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

Chapter 7

𝄞 if i didn't know better, i'd think you were still around 𝄞

*

Harry wakes with a jolt.

Everything is right with the world for a split second before his dreams slip away and he sobers to reality.

Breathe in—two, three, four—and out.

The stretch of bed at his side is barren and cold where a lovely body used to lie. Now he's alone, and his heart has been ripped from his chest, and he's bleeding out, left to die.

He wishes he would. It'd be easier than facing this.

Breathe in—two, three, four—and out.

Under the pillow are Draco's pyjamas, folded neatly, awaiting their next use. Harry pulls them close and buries his nose in the fabric, the scent of floral detergent, and subtly spiced cologne and something else, something inexplicably him.

Breathe in—two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight—

His eyes well with tears, so he shuts them tight and imagines, only for a moment, how he'd wake to dove grey eyes meeting his own, hazy and soft with last night's dreams fading away. He'd nestle closer, drape his leg over Draco's thighs, hands splayed as they roved over his chest and settled somewhere at the back of his neck. Their bodies would entwine as one—two threads of the same tapestry—and they'd kiss while shimmying off their pyjamas (why do they bother wearing them to begin with?), the same routine as always.

Breathe in—two, three, four

He'd fuck Draco gently, or Draco would fuck him, wherever their bodies fell. Unhurried and half-awake, languid kisses that turned into soft, open-mouthed moans and the slow rock of their hips.

Breathe in—two, three

It would be comfortable and effortless, neither one of them chasing climax, but feeding the insatiable hunger, finding solace in the touch.

Breathe in—two—

Harry jerks upright, rocking slightly with the rise and fall of his chest. The house is eerily silent, and the silence screams with what's been taken from him.

Hermione was right; perhaps leaving the wireless on would help take the edge off. But he doesn't want to wake to music, or chirpy voices crackling through the speaker. He wants to wake to the sound of the kettle, or the familiar gait of footsteps down the hall, or a 'love you, see you tonight!' before the close of the front door.

He could deal with the silence that came after that, because it meant Draco was coming home.

Breathe. Just breathe.

He drags himself to the kitchen because it's routine, not because he's hungry. The thought of food right now makes him want to throw up. The smell of lingering Earl Grey is just cruel.

He sits, chin in his palm, and stares out the kitchen window until his raw, red eyes go unfocused. Outside, birds chirp, strangers go about their day like the world hasn't just ended.

How dare everything around him continue to move when his life has just fallen apart? With all the loss he's faced, he thought this might be familiar by now, but it's not. And it's not a death, because Draco hasn't died, he's comatose, sleeping, dragged into the depths of nothingness at the clutches of this morbid curse.

He's at the Manor, in his Resting Place—as Narcissa calls it. It's beautiful—a solarium in the Manor gardens, enchanted with strong wards that only Harry and Narcissa can pass through, a place where Draco will sleep peacefully and undisturbed until the curse steals his final breath.