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

chapter 21

Harry shivers. The knock at the door had pulled him out from under the duvet piled on the sofa. He'd been napping there this afternoon, exhausted from too many nights unable to sleep in his empty bed. At least with the sofa he can put his back to the cushions and fall asleep that way, even if sometimes he wakes up sure that Draco's pressed against him from behind, and he spends a few long and lovely seconds feeling as though everything's all right again before the heartache comes crashing back.

"You haven't answered any of my letters," Robards says, and Harry just wants him to leave so he can go back to sleep.

"I've been busy," he lies, even as his guilty gaze wanders over to the small table in the hall where a stack of unopened letters teeters nearly half as tall as the blue vase beside it.

He's pretty sure that Robards knows better. The way Harry's hair sticks up and the way he can't stop himself from blinking sleepily are probably something of a giveaway, along with the fact that he's in his pyjamas at two in the afternoon. "It's been almost half a year and you still haven't scheduled your grief counselling sessions," Robards says.

"Because I don't intend to go," Harry tells him.

"Forgive me, Potter, but I wasn't asking your opinion," Robards says, falling away from concerned friend and more into his position as Head Auror. "The sessions are mandatory."

"It's only mandatory if I'm working for you," Harry says.

"Which you are."

Harry turns away, shoving a hand through his hair. He paces away a few steps, then turns back. "Not anymore. Consider this my notice, effective immediately."

Robards frowns. "Don't be stubborn, Harry. You need to talk to someone about this. You're clearly not all right."

"You sound like Hermione," Harry grumbles. He doesn't understand why people keep pushing him about this. He's fine, he's handling this. They can't all expect him to get better overnight, can they? He's handling this fine. He just needs more time.

"She's not wrong," Robards points out, his voice gone gentle.

"I don't care."

Robards watches him for a moment, then takes a deep breath. "He wouldn't have wanted you to do this by yourself."

"Don't even..." Harry begins. His voice is shaking with sudden rage and he can't even finish the sentence.

But Robards, brave man or stupid man that he is, either doesn't catch it or ignores it altogether because he presses on gently, "He's gone, Harry, and he wouldn't want you to-"

The windows explode. Harry hasn't lost control of his magic like this in years, and he's sure he must look terrifying in that moment because Robards takes a quick step back, wand drawn. Harry's magic crackles through the air, making his skin buzz and the hair on his arms rise up in goosebumps.

"Get out," he says.

"Harry," Robards begins.

"GET OUT!" he screams, and the crystal decanter on the side table explodes, spraying shards of glass and droplets of hundred-year-old scotch over the room, and Robards Disapparates on the spot.

Caught up in his anger, Harry hurls a vase against the wall with a flick of his wrist. It shatters, shards flying up and out and away, raining back down over the floor. The anger drains away from Harry in an instant and his magic quiets as he stares at the shattered vase. It's the same blue one that Draco always throws when he and Harry get swept up into yet another volatile argument. It's been broken and Repaired so many times at this point that it's sort of lumpy, vaguely misshapen. Draco has always been capable of a perfectly flawless Reparo, but sometimes when he gets really worked up he'll fling one out mid-rant, carelessly fusing the vase back together just so he can throw it again.

For a long moment he just stands there, staring, then he takes out his wand and casts a Reparo on each of the windows and the decanter. A few cleaning charms take care of the scotch. Then he crosses the room, picking his way carefully between chunks of blue glass. The vase has left a small blue mark on the wall where Harry had thrown it, and he gets rid of it with a quick Scourgify. Then he casts a Reparo at the vase and picks it up. He smoothes his hands over the bumpy, uneven surface and carefully, very carefully, sets it back on its table by the door.

The letters from Robards sit in a haphazard stack beside it, and Harry Vanishes the lot of them without a second thought.