again, and he spoke.

"I'm not sure if I should be here, Harry."

It startled me into speaking myself. Fear does that. "You don't like it here?"

"Oh... I like it here," he said in a way that told me how much he did like it here. The house, the silence, the vast miles on non-human presence. I heard the gaps it filled in his voice. A desperation to keep hold of it all. He sat on the arm of the couch across from me, his fingers clenching and relaxing against the dark grey cotton of his pants. And his eyes were somewhere else, maybe years ago, until he looked at me.

"I just think that perhaps... I'm here for the wrong reasons."

My heart was beating against my ribs as if it wanted to break them to shards inside my body. I got cold. Chills, down my neck.

"I invited you," I said carefully. "Isn't that reason enough?"

"You did." He glanced at me, grey eyes guarded. I had the immediate feeling I was supposed to say something, but the words would not come. He exhaled and looked down, toying with his glass of wine where it rested in front of us.

"It's getting late," he said finally, glancing around for a clock we both knew wasn't there. I looked straight at him and his gaze met mine twice, only to flick away again. And then, as if coming to a decision, he turned his eyes to mine and held them there.

There was sex on the air that night. I could smell it, permeating the room. With him sitting there looking at me, I felt I could just grab him, put my mouth on his, and it would all fall away. Rip his shirt from him, make the couch ours, and listen to the sounds he would make all night.

But he was looking at me, and his eyes...

I didn't touch him. I let him rise silently and go to bed in that distant room because I wasn't sure, looking at him, that he could smell it, like I could.

* * *

On the sixth day, my summer, as it was, ended. For better or for worse.

"You see, Harry, it's like this." It was odd to meet his gaze when he spoke those words. There was something in his stance. Determination. Comfort with his own body that had not been there before.

But I looked at him anyway.

"I think it's best if I leave. I've booked a train back to England from Florence. It leaves at noon tomorrow."

So fast. I opened my mouth but he held up one hand against it.

"It's nothing you did, Harry." His face looked drawn, regretful. But still, that damned certainty. "I don't belong here. I never did, and I have to leave."

"Why don't you belong here? If I thought that, I wouldn't have--"

He shook his head, closing his eyes briefly. "I know you invited me. And I wanted to come. I wanted..."

He paused and licked his lips. I could feel the skin across my knuckles stretching, my fingernails digging against my palms. Wondered if he had noticed it.

"Harry," he said, sounding defeated for the first time. "What you wanted from this... is not what I wanted."

"You don't know what I wanted!"

He looked at me sharply, lips pursed. "You want what we had. At the Ministry. I can't give it to you anymore."

I stood up, quickly, and he remained seated, his neck tilting gracefully as he followed me upward with his eyes.

"What? Friendship?"

"Yes," he replied calmly. "I can't have that anymore. I won't."

"Draco-"

"Harry, there are things you don't..." He sighed. I could hear the trees rustling beneath the balcony. Chittering birds in their boughs. He looked at me and I saw him rub his thumb and forefinger together. Involuntary.

"I left the Ministry for a very specific reason. And you do need to know this, before I go. Because I think you deserve to."

I just stood there. He turned his head from me and looked out at the rolling sienna hills beyond the vineyard. He knew I wouldn't leave, somehow, as certainly as I knew it.

"I didn't tell anyone. Easier to just let it go and be unnoticed. But the wizarding world just isn't very tolerant on the whole. It didn't help that I was a Malfoy, of course. But in reality, it would have happened to anyone."

"Draco," I said, desperate to stop him, but he cut me off, his voice frank.

"I'm gay, Harry. It got out, and it would have been my job anyway, eventually. So I left." He turned and looked me right in the eye. Not trying to gauge my reaction. Comfortable with his words, at last. "It was so fast. I didn't explain to you and you deserved to know. You were my closest friend there. But I just left and didn't tell you why."

"I knew why," I said, a whisper that sounded loud to me in the stillness.

His face, already pale, went white. I heard the air catch in his throat, a low clicking sound to my ears, and his shoulders jerked. He looked suddenly frail. Cold, as if his clothing had thinned. I wanted to touch his shoulder, to feel the chill clamminess under the white fabric. It was the shirt he'd arrived in.

"I was there, Draco. That day. I heard what they said, and I saw you leave. I know."

He was blinking at me as if he couldn't quite see me. His eyes flicked longingly to where his suitcase sat. A whisper. "You knew."

"You didn't say anything. You just... left. Four years together and I didn't know a thing."

He passed a shaking hand over his eyes. "I shouldn't have left like that. I knew it was wrong and I knew I should owl you. Explain things a little. But I couldn't. And then you quit the Ministry and moved out here and I still... For two years. You were my closest friend and how was I to know if... And then Hedwig arrived, out of the blue, and I wanted to come. At least then I could--"

I took a step toward him. "Don't go. You're... just going to leave again."

He looked up and I was surprised he'd heard me; I could barely hear myself. His eyes traveled over me, assessing, as he had done at the Ministry for four years. When he met my gaze again there was an undercurrent of sadness in the determined stare.

"Harry... I can't give you just friendship anymore. I refuse to do it."

Another step. "I told you you didn't know what I wanted."

His body stiffened and he froze, staring at me. "Harry...?"

Another step. I could have reached out and touched his cheek then, but I didn't. "I didn't invite you here for friendship, Draco."

He was shaking. "You... Harry, you..."

"Please don't leave." I lifted my fingers to his face. He jumped at the contact, expelling a breath. His hand jerked up, hesitated in midair. Trembling. And then his fingers pressed against mine.

"Please don't leave," I said again. I was leaning forward, his face getting closer. He looked somewhere between frightened and eager, and I couldn't tear my gaze from that look in his eyes. "Please don't leave."

"Harry--"

And then I was kissing him, the rest of my name lost somewhere in between.

* * *

On the seventh day, a breeze picked up, rustling the fields in a gentle ripple. Like an amber ocean. The lights from the large estate on the next hill twinkled brightly in the dusk, and I sat on the couch and watched the stars wink into view.

He shifted beside me and laid his head on my shoulder. I could feel the warmth from his body where it pressed against mine. He'd drawn his knees up onto the couch, toes curling inside his socks.

"Four years," he sighed. I felt a smile creep onto my face.

"Six."

He was still for a moment, then nodded. I squeezed my arm around his shoulder. "What's six more days, then, anyway?"

His airy chuckle put the breeze to shame. "Six of the longest days of my life."

I nodded. My agreement didn't need words. Outside the wind chimes tinkled contentedly for me in the gathering darkness.