Stop All the Clocks (This Is the Last Time I'm Leaving Without You)

chapter 12

This whole thing feels like it's gone too far, like a joke that's run on so far past its punchline that it's no longer funny. It might've been, at first. (Draco, gone? Forever? How absurd.) And every day Harry wakes up listening for the sound of the shower running or the whistle of the kettle in the kitchen or the rustle of newspaper. (And Harry will never see him again? Like, never ever? How ridiculous!) A part of him remains alert for the thud of footsteps coming up the hall or the sound of floorboards creaking overhead. In the back of his mind, he waits to be shouted at for leaving his wet towel on the bedroom floor or his used teabag in the sink. He still half-expects that someone from the Ministry will be contacting him any minute now to explain that there's been a mistake. That this whole thing is a mix-up, a misunderstanding. That it's all been a very cruel joke.

But today... today will make it real.

Harry needs to get dressed. He's been putting it off for as long as he can, but he needs to. Ron and Hermione are going to be here in ten minutes and they'll expect him to be ready. But every time Harry starts for his bedroom, he can't make himself go inside. He hesitates outside the doorway, his hands grasping the doorframe, his toes curling against the wood floor. He bites his lip, hard, and the pain centers him.

Nine minutes. Fuck it. It's just his bedroom. It's just clothing. It's just another funeral. God knows he's been to enough of them over his lifetime that he should be used to them by now. This will be fine. He'll have his friends at his side, and he can get through this. He's been through this sort of thing before. It will be fine.

Determined, he marches into the bedroom and goes straight to the closet and sorts through his robes. He doesn't own many, opting to wear Muggle clothing most of the time he's not in uniform. He finds his nice set of black robes way at the back. They'd slid off their clothes hanger at some point and have been lying in crumpled heap on the floor for god knows how many years. Harry picks them up and gives them a half-hearted shake, but he'll never be able to get the wrinkles out. Draco might be able to, he's better with ironing charms than anyone Harry's seen, but Draco's not here. Harry flings the robes back onto the floor of the closet.

Draco's robes hang in a neat row, taunting him. He owns several sets of black formal robes, and Harry touches them, reverently fingering each sleeve, the fine wool and slippery silk and crisp linen. There's a set with a long row of silver buttons all the way up to the throat, and another set with elaborate embroidery done in gold thread, and the set with the slightly lower neckline meant to be worn with an intricately-knotted cravat. Draco won't mind if he borrows a set. Part of the reason Harry doesn't own many sets of robes himself is because Draco always takes great pleasure in dressing Harry up in his own clothing. Which is more than fine for the formal functions he attends with Draco at his side, but there's something about showing up to the funeral wearing his dead boyfriend's clothes that strikes Harry as a little beyond the pale.

In the end, he dresses carefully in a vibrant green jumper and a pair of tailored grey trousers. Draco always loves when Harry wears this jumper because he says it brings out Harry's eyes, and even though Harry can't spot any sort of difference himself, he's more than willing to buy into it because wearing this always makes Draco kiss him more than usual. And Draco's never able to keep his hands off Harry's arse when he wears these trousers. Harry starts to attempt to fix his hair, then decides it doesn't really matter and probably won't do much good, anyhow. He goes into the living room to wait for his friends.

They arrive a few minutes later, both of them looking somber in unrelieved black.

For a moment they just look at him, then Hermione asks, "Are you ready to go?"

"Yeah," he says, and notices the way Ron's eyeing his jumper. Harry brushes a hand down his front and adds defensively, "This one's his favourite."

Ron and Hermione go to the Manor first. Harry scoops out his own handful of Floo Powder and tosses it in, calling out the name of his destination. Then he takes a deep breath and holds it as he steps into the leaping green flames.