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

chapter 20

"This is something you need to get through," Hermione tells him. "I'm sorry, but it is." She's standing in front of the sofa where he's curled up with Draco's jumper on his lap. It's been months since Draco tossed it over the arm of the sofa and it could use a wash, but Harry can't bring himself to do that, not when it still smells faintly of him.

"It's fine," Harry tries to reassure her.

"It's not fine," Hermione insists, and she sits next to him and takes his hand. "Harry, I love you. And I know how hard this is for you, and we've tried to give you time. But it's like you died that day, too, and you're still..." Her voice wavers and goes thick, and she swallows hard and blinks her eyes. "It's like you've given up. And I can't just sit by and watch."

"I..." he begins, and breaks off. He closes his mouth and looks down at the jumper in his lap.

"Harry," Hermione says, and her voice is terribly gentle. "This isn't healthy. It's been six months. And I'm not expecting that you should be completely past this, but you haven't even moved any of his things. It's like you're living in a shrine to him, or a museum. And that can't be good for you."

Harry snatches his hand away from her and clutches Draco's jumper, his fingers twisting in the soft wool. "So, what, I should just box up all his things? Toss them out?"

"No, of course not," Hermione says quickly. "Not if you're not ready. I just think you should talk to someone. You're in here alone, day after day, you don't talk to anyone but me and Ron." She pulls a small rectangle of cardstock from her pocket. "I've looked into it, and Healer Dalton is supposed to be the best. I think you should make an appointment."

Harry tosses the card onto the coffee table without looking at it. "I'll think about it."

Hermione watches him carefully, and he knows that she knows that he won't. But she doesn't push him about it. "That's all I ask," she says. "Ron mentioned he might stop by after he finishes up at the shop. He'll probably bring over dinner. Is there anything you'd like me to ask him to get for you?"

"No, whatever's fine," Harry says, still staring down at the jumper.

After she leaves, Harry doesn't get up from the sofa. It's nice when Ron comes over in the evenings, bringing something deliciously greasy for dinner that Harry's usually tempted into eating even though he doesn't have much of an appetite these days. Sometimes Ron brings over some beer or a bottle of whisky and they have a few drinks and Harry listens about the latest gossip from George's shop, or what new Weasley family drama is happening this week, who's sleeping on the sofa or who's expecting. Which, as often as the former happens it's sort of amazing how often the latter happens as well.

Harry stuffs the jumper underneath his head as he curls up on the sofa cushions. He breathes in.

And when Ron steps out of his Floo later that night, it is nice. Ron doesn't push him to talk about his feelings or urge him to get help he doesn't want or need. He's just there, solid and dependable, and Harry loves him all the more for it. They eat on the sofa from foil containers and talk about Quidditch, and tonight's one of the nights Ron brings over some whisky and they each have a couple of glasses. And for just a little while, Harry's able to forget about Draco.

It had started as a stupid argument about Harry's taste in music, and had ended with Harry sitting on Ron's sofa, drinking whisky at two o'clock in the afternoon.

"I mean, who doesn't like the Beatles?" Harry went on, holding out his empty glass for a refill, and Ron obligingly topped him up. "So I told him he wouldn't know good music if it came up and bit him in his stupid inbred arse."

Ron winced as he set the bottle aside. "How'd he take that?"

"Threw a vase at my head," Harry said with a grimace. He took another gulp of whisky. "That blue one Molly gave us as a housewarming gift." He paused and scowled down into his glass. "Then the arsehole hit it with a Reparo just so he could throw it at me again."