InsaneJournal

Fic: In Between Life
Title: In Between Life
Author: nishizono
Characters: Draco/Harry
Rating: R
Disclaimer: They aren't mine.

Summary: January 9th will never be just another day.

Author's Notes: Beta'd by the lovely themostepotente. This was actually written as January's Daily Deviant submission, but due to a series of unfortunate events, I didn't get it posted in time.


2.

"Why did they choose today?"

Harry lifts a frost-covered leaf with the toe of his boot and flinches at the contrast of dull red against black leather. If Snape were alive, he'd call the comparison a bunch of poetic nonsense, just like if Harry knew what to say, he'd be answering Malfoy's question instead of standing there staring at his shoes.

"Why today?" Malfoy repeats, and rubs his thumb over Snape's name carved in sharp lines on black granite.

"I don't know," Harry mutters. "It's just the day they chose."

"It's just a day to them, isn't it?" Malfoy asks quietly, and when he tilts his head back to look at the grey winter sky, Harry thinks they're both wondering if it shouldn't be just another day for them too.



3.

"It hasn't been a year already," Malfoy snaps before Harry can even say hello. There's an empty firewhisky bottle in the snow near Snape's tombstone, and from the way Malfoy sways on his feet, it's pretty obvious where most of it's gone.

"January ninth," Harry replies, and shoves his hands into his pockets. It's to keep them warm, he tells himself, and has absolutely nothing to do with feeling like an intruder.

"Why can't you just leave us alone?" Malfoy spits, and despite the alcohol on his breath, his eyes are clear and focused.

"I would if I could," Harry replies calmly. He's not sure whether they're talking about Lucius and Narcissa, or Malfoy and Snape, but it doesn't matter; the answer is the same either way.

"Sodding Ministry," Malfoy sneers. "It's not enough to take away almost everything we own, you have to humiliate us every year too?"

"It's just a routine inspection, Malfoy," Harry sighs. "Why are you so worked up about it?"

"Did you ever stop to think, Potter," Malfoy hisses, "that maybe, just once, it would be nice to know what it's like to not have to share my home with people who don't belong there?"

Harry watches him leave, watches the swirl of tattered black robes and the regal lift of a blond head, and wonders if Malfoy's ever stopped to imagine what it's like to live life as an unwanted guest.



4.

"Why did you bury him here?"

The question catches Harry so off guard that his steps actually falter, but Malfoy doesn't laugh. They stare at one another in silence because Harry doesn't know what to say, and he's not sure Malfoy would want to hear it even if he did. Instead, they examine each other, size each other up the way they used to do in school when they were both itching for a fight. Malfoy still carries himself with the air of a corrupted regent, but the dark circles beneath his eyes and the sharp angles of his shoulders beneath the heavy wool cloak are a reminder of how utterly human he is.

Harry hates it so much that he has to look away.

"You had no right," Malfoy spits with obvious disgust. "You had no right to wait until after he was dead to show some kind of gratitude."

"I know," Harry admits, and kneels in front of his mother's grave, elbows on his knees and hands clasped in front of him.

"Why do you insist on meeting here instead of at the house?" Malfoy demands. "Why do you keep coming here?"

"The same reason you do," Harry replies quietly, but he can't quite bring himself to look up into Malfoy's eyes.

"It may come as a surprise to you, Potter, but I'm here because I respected him," Malfoy snaps. "He was a good man, a better man than either of us will ever be."

"I know," Harry whispers.



5.

"How long do we have to do this?"

Harry stops a careful distance away from the tombstone and resists the urge to say something about the whisky on Malfoy's breath or the fact that he's just spent the morning processing the file for Malfoy's disorderly conduct charges. Instead, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other and replies, "Until they decide you're not a threat."

"Right," Malfoy snorts. "So basically, you're telling me we'll be having these little chats every year for the rest of my life."

"We don't have to talk," Harry offers, eyeing the bruise on Malfoy's cheek.

"Then don't," Malfoy sighs, and ducks his head so his hair falls across his face.

Harry looks away and concentrates on watching his breath come in short little puffs of white, like smoke in sunlight.



6.

"I hear congratulations are in order."

Harry glances up from his parents' names, which he's been reading over and over again for nearly thirty minutes. Malfoy rolls his eyes and brushes the snow off the top of the neighboring tombstone. They sigh in unison, and Harry's almost relieved that it's Malfoy he's standing next to and not someone who will expect things like enthusiasm.

"I never thought it would be her," Malfoy drawls, and shields his eyes to stare up at the bright winter sky. The sunlight makes his hair look like strands of ice.

"Really?" Harry mutters distractedly. "Everyone else did."



7.

"I've been thinking," Harry says.

Malfoy snorts and for just a second, he almost looks like himself again. "Don't hurt yourself, Potter; then who would come traipsing through my house every year?"

"Prat," Harry replies with a huff. "I'm being serious-- and I don't traipse."

"So am I and yes you do," Malfoy drawls, tapping his boot against the thin layer of ice that's formed over the previous night's snowfall. It's freezing, and his cheeks are pink from the cold, and Harry thinks this is the healthiest he's looked in years.

"We didn't fight last year or the year before," Harry comments, which was the point he'd been trying to get to all along.

"An oversight," Malfoy replies with a dismissive wave.

It takes Harry almost a full minute to realize they're both smirking.



8.

"I hear congratulations are in order," Harry offers with a smile, stopping a few yards away from where Malfoy's kneeling to arrange a bundle of dried wormwood next to Snape's tombstone.

"Yes, I've heard the Weaselette was unfortunate enough to bear your offspring as well," Malfoy drawls as he stands and wipes his hands on the front of his robes.

"Think they'll ever be friends?" Harry asks, shoving his fists into his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels.

"Do you think anyone ever had this kind of conversation about us?" Malfoy counters with a huff and a roll of his eyes.

"No," Harry admits with a laugh after a few moments of thoughtful silence. Then, before he can lose his nerve, he mumbles, "Might've been nice if they had, though."

Malfoy stares at him with what looks like incredulous amusement, and for just a second, Harry's almost charmed.



9.

"What do you think he'd say if he knew we came here every winter?" Harry asks.

Malfoy huffs quietly. "He'd call us sentimental fools and tell us to find something better to do with our time."

Harry grins and glances at his schoolyard nemesis from the corner of his eye. Malfoy's hair is clean and his robes are simple but neatly pressed. It's a vast improvement from the bedraggled and angry man whose photograph is neatly tucked away in the bottom drawer of Harry's desk, attached to a simple manila folder that he tells himself he'll eventually return to the file closet. It's a small gesture, one that Malfoy will never know about, but Harry's comforted by the idea that he's temporarily spared his once-sworn enemy the indignity of being filed away with alcoholics and street urchins.

"That'd almost be nice, wouldn't it?" Harry muses aloud to himself. "Hearing him yell at us for coming here?"

"You might be surprised," Malfoy says thoughtfully. "I think he'd get used to it after awhile."



10.

Harry can't remember the last time it rained in January, but he also can't remember the last time he would have noticed. Heavy drops batter the side of the manor and streak the windowpanes until the lights that ring the gardens outside are blurred splotches of yellow.

Or maybe that's from the brandy he and Malfoy have been drinking since the embers in the fireplace were a roaring blaze.

"Why did they choose you?" Malfoy hums, curled in an armchair with the empty bottle nestled in his lap.

"Who knows," Harry replies quietly. "We always get stuck with each other though, don't we-- like destiny or something."

Malfoy snorts, but the expression on his face is pensive. "I don't know, Potter," he says softly, "I think I stopped believing in destiny a long time ago."



11.

"I hear you're planning to run for office this year," Harry says, and it feels strange to want to add a congratulations at the end.

Malfoy waves his hand dismissively, silver cufflinks flashing in the late morning sunlight. "I won't win, but if I can get a significant portion of the votes, it will at least help me build a stronger base for the next election."

"You never know, you might win," Harry replies as he kneels to clear some of the freshly fallen snow off of the tombstones.

"Please Potter," Malfoy huffs, gathering his robes up and crouching to join the effort. "After the damage my father's done to our family name, I'm surprised I could even find enough supporters to fund my campaign."

"Yeah but--" Harry pauses, torn by uncertainty until his reckless nature kicks in and he says in a rush, "--you're not like your dad."

There's a moment of silence while Malfoy's hand hovers over the top of Snape's tombstone, but then he moves again to brush the last of the snow away. "You're not like yours either."



12.

"Your hair gets worse every year."

Harry laughs and tugs a strand of his fringe down to examine it. "I was going to cut it last week, actually, but Ginny likes it long and it's not too much trouble to take care of, so I'm trying it out."

"And by 'trying it out' you mean offending everyone within a ten kilometer radius," Malfoy replies with a frown. "Honestly Potter, the only people around are already dead, and I'm still ashamed to be seen with you."

"Git," Harry mutters, but he's smiling despite how he tells himself he should be annoyed. "Why should you care what my hair looks like as long as yours is annoyingly perfect?"

"I'm just trying to save you from yourself," Malfoy says airily. "It's a shame, really; you'd actually be somewhat attractive if you bothered to glance in a mirror once in awhile and do something about the tragedy on your head."

Harry's sure that's his cue to offer a witty retort, but he's too busy wondering why he's blushing.



13.

"I didn't know if you'd be here," Harry remarks as he examines Malfoy's pale cheeks and bright pink nose.

"It's just a cold," Malfoy grumbles, and underscores the point with a violent sneezing fit.

"Right," Harry replies doubtfully. "It's below freezing out here; you should be inside, sleeping."

"Don't tell me what to do," Malfoy snaps, looking like a petulant schoolboy instead of the thirty-year-old father of one. "Why do you care, anyway?"

Harry sighs and takes Malfoy by the shoulders to guide him to the nearby Apparation point. "I don't know, I just do, okay?"

Malfoy tries to pull away, but stumbles a bit and ends up clinging to Harry's sleeve for balance. After a moment of glaring at nothing in particular, he bows his head with a defeated sigh and mumbles, "Okay."



14.

Harry isn't sure why he does it.

Maybe it's the three hours of conversation and the one bottle of whisky they've shared. Maybe it's the warmth of a thigh pressed against his. Maybe it's curiosity, maybe it's an early mid-life crisis, or maybe it's just the late afternoon sunlight in pale blond hair. Whatever it is, Harry has one arm draped over Malfoy's shoulders and one hand pressed against Malfoy's cheek.

And for whatever reason, Harry kisses Malfoy.

And for whatever reason, Malfoy kisses him back.

"I can't," Harry breathes, but he's memorizing the curve of Malfoy's lips with the tip of his tongue.

"I know," Malfoy murmurs, but his fingers are twisted in the front of Harry's shirt.

"We shouldn't," Harry pleads, because he's afraid of what will happen if Malfoy doesn't put a stop to what they're doing.

"Harry, I--" Malfoy whispers, but a dog barks somewhere nearby and he jerks upright with a start.

They stare at each other in shock before scrambling backwards across the grass, wide-eyed and panting.

Neither of them says good-bye.

That night, Harry does something he's never done before, in all his years of service to the new order: he falsifies an inspection report.



15.

"This is--"

"Yeah," Harry gasps, lifting his hips off the settee so Malfoy can push his denims down to his knees. They've been kissing for hours-- far too long to blame what they're doing on the two drinks they've had-- and now things are moving so quickly his head is spinning.

"My wife could walk in," Malfoy whispers, but he's leaning in for another kiss.

Harry clenches his fists in Malfoy's hair and arches his back, because it's already too late to pretend anything matters besides the warm skin pressed against his and the scorching ache between his thighs. Twisting his hips upward, he chokes out, "I should've been home at half past."

"Just tonight," Malfoy groans, gripping Harry's shoulders.

"Just tonight," Harry pants. "Just tonight."

Later, when Ginny asks Harry about the bruises on his arms, he tells her they're from dueling with an old friend.

Much later, he wonders if she'd understand things like bitter irony.



16.

It's snowing.

Harry sits on the edge of Malfoy's bed with a cigarette dangling from his lips. The smoke burns his tongue, and he can't quite bring himself to inhale, but it keeps him from having to find something to say.

"We can't do this again," Malfoy whispers from behind him.

"Yeah, I know," Harry murmurs, and stares out at the slowly falling snow.

They said the same thing last year.



17.

"Fuck me," Malfoy breathes, cheeks flushed and eyes dark. Arms above his head, he curls his fingers around the carved ebony headboard and arches his spine like an albino kitten stretched out across blue silk.

"Jesus," Harry whispers, sliding one knee onto the mattress and pausing to learn the shape of a slender ankle with his teeth.

"Make me scream," Draco purrs, lifting his other foot and pressing it against the center of Harry's spine. "I want to spend the rest of the night hard from thinking about you in me; want to feel your come dripping down my thighs, feel it on my skin when I touch myself later, remembering what your cock feels like against my tongue."

"You're killing me," Harry groans, crawling to the top of the bed and bowing his head for a slow, searching kiss.

"Now probably isn't a good time for witty remarks about the Boy Who Lived, is it?" Malfoy whispers, and Harry collapses atop him with a quiet laugh.

"That's it, I'm leaving," Harry grins and pretends to pull away, but Malfoy's fingers tangle in his hair and he's drawn back down until their noses are touching.

"Stay," Malfoy murmurs, wrapping both legs around Harry's waist and pulling their bodies together. "I promise you won't regret it."

Harry quiets Malfoy with a kiss, because they both know he isn't leaving, and that not regretting it is exactly what he's afraid of.



18.

"Does she know about us?"

Harry hesitates for just a fraction of a second, but it's long enough to make Malfoy tense and shift onto his back to stare up at him.

"Did you tell her?" Malfoy asks, eyes narrowed and jaw tense. Even with his cheeks flushed and his hair splayed out against the dark pillowcase, he's intimidating enough to make Harry feel like a misbehaving child.

"I don't know if she knows," Harry answers truthfully, and slowly reaches out to touch the side of Malfoy's face. "I don't know if I really care anymore."

"Of course you do," Malfoy huffs, but he leans into the touch and presses a hand against the center of Harry's chest.

"Yeah," Harry whispers, watching the movement of his fingertips over Malfoy's skin. "Yeah, of course I do."



19.

There's a deep gouge on the face of Snape's tombstone, and Harry is so busy glaring at it that he doesn't hear Malfoy come up behind him-- doesn't even notice the other man's presence until cold fingers wrap around his wrist and he only barely manages to stifle a gasp of surprise.

"You're a horrible Auror," Malfoy observes with a quiet snicker, and then frowns. "What?"

Harry gestures wordlessly to the tombstone, because if he speaks, he'll scream.

Malfoy, on the other hand, only sighs. Pulling his robes up to keep them out of the snow, he kneels in front of the slab of granite and rubs a thumb over the mark. "Frankly, I'm surprised something like this didn't happen sooner."

"Fix it," Harry hisses.

"No," Malfoy replies quietly, and stands. Tossing his hair out of his eyes, he shakes his head and emphasizes the point with, "We're not fixing it."

"What?" Harry snaps, outraged that Malfoy of all people would let the slight against his childhood hero go with such nonchalance. "Damn it, I'll fix it."

"No, you won't," Malfoy says calmly, reaching out to grasp Harry's hand. "Has it even occurred to you that he wouldn't care one way or another?"

"I-- that's not--" Harry stammers angrily, but Malfoy's staring at him with a baleful expression and he finally relents with an exasperated sigh.

"That is the point," Malfoy rolls his eyes and threads his fingers through Harry's. "Let it go, Potter. It's there because of the choices he made, just like us."

Harry frowns and looks away, because even though they only see each other once a year, he knows Malfoy well enough to know when they're having two conversations at once. "Sometimes I wonder if they're the right ones."

"Thoughtful doesn't suit you," Malfoy sighs, and slips an arm around Harry's waist. "Let it go, Potter."

That's impossible, Harry thinks, but can't bring himself to say it aloud because he isn't sure whether he's thinking of Snape or the situation he and Malfoy have somehow found themselves in; but really, it doesn't matter, because the answer would be the same either way. Instead, he lifts both hands to trace the curves of the other man's cheeks with his fingertips. They're pink from the winter air, and utterly flawless. Harry kisses each in turn and whispers, "The kids start at Hogwarts this year; what are we supposed to do in September?"

"Remember January," Malfoy whispers, and the corners of his lips twitch, and the faint wrinkles around his eyes deepen for a moment, and all Harry can remember is how devastatingly fragile life can be.