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Fic: Promises (Harry/Draco, PG, for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
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Promises
Harry/Draco
PG-13 for language and some sexuality
Based on "Promises, Promises" by The Cooper Temple Clause.
byjuushika
Headphone on, thick over his ears; eyes closed, head nodding to the beat. Draco would hate this, this Muggle technology, the cords and wires, the digital readout: Track 02, 0:12. That was why Harry sat cross-legged on the bed with a CD player in his lap. Draco would hate it if he could see it.
But Draco was gone again, so Harry could rock up the volume one click, two clicks, a few more, until the accent of the guitar began to leak out into the room. Harry put his hands over the headphones, pressed down, forcing the music into his skill. The vocals kicked in and the numbers read out 0:29, his nodding turned to swaying, and Harry gave one more click to the sound dial.
This was just masochism, but he tried to pretend otherwise.
Draco was due home at six o'clock. It was only half six now, so there was still a chance he would walk into the flat and find Harry with his headphones on. Every evening there was a chance, but Draco didn't come home most evenings now. Most evenings Harry was alone in the flat, and the things he did to hurt Draco just ended up hurting himself. Muggle music, Muggle food, Muggle movies on Muggle TV sets, even attempts at masturbation on their big bed, alone. These things couldn't hurt Draco if Draco wasn't there to see them, and there was no longer any reason to expect Draco to come home.
Instead Harry pretended not to watch the doorway and compromised with mild masochism.
What they were waiting for Harry didn't know. If Draco wanted something, he could damn well have it. Harry would do anything to change things, anything that Draco asked. The still was making him sick. For his own part, Harry had speak his mind. By all rights he should have ended things a long time ago, yet every early morning there was were a few words, sometimes sex, when Draco came home, and every day when the sun rose Harry was up and gone before Draco woke. Nothing had changed, and there was little reason to expect that it ever would.
The satisfaction of giving up hope was anger, and it was anger that Harry clung to. Anger was enough for him to get through the night. It distracted him from the atmospheric self-loathing that hung in the room like stale air. It convinced him that even if he couldn't change anything, he could at least say something, tonight.
Time moved slowly, and when Draco returned the clock was creeping up on three thirty. Harry had his eyes closed to slits but Draco didn't care whether or not Harry slept. He didn't turn on the light; he stripped down to green silk boxers (how he clung to the Slytherin colors now that he was fucking Harry Potter) and slipped into his side of the bed. Harry could open his eyes then, with Draco lying down behind him. Neither of them moved except that Harry called Draco a git and told him it was now exactly three thirty in the morning and that Draco could go to hell. It was as close as he could get to saying anything, and Draco didn't seem to care. He lay on his side unmoving; he made no response. In the silence that followed, eventually even Harry fell asleep.
Twenty-four hours later Draco came home again. He came home through a bolted door with new locks, a new deadbolt, and a charm on each so that a simple alohamora didn't suffice. He had to apparate in because he refused to try the windows; if he had, he would have found new locks on them, too. Harry was sitting up with the lights on, awake on the bed when Draco came in. Harry hadn't bothered with anti-apparition charms; he wasn't surprised when Draco appeared with a crack. Draco would always get in if he wanted to get in; Harry was merely trying to prove a point. All he really wanted to do was say something.
If Draco didn't want to talk he damn well didn't have to, but Harry, for his part, was going to draw the line somewhere. Sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes glassy for want of sleep, his CD player on the bedside and blinking at Draco, paused, Track 02, 0:59, Harry told Draco as much. Harry told Draco to go.
Draco was in black shoes, black slacks, a white dress shirt, but no tie. Black wizarding robes fell in clean, hard angles around him, open in the front. He was growing his hair out a bit, imitating his father with fine, shoulder-length hair that reflected blue, now, in the dark room.
Draco missed his old life. Draco missed the old Wizarding World, before Voldemort's return fucked things up for him. He missed being the purest of the pure, before his family's name collapsed to its knees under the weight of Voldemort's sins. Draco had no love for purebloods but rather preferred their power, he had no respect for Voldemort and had helped them win the war, but he regretted every change that Harry stood for, ever necessary start from scratch, and the fact that he helped sell manors now but no longer lived in one.
Oh, but he could if he wanted to, and he might as well for all that Harry cared. Draco was the only Malfoy left but he still had money to his name, and he could go back to a fine manor, houselves, satin sheets, and magicked grounds. For all that Harry knew, that was what Draco did every day when he was gone from dusk to dawn.
Harry had fantasies about where Draco went each evening. Afternoons Draco showed manors, ancient goods, and expensive magical artifacts to what scraps of pureblood families still remained in the Wizarding World, and Harry imagined that Draco spent every evening grapping at his own weak scraps of purity. There was money left but the company was gone: Voldemort had taken half the purebloods with him. Those that remained had been as affected as any Muggle-born, and they were driven now to polite fronts and silent secrecy. It had been brutal, the war. It had been foolish, and that was why Draco hated the Dark Lord: he was the most powerful wizard to ever come from Slytherin, but with time and pain his mind weakened and warped. He killed too many and too unnecessarily, and he asked too much; eventually only the fanatical could follow him, and those men were dangerous in their own right. There was miscommunication and extreme measures and it had become a pointless, painful fiasco. Too many deaths. Too much loss.
The purebloods had been left in ruin. Everyone had been, but they seemed to suffer the most: like Draco, everything they knew was gone. They did everything they could, now, in the attempt to recapture what they had. It was little more than grasping at straws, but they were getting stronger, they were building new ivory towers underground, they were recreating rapports silenced by the war. Harry knew this because it was his job to know it: He worked for the Ministry now, keeping tabs on the ranks of disgruntled, climbing purebloods. They did their best to leave no trace, but they couldn't hide everything. Harry knew little about them, but he knew that they were there: the retreats, the black market, the brothels, all the places that Draco could go and hide at night. In the daylight, purebloods walked through manors and inspected ancient artifacts, but that was no more than a front; nights were where they tried to rediscover all that they had had. If Draco wanted to, he could do the same. Harry knew the opportunity was there; he knew Draco wanted all of that back. No doubt he disappeared every night to reclaim what he could.
Harry imagined parties in the manors, expensive food from gold patters, black markets and black magic. Harry imaged lewd and violent sex with boys and pureblood men; he imagined the wine that Draco would drink, the cold hands that he would kiss, and the sharp but throaty voice that he would use to say their names. Harry imagined the silent underground he knew was out there, the underground the Ministry kept tabs on, the black market and illicit relationships of the few pure bloods that still clutched at their pasts.
Draco didn't know it, maybe he didn't care, but while he was clutching at his own past he was losing the only thing he had left. It was taking some time, but Draco was losing Harry to his long night away from the flat.
Harry didn't tell Draco that it was his job to watch these things, he didn't tell Draco about what he knew was out there. He didn't tell Draco what he suspected or what he dreamed about to loud music every evening. He did tell Draco that he was losing Harry and that Draco was a git, again. He did tell Draco:
"You aren't the only one whose lost it all, you know—you're just the only one that can't deal with it. I lost my parents to the war when you were still an infant, I lost Sirius, I lost Dumbledore, I lost Ron. I lost friends and coworkers and security and health. It isn't easy for me; it wasn't easy for anyone, Draco, but it shouldn't be so goddamned hard for you."
He wanted Draco to speak so that he could tell him to shut up. Draco just stood there, looking at Harry on the bed, silent.
"It wasn't easy and I know that, and everything's gone and I know that, and coming back is hard and I know that, but you have to try harder than this. We all fell when the war ended; you're the only one who isn't standing back up. You know you're fucking it up, Draco, and you don't seem to care. I'm all you've got left, and you don't want me.
"And, you know, you can leave me if you want, because I don't think I care anymore either—shoot yourself in the foot if you want, but don't come back to me for a bed, Draco, don't come back to me for silence and sex because I'm sick of it. I won't put up with this anymore.
"Either you come back to this house tomorrow evening, Draco, or you don't come back at all."
He wanted for Draco to respond. There was a long pause before Draco nodded, and a longer one before he said, quietly, "Ok, Harry."
"You've broken a lot of promises, Draco—don't you dare break this one."
Draco didn't speak; he didn't move.
"You fucked up good. You fucked it up so goddamned good. There were better ways to play this game, Draco. There were ways you could have won."
Still Draco didn't say anything, and Harry had run out of steam. He waved his wand and the lights turned off; he slid into bed in his jeans and a t-shirt. He could hear Draco strip down and crawl into bed after him, and still there was silence.
The next night Draco didn't come home.
lumos_create, posted for _houdinilogic_ to view in full.Promises
Harry/Draco
PG-13 for language and some sexuality
Based on "Promises, Promises" by The Cooper Temple Clause.
by
juushikaHeadphone on, thick over his ears; eyes closed, head nodding to the beat. Draco would hate this, this Muggle technology, the cords and wires, the digital readout: Track 02, 0:12. That was why Harry sat cross-legged on the bed with a CD player in his lap. Draco would hate it if he could see it.
But Draco was gone again, so Harry could rock up the volume one click, two clicks, a few more, until the accent of the guitar began to leak out into the room. Harry put his hands over the headphones, pressed down, forcing the music into his skill. The vocals kicked in and the numbers read out 0:29, his nodding turned to swaying, and Harry gave one more click to the sound dial.
This was just masochism, but he tried to pretend otherwise.
Draco was due home at six o'clock. It was only half six now, so there was still a chance he would walk into the flat and find Harry with his headphones on. Every evening there was a chance, but Draco didn't come home most evenings now. Most evenings Harry was alone in the flat, and the things he did to hurt Draco just ended up hurting himself. Muggle music, Muggle food, Muggle movies on Muggle TV sets, even attempts at masturbation on their big bed, alone. These things couldn't hurt Draco if Draco wasn't there to see them, and there was no longer any reason to expect Draco to come home.
Instead Harry pretended not to watch the doorway and compromised with mild masochism.
What they were waiting for Harry didn't know. If Draco wanted something, he could damn well have it. Harry would do anything to change things, anything that Draco asked. The still was making him sick. For his own part, Harry had speak his mind. By all rights he should have ended things a long time ago, yet every early morning there was were a few words, sometimes sex, when Draco came home, and every day when the sun rose Harry was up and gone before Draco woke. Nothing had changed, and there was little reason to expect that it ever would.
The satisfaction of giving up hope was anger, and it was anger that Harry clung to. Anger was enough for him to get through the night. It distracted him from the atmospheric self-loathing that hung in the room like stale air. It convinced him that even if he couldn't change anything, he could at least say something, tonight.
Time moved slowly, and when Draco returned the clock was creeping up on three thirty. Harry had his eyes closed to slits but Draco didn't care whether or not Harry slept. He didn't turn on the light; he stripped down to green silk boxers (how he clung to the Slytherin colors now that he was fucking Harry Potter) and slipped into his side of the bed. Harry could open his eyes then, with Draco lying down behind him. Neither of them moved except that Harry called Draco a git and told him it was now exactly three thirty in the morning and that Draco could go to hell. It was as close as he could get to saying anything, and Draco didn't seem to care. He lay on his side unmoving; he made no response. In the silence that followed, eventually even Harry fell asleep.
Twenty-four hours later Draco came home again. He came home through a bolted door with new locks, a new deadbolt, and a charm on each so that a simple alohamora didn't suffice. He had to apparate in because he refused to try the windows; if he had, he would have found new locks on them, too. Harry was sitting up with the lights on, awake on the bed when Draco came in. Harry hadn't bothered with anti-apparition charms; he wasn't surprised when Draco appeared with a crack. Draco would always get in if he wanted to get in; Harry was merely trying to prove a point. All he really wanted to do was say something.
If Draco didn't want to talk he damn well didn't have to, but Harry, for his part, was going to draw the line somewhere. Sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes glassy for want of sleep, his CD player on the bedside and blinking at Draco, paused, Track 02, 0:59, Harry told Draco as much. Harry told Draco to go.
Draco was in black shoes, black slacks, a white dress shirt, but no tie. Black wizarding robes fell in clean, hard angles around him, open in the front. He was growing his hair out a bit, imitating his father with fine, shoulder-length hair that reflected blue, now, in the dark room.
Draco missed his old life. Draco missed the old Wizarding World, before Voldemort's return fucked things up for him. He missed being the purest of the pure, before his family's name collapsed to its knees under the weight of Voldemort's sins. Draco had no love for purebloods but rather preferred their power, he had no respect for Voldemort and had helped them win the war, but he regretted every change that Harry stood for, ever necessary start from scratch, and the fact that he helped sell manors now but no longer lived in one.
Oh, but he could if he wanted to, and he might as well for all that Harry cared. Draco was the only Malfoy left but he still had money to his name, and he could go back to a fine manor, houselves, satin sheets, and magicked grounds. For all that Harry knew, that was what Draco did every day when he was gone from dusk to dawn.
Harry had fantasies about where Draco went each evening. Afternoons Draco showed manors, ancient goods, and expensive magical artifacts to what scraps of pureblood families still remained in the Wizarding World, and Harry imagined that Draco spent every evening grapping at his own weak scraps of purity. There was money left but the company was gone: Voldemort had taken half the purebloods with him. Those that remained had been as affected as any Muggle-born, and they were driven now to polite fronts and silent secrecy. It had been brutal, the war. It had been foolish, and that was why Draco hated the Dark Lord: he was the most powerful wizard to ever come from Slytherin, but with time and pain his mind weakened and warped. He killed too many and too unnecessarily, and he asked too much; eventually only the fanatical could follow him, and those men were dangerous in their own right. There was miscommunication and extreme measures and it had become a pointless, painful fiasco. Too many deaths. Too much loss.
The purebloods had been left in ruin. Everyone had been, but they seemed to suffer the most: like Draco, everything they knew was gone. They did everything they could, now, in the attempt to recapture what they had. It was little more than grasping at straws, but they were getting stronger, they were building new ivory towers underground, they were recreating rapports silenced by the war. Harry knew this because it was his job to know it: He worked for the Ministry now, keeping tabs on the ranks of disgruntled, climbing purebloods. They did their best to leave no trace, but they couldn't hide everything. Harry knew little about them, but he knew that they were there: the retreats, the black market, the brothels, all the places that Draco could go and hide at night. In the daylight, purebloods walked through manors and inspected ancient artifacts, but that was no more than a front; nights were where they tried to rediscover all that they had had. If Draco wanted to, he could do the same. Harry knew the opportunity was there; he knew Draco wanted all of that back. No doubt he disappeared every night to reclaim what he could.
Harry imagined parties in the manors, expensive food from gold patters, black markets and black magic. Harry imaged lewd and violent sex with boys and pureblood men; he imagined the wine that Draco would drink, the cold hands that he would kiss, and the sharp but throaty voice that he would use to say their names. Harry imagined the silent underground he knew was out there, the underground the Ministry kept tabs on, the black market and illicit relationships of the few pure bloods that still clutched at their pasts.
Draco didn't know it, maybe he didn't care, but while he was clutching at his own past he was losing the only thing he had left. It was taking some time, but Draco was losing Harry to his long night away from the flat.
Harry didn't tell Draco that it was his job to watch these things, he didn't tell Draco about what he knew was out there. He didn't tell Draco what he suspected or what he dreamed about to loud music every evening. He did tell Draco that he was losing Harry and that Draco was a git, again. He did tell Draco:
"You aren't the only one whose lost it all, you know—you're just the only one that can't deal with it. I lost my parents to the war when you were still an infant, I lost Sirius, I lost Dumbledore, I lost Ron. I lost friends and coworkers and security and health. It isn't easy for me; it wasn't easy for anyone, Draco, but it shouldn't be so goddamned hard for you."
He wanted Draco to speak so that he could tell him to shut up. Draco just stood there, looking at Harry on the bed, silent.
"It wasn't easy and I know that, and everything's gone and I know that, and coming back is hard and I know that, but you have to try harder than this. We all fell when the war ended; you're the only one who isn't standing back up. You know you're fucking it up, Draco, and you don't seem to care. I'm all you've got left, and you don't want me.
"And, you know, you can leave me if you want, because I don't think I care anymore either—shoot yourself in the foot if you want, but don't come back to me for a bed, Draco, don't come back to me for silence and sex because I'm sick of it. I won't put up with this anymore.
"Either you come back to this house tomorrow evening, Draco, or you don't come back at all."
He wanted for Draco to respond. There was a long pause before Draco nodded, and a longer one before he said, quietly, "Ok, Harry."
"You've broken a lot of promises, Draco—don't you dare break this one."
Draco didn't speak; he didn't move.
"You fucked up good. You fucked it up so goddamned good. There were better ways to play this game, Draco. There were ways you could have won."
Still Draco didn't say anything, and Harry had run out of steam. He waved his wand and the lights turned off; he slid into bed in his jeans and a t-shirt. He could hear Draco strip down and crawl into bed after him, and still there was silence.
The next night Draco didn't come home.