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After four long years of war, the men are coming home. Hundreds and hundreds of houses are becoming homes once more.
Harry fiddles with the lock again. "Looks like the keys we got aren't working," he grumbles. Looking over his shoulder, he sees the removal van parked out front, the men sitting on the back staring at him with bored expressions on their faces.
Ginny hooks her handbag on her other wrist. "Let me have a go." Harry hands over the keys and she takes them, jingling them softly as she changes her grip on them, and places one of them in the lock. It glides in, catching only a bit at the end, and she turns it, pushing the door open.
"This place smells," Harry grumbles, pretending as if he's not slightly embarrassed at the fact that he so badly misjudged the locking mechanism.
Ginny peers into the back room. "Only because it's been closed up for so long. If we keep the windows open it should air out in no time."
Harry shifts his weight so he's leaning halfway out the front door and gestures towards the workers; they open up the back of the van and begin hauling furniture out. "You might want to move out of the way, love," he murmurs to her, squeezing past her to get to the kitchen.
In fairness, he didn't think this was going to be some kind of palace. They got it at a bargain; one of his friends who had come home with an injury from the RAF knew the landlord and had gotten them a special price once he heard that Harry was returning from the front. The place definitely needs some work, and possibly a fresh coat of paint (or two) but it's manageable.
He walks over to the stove to light it, since the only thing he can think about is a nice cup of tea (or maybe something stronger). He turns on the gas, pulls a matchbox out of his coat pocket, and lights it, jumping slightly when the flame flares at the contact. Luckily the water was never switched off, so he fills the dented metal tea kettle and lets it heat on the stovetop.
"You can put that over there," Ginny says, directing one of the movers who is lugging a box full of kitchen supplies. He grunts and brings it over to a few feet from where Harry is standing, dropping it from a little bit too high off the ground. Harry gives him a slightly scolding look but if the man notices he doesn't react at all.
He walks over to the box and pries it open, finding a stack of cutlery and mugs wrapped carefully in newspaper. Ginny's hands were always deft at this sort of thing, taking the paper and molding it perfectly to fit every crevice of the dish it surrounded. He feels a little guilty, in a way, unpacking the things that she had so perfectly prepared.
In the short term, he knows that he at least needs two mugs, and that gives him a task to focus on, so he sets about unwrapping as much of it as he can. The movers bring another box or two in, but those likely have the pans and baking tins in them so he continues digging for the rest of the supplies he needs. Finally, towards the bottom, he finds a full set of mugs and removes them from their paper cradles, setting them on the rough-hewn wooden table in the center of the table.
"What are you doing?" Ginny asks, walking into the kitchen and wiping her hands on a dishtowel she managed to grab from lord knows where.
"Making tea." He walks over to the kettle and reaches out to grab the handle before realizing he'll probably burn himself. Sensing this, she hands him the towel and he wraps it around his hand before lifting the kettle off the stove and pouring the boiling water into the mugs. "We must have tea bags around here somewhere."
She looks around for a bit before finding a box sitting haphazardly on top of a pile of baking supplies. "Here. Earl gray." He nods, taking two bags from the chest and placing one in each cup.
"I feel a bit bad sitting down when those gentlemen are moving all of our things in," she says with a wry laugh.
"I wouldn't exactly call them gentlemen," he grumbles.
"Harry," she scolds. "They're perfectly lovely, and they come highly recommended."
"I don't take much of what your brother says at face value," he retorts. "Any advice coming from a man who spends most of his day at the gambling parlor is somewhat suspect."
She gives him a look, but one that conveys that while she disapproves of his tact, or lack thereof, she doesn't dispute the substance. "Ron was very thoughtful to point us in this direction," she says simply.
There's a small crash from upstairs and Harry closes his eyes, trying to stave off a headache he knows is coming. "Right, well, I'll make sure to thank him the next time I see him."
She stands up and walks over to the back wall. Over one of the counters, there's a set of windows and a door leading out to the backyard, pavers haphazardly laid on a path to a small garden and a young tree. "We should open some of these, get some fresh air in here."
He just grunts and takes another sip of tea. It's not bad - there really isn't such a thing as a terrible cup of tea, at least not since he's gotten back home - and it's at least giving him something to do other than follow the movers around giving them disapproving looks.
Ginny pushes the windows up, one after the other, and then closes her eyes and takes a deep breath of the morning air. "Feels like spring," she exhales.
"About time," he replies quietly. It's been a long winter, one spent mainly in the trenches of some town in France whose name he's already forgotten, trying to keep his head low and out of the way of any incoming shells. He's been home for a month already but the chill of those months out there on the snow-covered front might never leave his bones.
"You know," she says, coming to sit back down at the table, "I think this will be good for us. Give you a chance to start something new, find a new job doing something you actually like for a change."
He nods. "I suppose. Just hope they have some things set aside for veterans, you know? And I have to decide what it is I actually want to do with my life."
"You'll figure it out," she smiles, patting his hands where they wrap around the mug. "I have faith in you."
Another crash, this time from out back. "I'll go sort these idiots out," he grouses, standing up from the table and stalking towards the backyard. Why the movers would have any reason to be out there with any boxes is beyond him, but given their track record and his profound suspicion about anything they're doing, he figures it's best to keep an eye on them. He pushes through the door, being careful not to accidentally throw the thing off its hinges - who knows how old it is - and stalks towards the tree.
There's nobody out there, which he supposes is a good thing from an immediate perspective, but still doesn't explain why there was some sort of crash out there. He looks up, expecting to see an open window and a trail of debris under it, but everything is closed. Scanning the yard, he doesn't see anything either - no shattered glass, broken pottery, or bent metalwork.
He's about to go back inside when he hears another crash; this time, he can place it more directly, across the brick wall separating their house from their neighbors'. He's just taller than the top of the wall, so he walks over and pushes up a little on his toes to peer over it.
On the other side, hunched over slightly, is a tall slender man, blonde hair mussed a bit by either wind or effort, scooping something into a small rubbish bin. Harry squints, trying to make out exactly what he's moving, when the man looks up at him. His eyes are the palest shade of grey, something he's never seen before, or at least not that he can remember, and his eyebrows are knitted together in concentration.
Upon seeing Harry his eyes widen. "Potter?"
Harry frowns. "Sorry?"
"You're Harry Potter, aren't you?"
"I am, yes," Harry says, trying to sound less confused and more polite.
The man straightens up, wiping his hands on his trousers. "You don't remember me, do you?"
"I'm afraid not, no."
"I'm Malfoy," he grins. "Draco Malfoy. Sixteenth company of the King's Regiment."
This sounds familiar, but Harry still isn't quite sure from where (or if) he knows this man. "Were you in France?"
"In the trenches at Arras," he nods. "Your company and mine fought together against the forces last December." A flash of recognition must pass over Harry's face, as Malfoy grins at him. "There you go! You remember now, don't you?"
"I do," Harry exhales. And how could he have ever forgotten this man? Even in the middle of a soaking rain, covered in mud, his helmet riding low over his forehead, his slate grey eyes stuck out like some sort of beacon, summoning Harry to push forward, giving him some extra bit of strength he needed to make it through one of the shelling rounds. "Of course I do. Malfoy. So good to see you again."
"You too," Malfoy says. "Say, what are you doing over there?"
"We just moved in," Harry says, gesturing over his shoulder. "By we, I mean my wife and I. Ginny. She and I were married shortly before the war."
"What a coincidence!" Malfoy chuckles. "Who would've thought we'd end up living next to each other?"
"So this is your place?" Harry asks, nodding at the house.
"It is indeed," Malfoy nods. "Been here about six months. I got gassed with my brigade and they sent me home early. I'm fine, no lasting damage, just a little bit of trouble breathing every now and again. Shame I can't have a good smoke anymore." He laughs and adds "Not that I should've been having those anyway, but they really got me through the war."
"I know what you mean," Harry smiles. "Ginny hates it when I smoke, but I tell her there's only so much I can do."
"Do you mind if I stop over?" Malfoy asks. "I'd love to meet this wife of yours."
"Of course," Harry nods. "Can't say she'll be thrilled to have another person in the house but at this point one more man traipsing around can't hurt."
"Great," he grins. I'll come around front." He gives a little wave and heads through his own back door, presumably to walk through his house and out the front. Harry realizes he should be meeting him at the door, so he does a little jog to make it back into the kitchen and towards the front door. Ginny isn't there, meaning she's probably upstairs directing the movers or something.
Just before he can get to the door, Malfoy walks in. "Door was open," he grins. "Sorry, I really should be more polite and ask rather than just let myself into strangers' houses."
"No, it's okay," Harry shrugs. "I had already invited you in. Besides, we're not strangers."
Malfoy's smile lights up his whole face. "That's right, we're not."
"Ginny," Harry calls up the stairs before he can think too much about the way Malfoy's eyes crinkle up at the edges when he grins, "we've got a visitor."
Ginny pokes her head over the banister. "Who is it?"
"A neighbor of ours. He came over to introduce himself."
She wipes her hands on her skirt and makes her way down the stairs towards them. "I'm sorry, you'll have to forgive my appearance."
"Not at all, you look lovely," Malfoy says. "I'm Draco Malfoy, very pleased to meet you."
"Ginny Potter, pleased to meet you too," she says, shaking his hand.
"Malfoy and I were in the trenches together," Harry explains.
"About a year ago, yes ma'am," Malfoy confirms.
"Well, isn't that a coincidence," Ginny says with a bright smile.
"That's exactly what I said."
"Who would've thought we'd be living next door to each other?" she chuckles. "Life is quite funny that way, isn't it?"
"Quite, yes," Harry nods.
"Well," Malfoy says, clapping his hands together, "I'm sure you two have a lot of unpacking to do. I'll let you get back to it." Turning to Harry, he adds "Potter, let's get a drink soon and catch up. Tonight, maybe?"
Harry is about to say yes when Ginny clucks her tongue. "Now, Harry, you're not planning on leaving me alone to do the rest of this unpacking, are you?"
He turns back to Malfoy and smiles grimly. "Maybe another night this week."
"Noted," Malfoy chuckles. "You two have fun now. We'll talk soon." Giving them a little wave, he heads outside and closes the door behind him.
"He seems nice," Ginny notes as she heads back upstairs.
"He does," Harry nods, unable to figure out why his pulse won't stop racing.
****
On Friday night, Harry manages to get out of the house and go down to the local pub for a drink with Malfoy. Ginny allowed it, likely because she was exhausted from unpacking and wanted to get an early night, but Harry wasn't about to ask any questions. There's a light rain misting the streets as he makes his way down the street towards the pub, the streetlights glinting off the wet sidewalks.
It's crowded when he gets inside, and as he shakes the water off his overcoat, he looks around for Malfoy. Suddenly, there's a hand waving in the air, and he spots him, blonde hair slicked by the rain and a broad smile taking up most of his face. It's contagious, and he can't help but smile back as he makes his way through the crowd over to him.
"Got us a table, hope you don't mind," Malfoy says once he's within earshot.
"No, not at all," Harry replies. Sitting down, he says "What're you having?"
"Stout." He nods up at the bar. "I should've ordered you one but I only just got here and quite frankly I wasn't thinking of anyone but myself."
Harry laughs in spite of himself. "It's alright. I'll go get something." Making his way to the bar, he asks the landlady for some bitter ale, and takes it back to the tale, doing his best to skim all of the foam off the top.
"Are you not a fan of the foam?" Malfoy chuckles.
"I just find it intrusive," Harry shrugs.
"Intrusive?" Malfoy laughs harder. "Never heard anybody speak about a pint of ale that way."
"Come off it," Harry laughs back. "I'm entitled to my feelings about what I get at my local."
Malfoy hums in agreement, taking another sip of his drink. "So," he says, setting it back down, "what brings you to this part of London?"
"Looking for a fresh start, I guess," Harry shrugs. "Now that the war's over I don't really know what I'm gonna do with myself. Trying to find a job, figure out where to go from here. Ginny wanted to get out from her parents' flat in Liverpool and we decided we might as well make a go of it."
"Did you two meet in Liverpool?"
Harry shakes his head and swallows a sip. "Nah, we actually met on a trip down to Brighton, believe it or not. Wasn't until we both got on the train to go back home we realized we were going back to the same place."
"Oh, how funny," Malfoy says, lifting his eyebrows. "Looks like so much of your life is a series of happy accidents."
"Indeed," Harry nods. "How about you, have anybody else sharing that house with you?"
He shakes his head. "Nope. Just me. Living that bachelor life, you know?" Picking up his glass, he adds "Can't say I mind it much. Didn't have anybody to write to when I was in France, though."
"No family?"
He shakes his head again. "Haven't spoken to my parents since I was a teenager. They threw me out of the house when I was about sixteen and I never looked back. Only reason I got in the service was because I didn't have my HSC. Needed to do something with my life."
"I'm sure it gave you some purpose," Harry muses.
Malfoy leans back in his seat and shrugs. "Yeah, I 'spose it did. To a point, anyway. I mean, it's not as if you can prepare for a life in the forces. But it kept me off the streets and away from the bobbies."
"So you were mischievous?" Harry chuckles.
"Weren't you?" Malfoy counters.
He shakes his head. "Nah, I was always a goody two shoes, me. Never put a foot wrong as a kid. I was too scared to get in trouble, never liked being yelled at."
"Explains why you joined the forces then, you were never getting yelled at then," Malfoy snorts.
"Well, it was about order," Harry clarifies. "I mean, you always knew exactly where you stood and what you needed to do to get along. Clear rules, clear regulations, all of the like. Never any chance to put a foot wrong."
"When you put it that way, it makes sense," Malfoy nods. "Guess for me it was just more about three square meals and a place to sleep. Better than ending up in prison."
Harry laughs. "Sounds like it."
"So how long have you and Ginny been together?" Malfoy asks, drawing circles on the table in the condensation from his drink.
"Well, we met when I was seventeen," Harry notes, doing the math in his head, "and now I'm twenty-eight, so over ten years now. But only married for about four. We had our wedding right before I went overseas."
"That's a long time," Malfoy says wistfully.
Harry looks at him curiously, tucking his chin down slightly so he can try and peer into his lowered eyes. "You've never thought about it?"
"Thought about what?"
"Getting married."
Malfoy looks at him, normally clear grey eyes clouded with something unreadable. "Thinking about something and actually doing it are two very different things, Potter."
Harry nods. "I know."
"If our thoughts dictated everything we did, I can't say where I'd be right now," he notes, swallowing roughly. "Maybe I would actually be in prison."
After they finish their pints, they walk the few blocks back towards their respective homes, reminiscing in loose, nostalgic terms about the war. They both know that it was hell, watching friends and comrades get blown to bits around them, watching as body parts and blood were tossed about like goose feathers in a torn pillow, but there's something their minds did when they got through it that amounted to a decision to deny whatever extra piece of reality existed in that moment and bury it deep beneath the surface of their waking thoughts.
"Do you ever miss it?" Malfoy asks.
"Miss what, the trenches?"
He nods. "Seemed like things were simpler then. You had one objective, you know? Stay alive. You were living moment to moment, feeling like you were brothers down there. Helping to keep each other going."
"There were people I was dreaming about, though," Harry notes. "Not that I wish they'd have been there, because I don't, but people that I wish I could've been with instead."
Malfoy nods slowly. "I can only imagine." They reach their homes and he turns to face Harry. "Thanks for coming out with me, mate."
"Of course," Harry smiles. "I enjoyed myself."
"Me too," Malfoy agrees. He extends a hand, which Harry shakes, avoiding Malfoy's eyes so that he can't see whatever might have lit up their grey depths, and bolts for his front door.
"Did you have fun tonight?" Ginny asks groggily when he makes it upstairs and begins to get undressed.
"Fine, yes," he says as vaguely as possible. "Go back to sleep." She nods and turns over onto her side away from him. He stops in the middle of untying one of his shoes and just sits, staring into space, unsure of where to go from here.
****
They continue that routine for several weeks, making a visit to the pub every Friday night. Their conversations are usually fairly surface level, trading stories about people they knew during the war and talking about things going on overseas. Harry manages to get a job at a travel agency, selling trips to - of all things - battlefields in France where he used to be in the trenches. He's not exactly sure why any middle-class Briton would be eager to visit the places he had wanted so desperately to leave, but it's helping him to pay the bills so he's not asking too many questions.
"Do you want to go to the Exhibition at Wembley?" Malfoy asks one night.
"The what?" Harry laughs.
"The British Empire Exhibition," he replies as if this is painfully obvious. "You know, down at the fairground. They're having all kinds of showcases of things from around the empire, plus rides and a working railroad."
"Oh," Harry says, surprised. It's the first time anyone has asked him to do anything fun since he's moved here. "When would you like to go?"
"How about tomorrow?"
"Okay," he says, surprising himself. "I think Ginny is having a bridge night with some of the ladies from church so I was going to have the place to myself anyway."
"Right," Malfoy nods. "That's settled then. We'll meet out front of our houses at seven P.M. sharp."
The next day, right on time, Harry exits his house to find Malfoy standing out front, wearing a foppish suit in a smart navy blue. "Good evening, Potter," he says with a little grin.
"Good evening, Malfoy," Harry returns. "Are you ready?"
"Quite." He extends an arm. "Accompany me to the bus station?"
Harry feels his breath catch in his throat and he freezes, unable to move towards or away from him even if he wanted to. Whatever smile was on Malfoy's face shifts slightly, drops a little, and he pulls his arm down. "I was only having a laugh," he says breezily. "Come on, we don't want to be late."
The bus ride is quiet, the two of them sitting side by side across the aisle from an old woman holding what looks to be a pair of freshly caught fish, presumably something she'll be using for the next day's tea (if it's even still fresh enough). It might be Harry's imagination, but with every turn the bus makes, he feels Malfoy lean into him just a touch harder than he thinks physics demands. At one point he looks over to see if he notices, but Malfoy just looks straight ahead, smiling pleasantly. Maybe it is all really in Harry's head then.
They get off at the station and walk into the complex, paying the few shillings required for entry. "There's quite a lot to see here," Harry notes, looking at the large map posted a few yards in front of them. "Too much, quite possibly."
"Let's just make a go of it and see how much we get through," Malfoy says. Grabbing his arm, he pulls him to the right. "Come on, let's try and get on some of the rides."
They ride the tilt-a-whirl twice, until Harry feels slightly nauseous, and then take one of the boats around the small river set-up, Malfoy excitedly gesturing to the little displays and making Harry laugh with his boyish displays of enthusiasm.
"You can't tell me you never did this as a kid," he says once they get off the boat ride.
"Never had the money, did I?" Malfoy replies. "Just saw this sort of things in books or heard about it on the radio. But I always swore to myself that when I was a grown-up I would go to one of these and see it for real."
"Well, I'm honored you thought to bring me," Harry smiles.
Malfoy gives him a strange look. "I wouldn't want to be here with anybody else."
"You're just saying that," Harry jokes, but any humor is masked with curiosity.
"I'm serious," Malfoy insists. "I wouldn't want to be here with anyone besides you." Before Harry can say anything, he gestures in another direction. "Want to see some of the exhibits?"
The rest of the evening is absolutely lovely. They walk around the exhibition pavilions, seeing the various displays and commenting on the different inventions placed out for the public to enjoy. Malfoy particularly likes the explosives, which Harry thinks are rather dangerous to be left out in the open like that. They sit out in front of the Australian pavilion for a while, watching the boats go by and feeling the disappearing warmth of the setting sun on their faces.
When they ride back on the bus, Harry gets the window seat and doesn't protest too much when Malfoy falls asleep on his shoulder. He does get an inquisitive look or two from other passengers, but Malfoy has always looked rather boyish and with his thin wire rimmed glasses and shock of black hair Harry has always looked older than he is, so he thinks they make for a decently convincing pair of brothers.
The short walk back to their houses is quiet, the two of them soaking in the still of the evening. "I had fun tonight," Harry says when they get back to their respective front steps.
"Good," Malfoy says with a yawn. "So did I."
"Did you mean it?" Harry blurts out suddenly.
"Mean what?"
"That you wouldn't have wanted to go with anybody else."
Malfoy gives him a steady, even look. "Every word."
Harry is about to say something, feeling the words swirl in his throat, but then the window opens and Ginny pokes her head out. "Harry, is that you? Come to bed, you'll catch your cold out there." Looking at Malfoy, she chides "I blame you for keeping my husband out so late. If he gets pneumonia I'll be sending the doctor to your doorstep to collect the bill."
"My apologies, ma'am," Malfoy says with a little bow. "I promise not to keep him out so late again."
"See that you don't," she says with a little teasing in her tone, and shuts the window.
"Well," Harry says quietly, "goodnight then."
"Goodnight," Malfoy says back. They look at each other for a moment, and then Harry breaks away, turning back to go back inside. He goes to shut off the lamp in the living room and sees Malfoy still standing outside, staring at him through the window, his face lit by the streetlamp and something akin to mourning on his face. Harry thinks about going out to talk to him about it, to make him feel better, to wipe that sadness off of his visage, but instead just turns out the light.
****
It's about eleven P.M. later that month that Harry hears a loud crash out in the back garden. Ginny is sound asleep - she never wakes up for anything short of something directly impacting the house - so he puts on his bathrobe and slippers and makes his way downstairs. Walking through the kitchen, he turns the light on and goes outside to find the source of the noise.
He opens the door to find Malfoy slouched against the back entrance, having tripped over one of their plant pots and broken it as well as having cut himself. "Malfoy?" he says sleepily.
"Potter," is the slurred response he gets in return. Without waiting for an invitation, he stumbles inside, drunkenly making his way to the table. "I think one of your pots cut my arm."
"I think you have that the wrong way around," Harry notes, trying to scrub the sleep out of his eyes. "Let me get you bandaged up." Draco flops down at the kitchen table, slumping forward in one of the seats, injured arm resting face up in front of him. Harry goes over to grab a kitchen towel, wets it, and then wrings it out. "What did you do to yourself?"
"Fell," Malfoy mumbles. "Was being clumsy."
"Why were you out in my back garden at almost midnight?"
"Wanted to see where you were," he mumbles again.
Harry frowns. "You didn't think I was here?"
Malfoy looks up at him, his normally clear gray eyes muddled with something that looks like hopelessness and too much ale. "I don't know where you are most days."
Harry wraps the towel around Malfoy's arm, causing the man to wince at the contact of the towel against the open wound. "You know where I am at night for sure."
"No I don't," he slurs, shaking his head. "I keep imagining you're out somewhere, with somebody else, doing something more fun than being with me."
"Why would you think that?"
Almost out of instinct, Malfoy reaches up with his uninjured arm and caresses Harry's face. "Because if I were you I wouldn't want to be around me."
Harry flinches, just slightly, but stays frozen, hoping that Malfoy will take his hand away - instead, he keeps it there, running his index finger of his cheekbone softly. "Why wouldn't I want to be around you?" he whispers.
"Because," he mumbles, eyes welling up a little, "I'm not fit for company, am I?"
"Not now you're not," Harry teases, but quickly realizes it was the wrong thing to say. "You're my best friend here, though, mate. I wouldn't want to spend time with anybody else."
"But that's only by default," Malfoy insists through a mumble. "You would if you could, if I wasn't around. You wouldn't want to be near me, I just know it."
Harry lets go of the towel a little and moves Malfoy's hand off of his cheek. "What are you talking about?"
Malfoy looks at him, openly crying now. "You don't get it, do you? You don't see everything that I am?"
"I don't-" Harry starts, but realizes he doesn't really know what to say. "If I-"
"If you knew everything that I am, you'd want nothing to do with me," Malfoy hisses through the sting of tears. "And if you knew everything that I want you to be to me, you wouldn't either."
"Want me to be-?"
His hand comes back up to Harry's face again. "The way that you're literally all I think about. All I've thought about. The only thing I have no chance of having."
Harry doesn't know what to say, doesn't know to put the ocean roiling his stomach into words, so he comes up with "I thought you liked being a bachelor."
Malfoy shakes his head. "I don't have a choice, do I? I couldn't-" He looks upstairs at where Ginny is sleeping, in her and Harry's bed, and trails off. "I can't."
"And you don't want to?" Harry tries awkwardly.
"If I could, I would," Malfoy insists. "And you think I haven't tried? You think I haven't had my fair share of birds at whatever ports of call we were at during the war? All those French girls lining up at my door to thank me the way every other soldier there liked the most? Nah, I'm not fit for it. I couldn't, I just-" He sighs and wipes his runny nose with the back of his hand. "I'm not made like that."
He looks up at Harry with a fierce intensity in his eyes. "But you can. And bloody hell, do I hate you for it. I wish I could take whatever inside you lets you move through this world like you were made for it and put it inside my soul. But I can't, and it makes me feel like I'm drowning."
Harry's taken aback, unsure of what he can say to do anything close to soothing the ferocity inside of Malfoy's voice. "I don't know what it is you're asking me to do."
Malfoy just shakes his head. "I'm not asking you to do anything. There's nothing you can do. I can't even do anything, not without getting arrested or beaten or killed, for fuck's sake." Choking back a sob, he says "I wish I'd just gotten killed in that bloody war."
Harry lets go of the towel he's been holding around Malfoy's arm and grabs his face fiercely with both hands. "You listen to me, Draco Malfoy. Don't you ever say that, not ever. You are too good for this world to have been wasted in some trench a thousand miles away. I'll have none of that from you."
And then, like drawn to him like a magnet, he kisses him, feels Malfoy exhale something between relief and desperation between his own lips, detects the faintest taste of whiskey on his tongue and a lifetime of things unsaid between the two of them.
Hearing the stairs creak, he pulls away quickly and wipes his mouth. "Not a word," he warns Malfoy quietly. Malfoy just nods and scrubs a hand over his face, pushing whatever tears were still left there onto his sleeve.
"Harry?" Ginny asks, her hair up in rollers that match her terrycloth robe. "What are you doing up?"
"Malfoy had an accident in our backyard," Harry says as firmly as he can even though he senses his voice wavering.
"An accident? What kind of accident?"
"Oh, you know me, Ginny," Malfoy says with a laugh. "Had a bit too much from the bottle and lost my balance. Poor Harry here had to get out of bed and clean me up a bit."
"With my good dish towel?" she tuts. "Harry Potter, you should know better."
"Sorry, it was the first thing I thought to grab," he replies lamely. Rubbing the back of his neck, he adds "Wasn't anything major. Just one of the pots broken."
"Well, I'm glad it wasn't worse," she says, taking the dish towel off of Malfoy's arm and rinsing it out in the sink. "I'd rather have a broken pot than a broken man next door." Looking at the two of them she says, "Now, I think you'd both better be going to bed. Draco, we'll see you in the morning. Go off to your own bed."
"Yes, ma'am," he says with a little grin. He turns to look at Harry and says simply "Thank you." Harry can't say anything at all, so he just nods and looks down at the floor. With a little wave to Ginny, Malfoy heads out the back door and back to his own house.
Harry stands, legs shaking and arms trembling, and turns to head upstairs. "Now, you listen here Mr. Potter," Ginny scolds. "I'm not finished with you yet." He freezes and looks at her, trying not to meet her eyes directly. "I know that you and Draco are mates and all but you can't just go traipsing through our house at all hours of the night. And I especially don't like that he thinks it's alright to come over here after having spent the evening at the pub. Our house is not an inn for the forlorn and drunken."
"Yes, Ginny," he says quietly. "Sorry again. I just didn't want to leave him out there injured."
"I know," she says, "and I'm glad you got him cleaned up. But I'll have no more of that in our house, am I clear?" He nods, and she adds "Good. I'll see you upstairs."
Like some sort of automaton, he goes back up to the bedroom, takes his slippers and robe off, and climbs into bed. Even when Ginny climbs in next to him and turns the light off, he just lies there, staring at the ceiling, trying desperately to conjure the phantom gossamer of Malfoy's lips on his, the quiet way he felt his pulse begin to race. Try as he might, he can't remember it, but he can't forget it either.
****
Ginny heads up north to Liverpool to visit her mother, which leaves Harry alone in the house for the weekend. Of course, he invites Malfoy over for the weekend. When he comes over, he brings a bottle of claret and a book of Keats's poetry. "I wasn't sure if you were into literature," he says from the doorway. "But I figured I'd take the risk and give it a go."
They cook dinner together and listen to the radio, Malfoy singing softly as he puts a roast into the oven. "You have a nice voice," Harry says.
He grins. "Thanks. It was one of the reasons I think they kept me around in the trenches instead of making me first out every time they wanted to attack. Used to keep the spirits up with a bit of singing. You should've seen me at Christmas, I was the most popular guy in the entire company."
"You'll have to sing for me some time," Harry replies shyly.
Malfoy looks at him, the gray eyes so tormented last time he saw him placid and brilliant. "I'd be happy to."
They eat dinner together at the kitchen table, draining most of the bottle of wine between the two of them and laughing well into the night. They talk about the war, of course, but also about their families and where they picture themselves ending up in another few years.
"Do you want kids?" Malfoy asks, sipping his wine.
Harry shrugs. "I think about it sometimes. Ginny doesn't seem to have made up her mind." Swishing his wine in its glass, he adds "And I don't know that it's the best idea anyway."
Malfoy nods and looks down at the table. "Right. Well, I think you'd be a good father."
He smiles softly. "You're very kind."
"So," Malfoy says, setting his glass down on the table. "I'll help you clean up and then I should probably be getting back to mine."
"You don't have to," Harry says before he can stop himself.
"Help you clean up?" Malfoy arches an eyebrow.
"Go," he replies. "You can stay."
Malfoy looks at him for a long moment. "You have to really mean that," he says quietly. "Because if you don't mean it then I'll go and we can just pretend you never asked."
Harry shakes his head. "No. I want you to."
The staircase is strewn with clothes that they left behind them as they made their way upstairs, each kiss more breathless and longing than the last. When they fall into bed, the weight of Harry pressing on top of Malfoy, it's like two puzzle pieces left in a box whose owner felt were never going to belong anywhere slotting together perfectly, complimenting every curve and bend in the other. It's perfection, and even through all of the sweat and the strewn sheets it feels as if there is something divinely designed about the whole thing.
When they're lying there afterwards, Malfoy tracing lazy circles on Harry's chest, Harry pulls him close and nuzzles his hair with his chin. "You're perfect," he murmurs.
Malfoy leans up a little. "What's that?"
"I said you're perfect," Harry breathes. "You're utterly perfect."
"You're just saying that because I'm lying here stark naked in your bed," Malfoy chuckles.
"That's not hurting things," Harry concedes. Looking down at him, he adds "But God, you're gorgeous."
Malfoy's laugh vibrates Harry's entire ribcage. "I trust you haven't said that to many blokes."
"Make that any blokes," Harry clarifies.
He sits up. "You've never done this before?" When Harry shakes his head, he flops back down to lie on his chest. "You're bloody good at it for somebody who's new at it."
Harry laughs. "Yeah, well, can't say I haven't thought about it."
"You've thought about me?" Malfoy purrs.
"Many a time."
"Should've paid more attention, might've caught you staring at me arse."
Harry smacks him lightly on the head. "Alright, that's enough."
"I'm just saying," he laughs, "we could've been doing this so much sooner."
"Yeah, but it wouldn't have been this special, would it?"
"You make a good point."
They lie there like that for a while longer, just listening to the other breathing. "I don't want this to end," Harry says after a minute. "I just want to stay like this forever."
"I know," Malfoy says, "but we don't have forever. We have until tomorrow night, right?"
Harry nods and then realizes Malfoy probably can't see him. "Right."
"So we make the most of it," he says quietly.
"We make the most of it," Harry agrees.
****
Malfoy begins writing him letters not long after that. They start off short, things that he sticks in the inside of his jacket pocket when they meet for drinks every week and opens when he's in the solitude of his office at the travel agency.
You are the reason I am still fit for service, reads the first one. I feel like I finally understand what lungs are for, so that I can breathe you in and hold you in my chest, says the second. He places them in a drawer in his desk that he locks before he goes home every night.
They gradually grow longer. Some days I wish we could just be on a desert island somewhere, or maybe a farm somewhere back in France, one says. It could just be the two of us, waiting for the world to catch up with the life we've made together. And if it never does, we could make our own little world together, safe from the embers of the chaos burning around us.
Last night I laid awake and thought about you lying just feet from me, his favorite one says. Nothing is too near but feeling my head rest on your chest again, having your desire to create a universe with me finally suffocate my compulsion to give up on everything beautiful. I find myself wishing that all of the stars in the universe could align like that, every night of my life, and find me intertwined with you knowing we were safe from any kind of catastrophe the world might force upon us. You are - and will always be - the safest thing I've ever known.
Soon his desk becomes too full, and he knows that the more paper he stuffs in his desk the greater suspicion he will attract. So one night he places them in his briefcase and brings them home, thinking the whole time he's on the bus where he's going to put them. Then he remembers: the cabinet above the stove, the one where he keeps all of his liquor. Ginny doesn't drink at all, and she's too short to get at it. They'll stay tucked away there, behind all of the bottles holding every bit of his spirit.
When he comes home to find Ginny there, supper ready for him, he makes sure to sit facing the cabinet so that he can have his eyes travel idly up in that direction and rest on the cabinet, where he knows the man next door is pouring his heart out to him. It gives him comfort, and stillness, and keeps him moving when he thinks the burden he bears may be too much to bear.
They go to the pub that week and share the same table they always do. Malfoy reaches into his jacket pocket once they sit down and slides him an envelope. "Another?" Harry asks with a tinge of humor.
"You love getting it as much as I love giving it," Malfoy chuckles.
"In more ways than one."
"Cheeky," Malfoy says, elbowing him slightly. "Anyway, now that it's turning to autumn I suppose I'm getting a little more sentimental than usual. Been thinking about how much I wish we could get away."
"You know," Harry says, "we don't actually have to stay at the pub the entire time we're here."
Malfoy frowns. "What do you mean?"
"Couldn't we go back to your place?"
"Don't you think Ginny would notice?"
"Not if you leave the lights on," Harry points out. "She wouldn't know the difference if you have your house lit up once you leave. Plus with the nights getting darker she won't see you going in or out and it would make sense to have the house lit up."
So they try that the next week, and the week after, and the week after that. It works brilliantly; Harry meets Malfoy over at the pub, then the two turn around and slip back down the street and into the front door of Malfoy's house in the cover of darkness. They spend their evenings wrapped up in sheets, listening to the radio, sharing a brandy and planning their lives together as if such a thing were even possible.
"We should take a trip," Malfoy says one day.
"Oh?" Harry says, as if this isn't the hundredth time he's suggested such a thing. "And where would we go?"
"Ypres," Malfoy says. "We could always say we're going for some sort of military related thing. A bunch of us getting together back at the old battlefield to commemorate whatever we've lost." He looks at Harry. "Do you think she'd buy it?"
He considers it. "I think she would. Especially since I do that for a living, she'd trust that my company would do it well."
"Excellent," he grins. "Then that's settled. We'll take a trip before Christmas."
When he takes the idea back to Ginny, she seems pleased. "I think it's a good idea for you to get out of London anyway," she notes. "You've been cooped up here too long since we moved here. I know how you like your freedom. It'll be good for you to reconnect with your old friends." So Harry books the tickets, and tells Draco, and dreams of France.
****
With four days to go until the trip, Harry leaves work early. It's a Bank Holiday the next day and his boss decided to close up early since few people were trying to book a trip to see a battlefield the day before they had time off of work. Early, of course, does not mean particularly early - just around four P.M. instead of five - but it's something nonetheless and he is happy to take it.
As he rides the bus home, he digs Malfoy's latest letter out of his pocket and reads it. I am busying myself thinking of us together in this little French farmhouse making a weekend of it, it says. I feel like I might go completely mad from anticipation of having you in my arms without feeling as if we are seconds from discovery. And if that doesn't say everything Harry is feeling few things would.
He comes into the kitchen, whistling a little bit, and puts his briefcase down. "Ginny, love, I'm home!" He finds her there, sitting at the table, surrounded by stacks and stacks of letters. Malfoy's letters. To him.
"Ginny," he says, as if her name conveys the weight of everything sitting on the table between them.
She stares at him, eyes glassy and vacant. "I realized I had run out of cooking sherry," she says, "and I remembered you kept some of your own up in that cabinet above the stove." Rubbing a hand over her face, she adds "Imagine my surprise when I found these stuffed behind the bottle." He doesn't say anything, just stares. "If you were going to hide love letters, you might want to put them somewhere a little more discreet," she adds.
"I know," he says lamely.
"I could've accepted it," she says, swirling what looks like a glass of gin around, "if it had been with anyone else. Any woman down the street, one of the ladies from church. I could've learned to live with any of them, knowing that I hadn't been enough for you." She looks at him, eyes cold. "But I cannot learn to live with him."
"You don't have to," he says, but she holds up a hand.
"There might have been room for two women in this marriage," she says. "I might've been able to compete with another woman for your affection." She levels her gaze. "But I cannot compete with another man. And that is a battle I refuse to fight."
"I'm not asking you to fight for me," he tries again.
"Get him over here." She nods towards the side of the house against which Malfoy's rests. "Now. Go get him. I want to talk to him."
Harry, mute, obeys. He walks to the front of the house, out the door, and over to Malfoy's house. He knocks on his front door and, when Malfoy opens it, says simply "She knows."
Malfoy follows him back inside his house, and they walk back to where Ginny sits at the table. She doesn't look at him, but leans back in her chair a little bit. "So," she says, "would you care to explain yourself?"
"I didn't say anything I didn't mean," Malfoy says simply. "I'm in love with your husband and I will make no apologies for it."
At this, Ginny stands and slams her palms down on the table. "Do you know what you've done? I could go to the old bill with this. I could have you arrested for corrupting my husband."
"He did not corrupt me," Harry insists, but Ginny ignores him.
"They will put you in prison where you will rot," she seethes. "And you will deserve it."
"If that's what you want to do, so be it," Malfoy replies. He has on a brave face, but Harry knows him. He knows that he is trembling, shaking, terrified of what this would mean.
"You are not going to have him arrested," Harry interjects, "because if you're going to send him to prison you'll have to send me too." She stares at him and he continues "I've committed exactly the same crime as him. And I will turn myself in if you have him sent away."
She is quiet for a moment. "I see." The three of them stand there, something inexplicably deadly caught between them without a way to set it free. She clears her throat and sits back down in her chair. "You have two choices," she says. "I will call the police right this instant and have them come here to send him to prison." She points to Malfoy at that remark. "If you choose to get sent down with him that is a choice I cannot stop you from making. But if you do that, you will lose everything. And you will take me down with you. I will never be able to recover my reputation, my standing, none of it."
"Or?" Harry asks bleakly.
She stares at him. "Or you never see him again."
And they all know which choice has to be made.
****
The removal van is almost full when Harry goes upstairs for one last look at the bedroom. It's empty, not a single piece of furniture in it. Even the curtains, their baby blue puffs covering the top row of window panes, are gone, letting the harsh winter light shine straight into the room.
Malfoy suggested that he be the one to move away, but Ginny refused. She decided that it would be better for her and Harry if they went back to Liverpool to live with her mother, who she said was getting more elderly and frail anyway. The boss at the travel agency matched him with another employer up north who got him a similar position, selling trips to Liverpudlians who wanted to see the great battle sites of France.
Ginny made him burn all of the letters, lest they fall into the wrong hands and incriminate either him or Malfoy, and watched as he sat and cried, harder than he ever had, throwing one after the other into the roaring fire in the living room. He regretted, more than perhaps ever before, having never had the presence of mind to write any back to Malfoy. Maybe then, at least, there would be some proof that they had loved each other.
He goes back downstairs, confirms with her that the bedroom is empty, and she confirms that the kitchen is all packed up. Before they leave, he asks if he can have one last smoke out in the back garden, which she obliges. All things considered, for someone in her position, she's been rather understanding and given him his space. He supposes in return he's given her plenty of her own.
So he stands out in the back garden, under the tree, leaves now gone, and looks up at the grey sky. It's the same color of Malfoy's eyes, except not nearly as beautiful or deep or lovely. He doesn't feel like he can drown in them the same way, or that he can get lost and find himself again in there. He just stares up at it and smokes and pretends not to think about the man on the other side of the wall.
One of Ginny's conditions for leaving was that they were to have no goodbye. It was a request that he struggled to accede to but eventually came to accept, mostly because he didn't have much of a choice when all was said and done. He doesn't even know if Malfoy knows they're leaving today, because they never told him. So for all he knows, he's just staring over the wall at an empty house where the man he used to love lives.
He stubs the cigarette out on the pavement and walks back through the house. Somehow, by the time he makes it out the front door, it's begun to snow. He catches his breath curling up around him like smoke as the flakes start to stick to the brick pavement and the top of the removal van. Ginny looks at him, and he doesn't say anything, just nods, and she gets in the back of the cab set to take them to the train station.
Giving the street one last look, Harry thinks to himself how much he loves this place. It felt like the one time he was prepared to give creating a life for himself a go, the one opportunity to recover a life that he worries has already been inextricably marred by violence and death and loss. Then he gets in the back seat next to her.
As the cab pulls away, he catches something moving out of the corner of his eye. Looking over his shoulder, he sees him - Malfoy - running after them, arms pinwheeling, sprinting as fast as he can to catch up. "Drive, please," Ginny says tersely to the cabbie. Harry just stares, watching as Malfoy runs after them, a few paces behind, flailing limbs carrying him off the sidewalk and into the street until the cab turns left out of the street and he's left standing in the middle of the road watching them go.
Harry can't see his face but he knows he's crying too, just like him.
He reaches into his jacket pocket for a handkerchief but instead finds something more rugged in it. Before he can take it out, he realizes it's the letter - his favorite one - that Ginny must've saved from the fire and hidden away for him. He squeezes it gently and then pulls his hand out before reaching over and placing Ginny's hand in it.
She looks over at him, and he nods. She nods too, and goes back to looking out the window. But at least they don't pull their hands away from each other this time.
****
Sixty year later, Harry is a very old man. Ginny died about seven years previously, peacefully, after a battle from cancer. They have two lovely children, and Harry is a grandfather to five wonderful little people, who make him laugh and find the beauty in everything every single day.
But unlike most Christmases, he told his children he would be spending this holiday alone. They're concerned, at first, but he assures them he'll be fine. He gives them his hotel information, so that if they need to contact him they can call the front desk, and even gives a special fax number in case they need to send him some sort of letter or something.
So, with all of that done, he goes to the train station and boards a bus for Dover, where he disembarks and takes a ferry to Calais. The weather is cold, but he stays bundled up inside and plays craps at the little casino table inside. Once they land, he takes a train, this one bound for Ypres.
His hotel is nice, but unpretentious. He couldn't find a farm to stay at - apparently even with his multiple decades in the travel industry none of his connections were able to find one nearby available to rent that close to Christmas - but the hotel will do just nicely. After a good night's sleep, he decides to go and wander about the town, seeing the various shops and stalls it has to offer.
If he had been a little younger, or a little more tech-savvy, he might've tried to see what Malfoy was up to. He doesn't even know if Malfoy is still alive, to be honest. Perhaps it's better that way. There is no world in which, at eighty-eight, Harry would be able to do anything with the only man he ever loved besides find himself full of regrets. So he prefers to imagine that Malfoy is still living on that street in London, going to that pub, getting drunk and giving the barmaid his cheekiest grin to get an extra pint of lager.
He finds the Menin Gate, tall and imposing, overlooking one of the exits of the town. He doesn't remember ever passing through it on his way home, but he very well may have. It doesn't matter in some ways. Memory is a funny and fickle thing, isn't it? Perhaps one is better left with the understanding of what they could've remembered rather than what they actually do.
Approaching the water next to the gate, he pulls a faded, cracked piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and reads the faint text.
Last night I laid awake and thought about you lying just feet from me. Nothing is too near but feeling my head rest on your chest again, having your desire to create a universe with me finally suffocate my compulsion to give up on everything beautiful. I find myself wishing that all of the stars in the universe could align like that, every night of my life, and find me intertwined with you knowing we were safe from any kind of catastrophe the world might force upon us. You are - and will always be - the safest thing I've ever known.
With hands trembling from age and emotion, he pulls the letter up to his mouth and kisses it. Oh, my love, he thinks. If only we had madness at our door these days. With a little flick of the wrist, he tosses it into the water, watching as it drifts away downstream, towards something resembling some other version of what could have been.