Cut From the Sky

Chapter 22: The Promise

On the 119th and second to last iteration of November 2nd, Harry wrote a list. Day 1 - Day 32: before Draco, his list started. Then followed two pages on which he attempted to remember each day spent in Strasbourg. Day 36: tried buying robes under glamour, he wrote, and Day 61: fell into river and had coffee at carrefour, Day 73: decided to leave mysteries, Day 87: first evening date, Day 110: first time telling Draco about time loop. Three pages of memories and question marks on hotel stationary, which was fraying around the edges where Harry had spent the better part of his morning fiddling with the paper and attempting to remember and group together his many November 2nds. The timbered dream house, nestled at the very edge of the town square of his mind, proved a saving grace in bringing order to his memories.

Once Harry had reached Day 112-118: the stolen week, he morosely stared into the dull rain until he was on the verge of crawling back to bed and spending the whole day buried under a starchy blanket. Instead, he started to assess his days with Xs and checkmarks. An X for each day before he'd met Draco, as well as the days where he had met him but hadn't much cared. Should he remember those days, he might or might not add another small memory to the Draco that lived in his mind, neatly tucked away and collecting dust, rarely ever looked at. He certainly wouldn't seek him out once his world moved past November 2nd. He might never see Draco again.

Harry traced the days he'd checkmarked almost reverently: those days were safe. He'd know, he'd know , and would probably be back in Strasbourg before November 3rd had even slipped past.

In between, question marks. Those were the most maddening, encompassing all different kinds of days: days of Draco ghosting around the edges of his awareness. Days where he'd talked to him, found him beautiful and strange and compelling, and had cared quite a bit, but perhaps not enough. Then, days where he'd cared more than anything, but suspected pursuing Draco would only cause harm. If he were to return to his life with one of those days left behind in his mind, he'd wonder about Draco. He'd wonder and wonder but it might not prove enough. Not with the sapping passivity that had long since so thoroughly taken hold of him. Likely, it was lying waiting, ready to sink its claws into him the moment he stepped into November 3rd.

He'd need to remember a checkmarked day to be safe – a Draco thoughtful and open and vibrant and touching him, always touching him – to shed the passivity and leave life as he knew it behind. Out of the four months he'd had in Strasbourg, only the last one was mostly safe. Before that, Xs and question marks littered Harry's wretched list.

Harry didn't cry. He didn't climb back into bed to thoroughly waste his second to last day. He had mere minutes to spare before he had to leave for Draco's, to catch him with his umbrella held high and his face full of suspicion, to hit him with his time loop confession and be hit back with hastily constructed indifference. Scrunching the dreadful list into a ball, Harry tossed it against the window, where it bounced weakly off and dropped to the carpet, just missing the waste bin. He spent the short rest of his morning with his head to the gleaming walnut of the desk, his eyes firmly shut, his stomach in a knot.

***

"I'm stuck in a time loop, reliving November 2nd. This is the 119th time I've lived through today," Harry told Draco for the ninth time and followed Draco inside, then spent his morning impatiently waiting for him to thaw. To step into Harry's mind, to know .

Draco's sunrise was beautiful as ever but Harry felt muddled, almost hectic with it all. His confession was itching to spill out of him, to soil the ever-decreasing space between them: soon, we likely won't remember any of this.

The chaotic feeling tightening around him wouldn't settle down. It followed him on a long walk, pressed closely to Draco's side under his umbrella. It chased him through lunch, through dinner, sat beside him on the bench by the willow, wrapped around his throat and forced his eyes to the ground. Draco seemed to sense there was something amiss, asking less questions than usually, watching Harry with worry creasing his forehead.