every scrap of you (you left them all to me)

Chapter 6

𝄞 every scrap of you would be taken from me 𝄞

*

The Floo finally lets Harry through on the third attempt.

He almost falls out of the fireplace, treading ash and dust into the spotless cream carpets of Draco's quaint living room—all rich greens and browns, fragrant, bathing in lamplight.

He freezes at the sight of Draco curled up on the settee, swamped in a band t-shirt that he's stolen from Harry, fingers plucking at the loose thread on the hem. Draco's hands are washed of paint now, but it's clear he's still picking at the skin. He doesn't acknowledge Harry at all.

At least he's let Harry in, that's a positive sign.

Harry swallows hard. "Hi."

Draco remains impassive.

"I wouldn't blame you if you hate me right now. I hate myself," Harry says, toeing off his shoes and stepping out. Between himself and Draco is a coffee table piled with hardback novels, a tall glass of red, and a flickering spiced candle. It smells like Draco. "I am so unbelievably sorry."

"I know you are."

"I acted like the world's most colossal dickhead."

"I know you did."

"I'll mend the painting, I promise, tell me what it needs and—"

"It's ruined," Draco blinks lazily. "Forget about it."

"Forget? Right, fine." Harry nods to himself, insides swelling with guilt. Draco's stare remains unyielding. He breaks the stony silence only to unfold himself from the settee and wander towards the kitchen.

Harry follows with hesitance. "Do you hate me?"

Draco stops, throwing an exasperated sigh over his shoulder. "Of course I don't hate you, we're not teenagers."

"Right." Harry scrunches his face, his throat feels like it's closing already. "It's just that... I have something to say and... it would be a lot easier if you hated me."

Draco's halts. His brow knits. "I don't understand. Why would—"

Before he can finish, Harry pulls a wand from his back pocket, holding it shakily between them. Draco looks down, confused, then aims that confusion at Harry.

"I really, really love you, Draco." Harry's voice breaks. He takes Draco's hand, guides it to the hilt of the wand and closes both their fingers around it. Then, slowly, he lifts it to Draco's temple, squeezing tight as he steels himself to say what he's known for some time.

Draco has the same haunted look that Harry had seen on the day they realised his fate, and Harry knows that in this moment, they understand each other perfectly. Draco's dark eyes prick fiercely with tears.

"Harry, no—"

"You have to."

"No."

"You have to erase me from your mind. If your love for me dies, so does the curse."

"All of this over a sodding painting?"

"It's more than the painting. It's everything. All of this. The only way out."

Draco looks away from him, over at the matching Gemini and Leo constellation mugs on the draining board Harry had got him for his birthday, at the peacock print tea towel strewn across the chair, anywhere but the wand trembling against his temple.