Remember serpentinelion and the good old days where everything was H/D and nothing hurt? Yeah, well, it’s Harry’s birthday today and I just couldn’t resist writing something.
When Harry turns 32 everything seems like it’s falling apart at the seams, but he’s Harry Potter, so he doesn’t ever talk about it, he just stays at the office a couple of hours longer and if those hours turn into days of not breathing in fresh air, then that’s fine too.
His son James floos him and reminds him it’s Tuesday tomorrow and that means the Quidditch Finals dad, you promised you would come! No excuses! He reassures him that he will indeed be there at Hogwarts at 2pm exactly and yes, he’ll remind mum too. But he’s had a whole weekend of avoiding Ginny and he’s not too keen on being forced to see her anytime soon, so he sends her an owl as soon as James’ disappears from the green flames. She replies quickly with a ‘Come home, we need to talk.’
He can’t ignore such a direct request as much as he tries. It nags at him, until, yeah, he can’t focus on his work anymore and he knows exactly what they need to talk about, but he’s always thought sweeping your problems under the rug was the solution to everything.
There are perks to being Head Auror, but being able to shun all his tasks is not one. It only comes back to bite him in the rear later. Nevertheless, when it hits 5pm he waves goodbye to Laura, his receptionist, who seems to have forgotten Harry was in his office at all. When he arrives home, his wife is nowhere to be seen.
Draco Malfoy is, however, sat at the dining table in the kitchen.
"Ginny left - said we should cut out the middle man."
Harry stares at Draco for a few seconds, thinks about this man who makes him do everything wrong.
"Hmm," Harry takes off his robes and pours himself a glass of water from the fridge - Draco seems to have one in front of him already. When he takes his seat adjacent to Draco’s their knees bump together, but neither of them make the effort to reposition themselves.
Harry takes a sip, stares straight ahead, though he can feel Draco’s eyes on him. If he looked just slightly to the left he knows he’d see subtle anger in those eyes, but mainly just weariness. He’d see the first signs of grey hair (‘It’s silver, you blind git.”) and perfectly groomed eyebrows. He’d see lips that are too thin and a jaw line that Michelangelo would envy. He’d see the only man he’s ever truly admired, and possibly, feared.
It’s not the fact that Ginny’s not here, or the fact that Harry’s so tired he could fall asleep right there, or even the fact that he hadn’t realised Draco was holding his hand until he takes it away - it’s because they’re conversing in a special sort of silence which makes Harry sit up straighter and think yes, yes, this is what I am entitled to.
"Made up your mind then?" Draco asks with a knowing smile, losing all signs of exhaustion immediately.
"Why do you ask questions you already know the answer to?"
"Oh, it just may have something to do with my sense of superiority." he winks.
Harry grips Draco’s hand tight and then stands up, pulling Draco up with himself. Before he knows it, he’s being apparated to the Manor and —oh, if he had known that it was all this easy he would have done it a year ago. Later that evening when Draco whispers ‘You’re not special, Potter' in his ears his life makes sense and when he sleeps he dreams of a golden snitch.
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- seaaawolf said:That was so beautiful! My eyes got a little misty you beech! Yes I did call you a beech again. <3
- jmalfroy said:"you’re not special, potter" :””’) perfect
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