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

chapter 27

Even gone, Draco’s still taking care of him. He doesn’t even have to do anything; just being here is enough. Harry tries to put off visiting him as long as he can, but he never seems to make it longer than a day or two. But it’s fine, he thinks. It’s fine. He steps in through the door of his warehouse and shuts it behind him, and already he feels calmer. Warmer. More relaxed than he feels in their home. Living there is beginning to wear on him, surrounded by the memories. Sometimes he’s able to forget, for a while, but then he’ll turn and he’ll catch sight of Draco’s dressing gown, Draco’s toothbrush, yet another pair of Draco’s socks. And then it’s too much, and the house feels too small, like all the memories are crowding in and pressing on his skin. It makes him itch. It makes him anxious.

So he shrugs into his coat and winds his scarf around his neck and Apparates to his warehouse. Spending time with Draco makes him feel better, and putting it off is a sweet torment. Even now, he resists as long as he’s able. He crosses the room and stops just behind the line he’s cut into the floor, marking where he has to be to make Draco appear, and as long as he’s always careful to step back across it before Draco screams, being with him here is wonderfully comforting. Harry sits down on the concrete floor, casts a warming charm on his clothing, and settles in. Knowing that Draco is here, just inches away, somehow makes everything better, makes everything brighter. It still hurts, of course. But it’s a bittersweet sort of pain, half joy and half terrible sadness. It’s almost bearable.

Harry knows that what he’s doing isn’t good for him. He still hasn’t told Ron and Hermione about the warehouse, because he doesn’t think they’ll understand and he knows they certainly won’t approve. He sits for as long as he can, until the ache in him builds up to something fervent, almost desperate. And then he stands up.

Harry takes a deep breath

He takes the step.

And then Draco is there, too.

Bloody hell, Draco was always there. Most of the time Harry loved working and living with him, but sometimes spending every minute of every day with Draco made him a little crazy. It was their weekend off, but Harry had been snappish and surly. They’d already fought and made up twice and it was barely noon on Saturday. It didn’t bode well for the rest of the weekend.

“It’s because it’s nearly May, isn’t it?” Draco asked.

That was the other thing about spending nearly every minute of the last five years with Draco; he knew Harry far too well.

He wanted to disagree, to argue for the sake of arguing. But he wasn’t sure if he could handle another go just yet, so he sighed, “Nothing good ever happens in May.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “You always say that, Potter, but shitty things happen year-round. Yes, the worst of the war happened in May, but that’s no reason—”

“And June,” Harry added. “Not much good happens in June, either.”

“My birthday’s in June, you prat,” Draco said. “And my mum’s birthday is in May. And while we’re eliminating birthdays, you were born in July, so I suppose that’s out too. And I was Marked in August, and then in September you refused to be friends with me and broke my tiny pre-adolescent heart to pieces, and then in October—”

“Okay, okay,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “Enough already, you’ve made your point. And I did not break your tiny heart.”

“To pieces,” Draco said with a solemn nod.

Harry snorted. “Don’t even,” he said. “You didn’t have a heart back then. You were a terrible little shit.”

“Mm,” Draco agreed, advancing on Harry. “I was, wasn’t I?” He backed Harry up against the wall, took his hands, and pressed them over his head. “Go on, Potter. Tell me more.” He leaned in and leisurely mouthed his way up Harry’s neck from shoulder to ear.

“Um,” Harry said, because it was hard to think clearly with Draco’s mouth on him. “You were horrible. And mean. And, um… Oh yes, right there.”

Draco chuckled softly, his breath huffing warm against Harry’s neck. “Just imagine if your eleven-year-old self could see you now.”

“He’d be appalled,” Harry said. “Shocked and horrified. And probably very confused.”

“Hm. Well, my eleven-year-old self would probably die of sheer happiness right on the spot. I’ve finally got Harry Potter right where I want him.”

Before Harry could say anything to that, Draco kissed him. And for a little while, Harry was able to lose himself in the taste and feel of Draco’s body, of Draco’s mouth on his neck and his hands on his skin and his cock thrusting deep inside him. For a little while, Harry forgot all about the remembrance gala next week and the dark cloud that seemed to settle over him at the end of every April, chased away by the sound of Draco’s breath gone harsh and irregular, and the way his muscles tensed and shifted beneath Harry’s hands, and by how bloody good he made Harry feel.

Nothing good ever happens in May. He’s made it nearly a whole year without Draco. And he’s made it almost six months before Ron and Hermione find out about the warehouse. Harry’s still been spending time there. Not a lot, and not even as much as he did at first. He’s down to just a few hours every couple of days or so. Sometimes when he’s afraid he can’t quite remember the sound of Draco’s voice, or the way he laughs, or the precise curve of his smile. And it’s like the sweet rush of that first deep lungful of air after staying almost-too-long underwater. Ah yes, that’s his voice. That’s his laugh. That’s his smile.

His friends don’t understand. Hermione threw around all sorts of hurtful words, like ‘unhealthy’ and ‘obsessive’ while Ron stood by her side, nodding in agreement. They seem to think that because it’s been a year he should be making some sort of progress. That he should be moving on or getting over it or something. But they don’t understand what it’s like, and how can they? They’ve still got each other. They don’t know what it’s like to lose someone who’s a part of you. You don’t suddenly get that part back when that person goes. That part of you goes too, and it’s gone for good.

Hermione finished up her impassioned speech with, “We love you, Harry, and we’re worried about you.” As if that makes everything better.

In the end, he’d nodded and said he’d think about it, and then he went to spend an hour with Draco.

He feels a little better when he leaves, but he’s still distracted, and when he’s getting ready to do laundry, he casts an absentminded Accio for Draco’s socks out of sheer force of habit. The drawer of Draco’s bureau wrenches itself open and Harry’s pelted with dozens of balled-up socks. Sighing and swearing under his breath, he kneels down to gather them up. He honestly has no idea why Draco owns so many bloody socks or why he’s incapable of keeping them on his feet for more than ten minutes at a time. He’s gathered up half of them when he picks up one bundle and feels something hard tucked inside it. Frowning, Harry sets his armload down and slowly unbundles the pair of socks he holds, and finds a small black velvet box. For a moment he just stares down at it, numb, then opens the lid with trembling fingers.

Inside, he finds a gold band, and Harry pries it loose from where it’s nestled in a slot of black felt. He turns it over in his hands, and sees the engraving inside: Yesterday, Today, Always. His throat closes up as the familiar pain hits him like a Bludger to the ribs. And even though he knows he shouldn’t, he slides the ring onto his left ring finger. It fits perfectly. He takes it off and puts it back in the box.

Harry doesn’t sleep that night. He sits up on the sofa with the little black box clutched in his hand. He closes it. He opens it again. He puts the ring on. He takes the ring off. He’s delirious with joy because Draco planned to marry him. He’s angry because the stupid fucker never got around to asking him to and he should have asked Harry the very minute he bought the ring. Mostly he’s just in pain, because he should have had this. They should have had this. He cries until his head aches fiercely and his eyes feel gritty and dry.

And then, with the first pale rays of dawn slanting through the window, he gets up. He goes upstairs and puts the socks away. He tucks the little box back inside the pair it came from and puts it in the back of the drawer. Then Harry takes one last look around the house before he steps outside. He can’t stay here. Living here is like living with a hand around his throat, squeezing and squeezing and squeezing and Harry thinks if he stays here any longer he might actually die. He can’t do this anymore. He can’t. He just can’t.