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Salt in Our Wounds	By : thewickednix Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 7362 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters portrayed herein. This is made for fun, not profit.

Chapter List
- 9
- 10
- 11
Part X

How Many Miles to Babylon?

The bright rays of the sun wake me in the late morning. I groan loudly with complaint, turning onto my side and finding myself face to face with a sleeping Draco. For a second I am shocked, until I remember the events of last night. The memories of what went down seem so unreal that I feel the urge to reach out and touch the blond beside me, just to make sure that he is real. But he breathes deeply in his sleep, his eyelids fluttering lightly, and I feel a small smile spread on my face, a tingling warmth circulating in the pit of my stomach at the knowledge that he cannot be anything but real.
Though maybe I should not be so relieved. I know what I should be thinking, what I should be asking myself at this point.

What the hell have I done?

I never anticipated myself to be the guy who cheats on his girlfriend. All my life I have wanted to regard myself as someone with high morals and a sense of righteousness. But I guess that when it comes down to it I am no better than anyone else. Being someone who is expected to be something of a galleon figure of virtue, the realisation of my deeds cuts deep.
But regaining Draco has to me felt as if I had recovered him from death. In spite of never having accepted the possibility of his death, the possibility that he could have been killed at any time and I would not know about it, I did not live in a reality where his presence was palpable. Now with him back in my life as if by a miracle, how am I supposed to deny him?
Somehow the demolition of my ideals feels worse than the guilt. The remorse is little more than a small sting in my chest, dissolving almost immediately when I look over at the man beside me.
Perhaps it makes me a bad person. But in this past week my whole universe seems to have altered, I barely recognise the me I was before. I can�t help but wonder if this is the real me, or if the real me is the one I can see in the pictures taken over the last few years.
A loud knock on the window startles me out of my reverie. I look over to see a small brown owl on the windowsill.
Ginny�s owl Alfie.
Gazing over at Draco I find that his eyes are still closed ad his breathing is still heavy. I breathe out, quickly climbing out of the bed, wrapping a sheet around my waist and scurrying over the floor to the window. As much as I don�t want Ginny to find out about Draco, I don�t want Draco to have to think about Ginny. This is my problem. I don�t want to hurt anyone unnecessarily before I have to.
Upon opening the window a harsh autumn wind hits me and I shiver. Reaching for the owl, my hands shake as I try to take the letter from his leg. Alfie pecks at my fingers, impatiently hurrying me on. When I finally succeed he immediately jumps off the windowsill, circling downwards for a second before taking off, disappearing like a small dot in the blue sky.
�Who�s it from?�
I jump at the sound of the deep voice I know all too well, turning around quickly to see Draco, wide awake and staring at me sombrely. His voice is calm and his eyes are clear and focused and very, very serious. In spite of my better knowledge, I shrug. �No one.�
It is a mere reflex, a defence mechanism. And Draco knows it. He knows that I am lying, that the letter is from Ginny. But he says nothing, doesn�t ask any questions. He merely breathes in deeply, nodding softly, as if understanding. Some small relief arises within me; perhaps I am not the only one wanting to live in this bubble we have created around us. Maybe ignorance truly is bliss.
If one can pretend to be ignorant long enough, that is.

******
A loud knock wakes me. I feel someone move beside me in the bed, and for a second the realisation paralyzes me with fear. It is only as I feel the mattress shift as the person gets out of the bed that I realise that it is Potter. Not some murderer coming to assassinate me in my sleep, only Potter.
As if he isn�t trouble enough.
I open my eyes slowly, my gaze focusing on Potter, standing by the window. He opens it carefully, reaching out his arm to grab hold of the tiny Burrowed owl on the outside windowsill. My stomach ties itself into a knot at the thought of whose message it must be delivering.
Potter fights to untie the letter from the bird�s leg for so long that it gets irritated and starts pecking at him. Perhaps in another situation I would find the sight of that amusing. But then he finally receives his letter and sends the bird on its way, and the words are out of my mouth before I have time to gain the presence of mind to stop them
�Who�s it from?�
Potter turns around suddenly, startled by my voice. He blinks once, before answering quickly.
�No one.�
As I suspected. Ginny. Not that I am surprised. I actually would have thought her to contact him sooner.
Potter remains by the window, fidgeting uncomfortably for a minute, looking at me nervously, as if expecting me to yell at him and confront him about the letter. As if my dignity would ever allow anything so demeaning. Besides, as much as it bothers me to have to admit it, it really is not my place. I knew more than well what I got myself in to, and in spite of my better judgement, here I am. I have no right to be angry at Potter, no matter how much I would like to blame all of this on him.
Eventually, the unnerving silence between us grows unbearable. Finally I clear my throat, moving to get out of the bed.
�I�m taking a shower,� I announce, stalking over towards the bathroom before Potter has the time to react. It takes a second for me to realise that I am stark naked, but by the time I do I have almost reached the door. So I keep walking, feeling Potter�s gaze on me, quite pleased with myself.
I shut the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment to listen and make sure that Potter is not following me. When I hear the rustling of paper I breathe out. He�s reading the letter. Good. Now maybe when I go back in, the expectant tension might be gone and we could act like adults about the issue once and for all. If anything of the like is even possible between Potter and me.
I turn on the shower and step in under the spray, taking plenty of time to wash my body and my hair, trying very hard not to think of last night. A fruitless effort.
I went to him. In spite of my better knowledge, in spite of all my efforts to stay away and make him do the same, I went to him. And the worst part is that he accepted me. Just like these past years never happened. Like I was never a Death Eater and married to Astoria, like he never got together with Ginny.

I love you.

Like he never stopped loving me.
The memory hits me hard, nearly taking my breath away. Everything I ever planned for, everything I ever counted on, during and after his imprisonment, was that he would forget me. Forget what he felt, those feelings created out of impossible hope in an impossible situation, and start hating me again. Making it easier for both of us when the end came.
But somehow the end hasn�t evolved according to any possibility I ever took into account.
Now I need to know. Know what will happen. I have little to lose at this point. What matters now is what Potter decides after reading that letter.
Am I a fool for thinking he might even consider anything besides calling last night �a fit of passion� or something as inane, throw me out of the house as soon as the 60 days are over and return to his girlfriend?
More importantly, what is it that I am asking for here? What is it that I want for myself?
It doesn�t really matter. In the end, all the questions that I am now asking myself are pointless. In spite of everything that has happened, last night and before, everything that has led us from being the worst of enemies to finding myself in Potter�s bed, in spite of what might happen afterwards, the questions need to be asked. Now.
I am so tired of running.

******
�Did you love her?�
The question is shot through the air immediately as I open the door. Unprepared I remain standing in the doorway, staring dumbly at Potter. He has pulled on a pair of pyjama bottoms and is sitting cross-legged on the bed, looking up at me. My fist tightens around the towel I hold around my waist as I feebly try to think of an answer to the unexpectedly blatant question.
Yes. No. How much can you love someone you never wanted to marry in the first place? But how can you not love the person you share four years of your life with, the person carrying your child?
�She was my wife,� is the only answer true or sensible enough to pass over my lips. �Do you have another pair of those?� I ask, nodding at the pyjama bottoms.
Potter gazes at me in dismay. �On the chair,� he says, not taking his eyes off me. I stalk over to the stool beside the dresser, the stool where the handbag was a couple of days ago. It is gone now, a grey T-shirt and black pyjama bottoms in its place. I reach for the clothes just as Potter�s voice sounds through the room again.
�Did you love her? Answer me.�
The words sound less like a command and more like plea. I ignore Potter, pulling on the bottoms and the shirt before I turn back to him. He stares at me, traces of fear and desperation in his emerald eyes. I swallow loudly, trying to find the right words. Or any words for that matter.
�I didn�t want to marry her,� I state, seeing Potter release the breath he was holding. I walk over to the bed and sit down opposite Potter, crossing my legs in a mirror of his position. �But in time I grew to be� comfortable around her. Wartime does strange things to people.�
My last words are an allusion to our mutual situation, one that Potter surprisingly enough seems to perceive. He does not seem all too pleased with the second part of my answer, but nevertheless nods as if understanding. As if he could ever understand my situation, or I could ever understand his. Still, it pleases me to see the poorly hidden streaks of jealously in his voice and on his face. They serve as a small justification for my urge to mirror his question.
�Do you love Ginny?�
Perhaps I am being unfair. Comparing my feelings to a dead woman I was arranged to marry to his feelings for someone he chose willingly, someone who unfortunately enough is very much alive. But I need to know. Even if just to torture myself.
Potter ponders for a minute, as pained expression on his face. He takes a deep breath before he answers.
�Yes.�
When the words erupt from his mouth, I feel much as if I have been hit in the face. Not that it was unexpected, just� just painful.
Maybe Potter senses my anxiety, but he hurries to continue. �But I-- I still--� he begins, looking at me desperately, subconsciously leaning a bit closer, his eyes great pools of liquid, pulling me in and making me listen to him, willingly or not. �I meant what I said last night.� And he leans in to kiss me, as if the contact of our bodies will conclude the subject.
The kiss is hot and sweet, tasting of Potter and the feelings he promises, sending a warm tingle up my spine and making my breath exhilarate immediately. But in spite of the burst of joy building in my chest, his last words somehow make me feel even worse. Potter is torn between right and wrong, and I am allowing it, perhaps making life harder than it should be for both of us.
Reluctantly I pull away, looking out through the window and unable to turn my head and meet Potter�s gaze.
�You don�t think that we are in over our heads here?� I ask, slightly breathless, trying to lose myself in the scenery outside to regain some control of my emotions. When Potter doesn�t answer immediately I eventually turn to him, only to find him staring at me, his eyes such deep craters of anguish and want that I feel my breath catch in my throat.
�Don�t you think we have been in worse situations?� is his weak response, a small grin playing on his lips.
�That was different,� I reply quickly, shaking my head softly. I open my mouth to continue, but find it once again covered by Potter�s, his hand wrapping insistently behind my neck. A hand comes up to slither under my shirt, grazing over my chest and recreating a memory from not so long ago. I feel my heartbeat speeding up immediately, and my voice is disgracefully breathless when I speak between our lips.
�What are you asking for?� I try to voice the question as calmly as possible, but the pathetic fear and helplessness shines through nevertheless. Potter notices it, pulling away from me warily. He keeps his face only inches from mine, his hand still warm on my neck and his breath still ghosting on my lips.
�I just want you,� he whispers, a look of shame and guilt so evident on his face that it makes me sick. But his words light a fire in me, a hope that maybe, just maybe there lies a promise in them.
�I just want to forget everything. So can you just- be mine? Like in the dungeons? Even for just today?� he asks, holding onto me so desperately that his nails are digging into my skin. �No games, no pretence. Just you and me.�
And I want to say no. I want to tell him that he can�t just choose me today if he might choose her tomorrow. But I am nailed to my place by his gaze, by the things he is offering me. Even if they might just last a day. Even if I might regret it all again tomorrow.
I know I won�t regret it today.

So I nod, a small smile creeping over my face.
�No games.�

End of part X
- 9
- 10
- 11
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Salt in Our Wounds