Cereal

I put the groceries away in the same place everyday.

You look at me fondly, your hand trailing down my cheek and landing gently on my chin. With a quick kiss, you ask me where I put the cereal.

I smile, because you ask all the time.

Memory- yours grows worse everyday. It's okay though, because I don't mind explaining that the cereal is in the pantry, on the third shelf.

Your habits are easy to follow. You hang your coat on the third hook always. I remember one time when I put mine there instead.

You were in a bad mood the entire evening.

The third hook is plain, nothing special to look at. It curves upwards in a tiny dip just like all the others, shining brass and marred slightly. But it's yours, and you can be quite possessive.

Like the time I invited a friend from work to dinner. He was a few years older… a few years wiser. You had sneered at him the entire evening, and I was reminded vaguely of our school days.

Later that night, you had kissed me deeply and marked my neck. Mine.

I didn't quite mind being yours.

Mine.

I've never liked attention, but I find myself craving any attention you'll give me. Every time you enter the kitchen and take a few bites of cereal, I follow you with a hopeful gaze and am rewarded with a warm smile and quick kiss on the cheek.

Then you pull your cloak from its place on the third hook of the coat-hanger and close the door behind you.

I wonder where you go, sometimes. You don't work, I can tell by the lack of income.

Instead of asking questions, I put the cereal away and wait idly on the sofa. Sometimes a couple of friends come over, pursing their lips.

"Where's Draco?" They'd say.

I'd only smile wistfully, before offering them a drink.

The light to the kitchen is on, early one morning. I raise an eyebrow because you're never up before ten, and the clock reads six.

I look inside curiously and see you eating your cereal, looking quite thoughtful. The door to the pantry is open, and an array of cereal boxes are scattered within. I smile crookedly, before walking over to arrange them properly.

Most people don't study their coat-racks in the morning. I've found it's become a habit, but I'm always looking toward the door, your cloak swaying from the third hook comforting and almost amusing.

Your spoon clattering in the bowl and the sound of a chair scraping backwards distracts me, and I turn to you frowning.

"Your cloak…"

You blink nonchalantly, before smiling brightly. "What about it?"

I turn to the door once more, my eyebrows creasing, before shrugging and walking toward the sink.

It was on the fifth hook.

That night, I crawl into bed alone and glance at the clock. I fall asleep at around midnight, thinking of my own cloak swinging silently on the third hook.

You're up early again, and I lay in our bed for a moment, before rising to wash my face.

I come down and you greet me by wrapping me in a warm embrace while I stare stunned at the young man standing in our kitchen.

"This is Jerred." You say with a smile.

I look at him and all I can think of is:

Mine. Mine. Mine.

Later that night, I wish I could mark you like you marked me. But you're not home, and I let out a long sigh.

Jerred comes over again, and I sit downstairs while you play card games. The sound of laughter rings in my ears, and I stare into the fireplace my eyes growing just a tad darker with each passing minute.

The next morning, they're more black than green.

You don't seem to notice the difference, but I almost smile when you ask me where I put the cereal.

I reach into the pantry with the welcome feeling of familiarity, before pulling out a box and laying it gently on the table.

You send me an appreciative look, clasping my hand for a moment, before picking up your spoon.

I sit across you, and will myself to ask who Jerred is.

Instead, "Will you be going out today?"

You look around the kitchen briefly, as if you haven't heard my question. Then you turn to me with a small shrug, your angled face nodding slightly.

"Jerred and I—"

I stand up from the table then, grabbing the cereal box with shaking hands. You don't seem to notice… but do you ever?

Placing it back in the pantry, my back to you as I lean forward on the sink, I growl. "Can't that sentence ever be Harry and I?"

You turn around, somewhat confused.

I smile darkly to myself, before shaking my head. Grabbing your cloak off the fifth hook, I throw it to the floor.

You say something, but I can't hear anymore.

Everything outside my own mind is silent, as my insides scream "Mine. Mine. Mine."

But are you really?

Later that night, I lock the door to our room and wonder when you'll be home.

I wake up at six in the morning and walk downstairs slowly, my head turning toward the living room and seeing your gentle face settled on the sofa.

The rise and fall of your chest is barely visible beneath the layers of blankets, and I feel some sort of satisfaction.

You had to fall asleep alone for once, too.

I don't buy cereal the next time I'm out shopping.

As if by habit, when you sit at the breakfast table the next morning you ask me where I put the cereal.

I walk out the kitchen without responding.

Your chair makes a rough noise against the floor and I hear you open the pantry door. There's a silence for a few moments, before your footsteps echo once more and you're walking toward the door.

You don't give me any warm smiles that morning.

"Where's the cereal?" You had said a long time ago in your private Head Boy room.

I had smiled teasingly, before saying as always, "Third shelf in your pantry, Malfoy."

You'd grin, before kissing me quickly on the nose and standing up to get it.

Later that night, you come home early and walk into our bedroom. Your gaze finds mine before quickly looking away.

You whisper, and I almost find I can't hear you.

"I love you, Harry."

I turn away, and close my eyes tightly. There's a rustle of covers and then silence.

There's a box of cereal on the table when I go downstairs to the kitchen hours later. I stare at it curiously, before making my way through the dark and grabbing a bowl.

"I forgive you."

I read the note beside the pantry door and swallow. Footsteps echo into the kitchen, and I turn toward you, your grey eyes solemn.

There was a time long ago, during the war. We fought on opposite sides, you and I, and in my eyes all hope was forgotten.

I met a man named Jerred.

There was a night, a long time ago, when I settled into a tent. You were somewhere with Voldemort, planning attacks to kill me.

Jerred was there, his face understanding and his lips soft when they touched mine.

Later that night, as I settled into his arms, there was an explosion. I had barely enough time to pull on a set of robes before barging out of the tent, my expression alert and frightened.

But it wasn't Voldemort, it was you. Your wand was pointed at the area just in front of our tent and your eyes blazing in a burning fire.

Jerred walks up to me, then, and lays a hand on my shoulder.

"Lucius?" He says confusedly, as Lucius is long gone.

You look at me accusingly, your suspicions confirmed.

"Draco." I say, then. My voice is small and pleading.

You had always given up everything for me. Family, friends, status and reputation. Life, basically.

I look at you now, only a box of cereal between us when in reality there is a larger barrier.

"I forgive you." You say.

That night, neither of us falls asleep alone.

Mine.

x.x.x.x