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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
- 10
- 11
- 12
Part XI

Justice and Virtue

�What the hell is this?� I enquire , staring into a square cardboard box at the content that looks much like flat bread with tomato sauce poured all over it. Once again I realise how very far away from home I am.
�It�s pizza,� Potter explains, as if it is the most natural thing in the world. When I raise a questioning eyebrow at him he only chuckles, walking over to the cupboard to get us some glasses. �It�s Italian. Just try it, it�s really good.�
I snort incredulously, taking another peek at the strange pie. Not exactly gourmet, though it smells awfully good. Not that I would ever attest to that.
Potter carries the glasses and a pitcher of water into the living room. I follow, carrying the two cardboard boxes.
�So�� I begin doubtfully, watching Potter take a seat on the sofa. �How does one eat one of these things?�
Potter laughs again, with a sound so genuine and gentle that I can�t even bother to be irritated for being ridiculed. He reaches for one of the boxes, opens it and rolls a peculiar rolling blade over the �pizza�, swiftly dividing it into six pieces. Then he repeats the motions on the other one. �There,� he says simply, leaning back against the couch, TV remote in hand and the pizza box in his lap.
I sit down next to him, reaching for my own box. I watch Potter bring a triangle-shaped piece of pizza to his mouth with one hand, while he points the remote to the TV and presses some buttons. I suppress the urge to comment on how Muggle this entire situation is. Dining in the living room, no cutlery, no plates, eating the food from a box. How marvellously plebeian. I�m glad Mother can�t see me right now.
Still, it feels oddly relaxing, this thing Potter calls a �movie night�. I am rapidly becoming strangely obsessed with movies, surprised to have found myself actually enjoying an activity so outrageously Muggle. And Potter is content to have me watch them, even if it means having to watch movies he has seen several times before. Many times I catch him watching me instead of the movie, smiling softly at me when I get too engaged in the plot. When I sneer at him, he only laughs at my embarrassment, not in a vicious, scornful way but in a soft, light way that speaks of familiarity and intimacy.
And that laugh is how he keeps me.
That laugh is what brings me to him every day, what made me move upstairs into the master bedroom. That laugh, that smile is what makes me abandon all reason and let this dream carry me into this blissful oblivion.
It is so easy to forget reality. Somewhere in all of this I manage to forget that everything is temporary. I forget that this is not my place, not my home, that I do not belong here. A day, two days, a week, three weeks run by, and I barely notice. The only thing that brings me back is that knock on the window, that quiet rustle of paper I occasionally hear from the other room. I stay away. I do not want to know if it is a notice from the Ministry, another apology from Granger, or a letter from the Weaslette. Especially not if it�s from the Weaslette.
I don�t want to know what she writes. And I don�t want to know what he answers her. Still, I know that I will have to ask him eventually. But he keeps pulling me back into that easy oblivion that exists in this house, in our little universe. And I keep telling myself �Not now�.
I keep wanting to forget. Because remembering takes me back. Because asking makes it real.

******

�Now that wasn�t so bad, was it?� I ask, glancing sideways at Draco, walking beside me. He raises an unamused eyebrow.
�Well, at least this time I remembered how to count the money. But the arrangement with the plastic bags is still highly confusing.� Draco stares murderously at the bag in his hand. �And why did that clerk keep staring at you like that?�

I let out a short bark of a laugh, and Draco casts a questioning glance my way, raising an eyebrow with poorly hidden amusement.
�You don�t think it might have anything to do with the enormous hickey on my neck? I look like a fucking leper!� I exclaim, self-consciously grazing my fingers over the sore spot, secretly quite pleased with the reminder of last night�s activities.
Draco snorts loudly, wickedly observing my throat. �Damn, Potter. You�re supposed to be twenty-one years old, but you look like a horny teenager!� he drawls, evidently quite pleased with himself.
�Who is the fucking teenager here who did this to me?� I ask, trying to sound annoyed but failing miserably. Draco only chuckles lightly, not looking the least bit sorry.
And all I can do is laugh.
The walks to the grocery store are one of my favourite parts of the week. Draco usually complains about the Muggles all the way to the store and back, but lately there is little heart behind the words. They are more of a habit, one Draco is determined not to break. Stubborn git. And yet his obstinacy is so endearing that I find it almost impossible to scold him for anything.
St Michael�s Hill is beautiful this time of year. The harsh winds have shook the foliage from the trees, leaving the trunks bare and vulnerable against the breeze. All of nature is silent, as if holding its breath in wait for the first snow that might come any day. Time seems to stand still around us as we walk up the steep hill, cross the nearly empty streets and pass the old timber-framed houses. My world in this moment consists only of the chilly air on my cheeks, the rustling from the plastic bag, and Draco�s clear voice. In this moment, that is all I want.
Finally we reach home, walking up the stairs to the familiar front door. As always, Draco snorts loudly when I dig up the key from my pocket.
�I don�t get Muggles. Is that tiny thing supposed to protect people�s property from burglars? How do you people manage without protective charms?� The same question has been asked so many times that I know better than to try and answer it. Instead I just huff at the blond, elbow him lightly in the ribs for good measure. I open the door and Draco pushes past me, grabbing my plastic bag and marching directly through the hall into the kitchen. I hear him rustling around as I remove my coat.
When I enter the kitchen, Draco is completely occupied with emptying the grocery bags, fighting to get some room for the dairy products in the fridge. I dig into one of the bags to help him, just as a voice sounds through the room.
�Harry? Are you home?�
I freeze mid-movement. Hermione.

My eyes immediately dart over to Draco, who looks much like he might drop the milk carton he is holding. A deep frown is spreading on his face, but he says nothing as he puts all the articles in the fridge and slams the door shut.
�Harry?�
I try to look Draco in the eye, try to apologise silently, but he refuses to meet my gaze. He just sighs deeply, crossing the room and stepping out into the hall.
�Malfoy!� Hermione�s voice is heard. �Is Harry here?� She doesn�t sound particularly hostile, just very uncomfortable.
�In the kitchen,� Draco answers curtly, gazing back at me briefly before turning around and quickly ascending upstairs. I see him disappear out of sight just as Hermione appears in the doorway.
�Hello, Harry,� she says shyly, a cautious smile on her face.
At first I do not answer, determined to keep punishing her. But I soon lose the fight with myself, realising that in the ten years I have known Hermione, I have never been this long without talking to her.
�Hello, �Mione,� I therefore answer. Not exactly a heart-warming welcome, but even I am not capable of forgiving anyone that easily. However, I do not like to keep grudges.
�Would you like some coffee?�
The bushy-haired girl nods quickly, breathing deeply from relief. �Yes, please.� She smiles at me, walking over to the table and sitting down. I move to prepare the coffee, and an awkward silence follows.
�How is Ron?� I am finally forced to enquire, peeking over my shoulder at Hermione while I step over to the cupboard to fetch some cups.
�He is quite well,� Hermione answers quickly, the words almost out of her mouth before I have finished my sentence. � The Auror training is taking its toll on his nerves, but he�s managing.�
I nod awkwardly, remaining by the cupboard, cups in hand, staring into nothingness. �Good.�
Again silence fills the room, the only sound the irregular noises from the coffee maker. When the pan finally is full, I feel the urge to scream from relief. Filled coffee cups in hand, I approach the table and sit down, pushing one cup over the table to Hermione.
�Here you go.�
�Thank you,� she answers, smiling unnaturally sweetly for being Hermione.
Neither of us find anything to say. The longer the silence draws out, the harder it is to come up with something. There is so much I want to say. But when I open my mouth, there is nothing. When did school time friendships become this hard?
Eventually, Hermione breaks down.
�Harry, I�m so sorry,� she says weakly, forcing me to look into her eyes. I nod, but find myself unable to answer. I know that she speaks the truth, the regret is evident in her eyes. But I cannot pretend that one apology will make it all go away.
�I�m sorry about what we said,� she continues. �Ron is very sorry too, he�s just too stubborn to apologise.� She tries to warm me up with humour, smiling softly at me. And I find myself forced reciprocate, letting a tense smile form on my lips.
�You know how he is,� Hermione hurries to continue, encouraged by my response. �He gets agitated when talking about Malfoy, and then he says too much,� she says, nervously fidgeting in her seat.
�He�s just looking out for you. We�re just looking out for you. You know that, right?�
Her question hangs in the air for what seems like days, and finally I let a stiff chuckle escape me. �I know.�
I know. They are always looking out for me, always there for me. But this is more complicated than school time feuds, or battles against the darkness. This time the darkness is amongst us, tearing us apart from the inside.
This time I am on the dark side.
Perhaps neither of us is truly ready to forgive and forget. But for old time�s sake, I have to at least try. So I smile at Hermione, genuinely this time. �I�m sorry, too. I overreacted, I shouldn�t have thrown you out like that.�
Hermione lets out a soft laugh, and I can almost see the tension and dread falling off her shoulders. �I�m so relieved!� she smiles warmly, looking at me as if she would like to hug me. �These past weeks have been some of the worst of my life. I hate that we let things like this come between--�
Suddenly she is caught off, and it takes me a minute to realise why. But then I notice her gaze fixated on my neck, and she is blinking repeatedly as if unable to believe her eyes.
And in this horrible moment I realise what she is looking at.
My hand flies up to my throat, desperate to cover the brand of my sins. Even as I know that it is much too late.
�What--� Hermione begins, her voice breaking immediately. She clears her throat. �Harry, is that..?� she asks weakly, her eyes shifting from my covered neck to my eyes and back.
I make no attempt to answer. I do not need to. Hermione if anyone can put the pieces together. A last minute lie at this point would be completely fruitless.
�I had considered it briefly, thought that it was a possibility�� the girl murmurs, mostly to herself, holding on to her coffee cup so tightly I�m afraid it will break in her hands. �But I never really believed��
Hermione looks up into my eyes again, desperately asking for some sign of denial. When I manage nothing of the like, the girl almost starts to hyperventilate. She breathes in and out deeply for a couple of times before she is able to speak again.
�It wasn�t just him, was it?� she ask quietly, her brown eyes seeking in mine, searching for an answer, a confirmation. �He said that he loved you. But you loved him too.�
It is not a question. She utters the words so clearly, no longer clouded with doubt or hesitation. �That�s why you saved him, took him in. You loved him,� she states, narrowing her eyes, her gaze keeping me in place, making me feel like I am on death roll, just waiting for the last blow.
�You still love him.�
I want to deny it. Tell some white lie and let this all fade into the past, leaving no one any the wiser. But Hermione has struck the truth too close to the core. There is nothing left to contradict, nothing left to hide. All I can do now is try to justify my actions.
�Mione, please. Let me explain--�
�How could you do that?� she interrupts me, standing up from her seat, overturning her cup in the process. The liquid pours over the table and onto the floor, but neither of us reacts. Hermione just keep staring at me intently, her eyes blazing with disbelief and something almost resembling disgust.
�How could you do that to Ginny, Harry?!�
A good question. One I have no plausible answer for. What is righteous or justified in taking your ex lover to live with you and continue an affair with him right under your wife�s nose? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
But what is justified in love? What is righteous? Virtue and morality plays little part in anything when your heart calls the shots.
�I fell in love.� A weak explanation, but it�s all I have to offer. It�s the only truth.
�That doesn�t give you the right,� Hermione spits through clenched teeth, staring at me with a stronger wrath than I�ve ever seen on her face.
�You have to tell her.�
And just like that, she utters the words I most feared. The words I have been repeating to myself for the last weeks, the words that always circle in the back of my head. I know that I have to. But I can�t. I can�t hurt Ginny like that.
I just can�t.
I open my mouth to protest, but Hermione cuts me off before I have the time to utter a single word.
�You have to end it, Harry. You have to end it with Malfoy, or you have to tell Ginny,� she orders, pronouncing every word clearly, each of them another nail in my coffin. �You have to tell her, or I will.�

End of part XI
- 10
- 11
- 12
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Salt in Our Wounds