Balloons, Too, Are Lost

Part II

Harry doesn't have the chance to process Draco's words before they're spinning, and before he knows which way is up, he's face first on a hardwood floor, nauseated and feeling like he's been cut up into a million pieces only to be thrown back together again. It takes long muffled moments before he finally registers Draco's worried hands on his shoulders; grey eyes centimetres from his own. Harry attempts to speak, his mouth parting, but only a low groan escapes him. Draco's fingers clench into his skin and he can tell that he's nervous, but he very well should be, because Harry feels like he's dying.

"I suppose I should speak now while you can't. Um, Harry, you're a wizard. We both are, and we've just Apparated, which is how we travel. You've never been particularly comfortable with it, but don't worry, the side effects will pass soon. Just take deep breaths through your n—"

"Libby is taking Master Draco's bags?" There's a sudden pause then, a quiet between all parties before a sudden explosion of—

"Wh— What the fuck is that!?"

"No, Harry! It's okay, it's okay, she's just a house elf!"

"Master Harry back! Is Master Harry being okays now? Libby is getting Master's favourite tea!"

Harry continues to stare wide-eyed at the little creature pouring tea for them, abnormally long fingers gesturing around as little saucers and teacups appear from oblivion. His eyes, if possible, only widen. He suspected that everyone who visited him was hiding something, but he sure as hell didn't expect this. A whole other world that Harry's being welcomed into; or maybe he was simply consumed by it, magic and urban living swallowing him whole. But as Draco spells balloons from the tip of his wand (a wand) in demonstration, he thinks that maybe this isn't that bad at all. Libby serves them sweet, sticky pastries, his favourite, both Draco and Libby says, and Harry can't help but agree.

"Tell me," he says finally to a tense Draco sitting across the living room from him. Draco grins and obliges.

They talk for a long time—until Harry's brain is full of fantastical, impossible things, filling him to the brim till he doesn't think he can take anymore just quite yet. Draco sends him off eventually when he notices Harry's frequent wincing from the pounding headache that threatens to break right through his skull. He's forced to drink a disgusting purple... pain relieving potion Draco called it. Harry would be a little more suspicious about what he was putting into his mouth, but exhaustion has lulled him into a truly sorry state. Draco guides him to bed, murmuring quietly that he'll only be in the other room if he needs anything, sleeping on the couch. He tries to protest, but well, Draco does know how to get his way.

It's weird, sleeping in a place that he knows should be familiar, should be filled with enough memories to make it home, and yet it feels no better than sleeping in the crappy beds at the hospital. He shifts in bed, knowing that Draco is only a room away, but still restless from the events of the day, his brain still swirling with stories of Hogwarts, Quidditch, and Gryffindor (You prat!), Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff, to name a few.

He slips a hand underneath his pillow; gripping the wand (his wand) that Draco gave him, the wood smooth and familiar under his fingertips. Draco showed him a couple of spells. The colour bursting from the tips of their wands was bright and left a scent like the air right before a storm, the moment before lightning strikes. Harry closes his eyes, flares of coloured light flashing behind his eyelids and piercing through his temples, not unlike the spells that Draco showed him today. Harry might not know a lot about anything anymore, but he does know that his nightmares are beginning to make a little more sense now.

Draco has never in his life, not once, slept on a couch. He's just not the couchtype. Even when he and Harry got into arguments that lasted days or even sometimes weeks at a time, Harry would be the one to take the couch. It was an unspoken thing. Draco beats the uncomfortable, lumpy cushion with vehemence. Why didn't Harry say anything about this bloody backbreaking sofa? Maybe if he had, Draco wouldn't be stuck in this ridiculous situation. Draco is going to buy another sofa tomorrow morning, if it's the very last thing he does. He settles down soon enough, staring up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. He misses Harry, even though he's only in the other room. Draco's just never noticed the things that Harry did for him, all of them going unthanked and unacknowledged, and yet Harry never stopped, even when they were fighting. Sometimes especially so.

His eyes tear, but he doesn't have the chance to shed them when a quiet voice calls to him from the darkness. "Dr— Draco?" He scrambles quickly for his wand, spelling a quick 'Lumos' that makes Harry scamper backwards against the wall, eyes red and cheeks wet. Draco's heart twists painfully in his chest as Harry whimpers, fear etched into the very contours of his face. "No— No, please!"

Draco rises quickly, instantly stepping closer to Harry in an attempt to comfort, only to rear back in uncertainty as Harry shies away from his touch, whimpering and crying pitifully when the light of his Lumos gets too close. It takes a moment for him to connect the dots, but when he does Draco doesn't spare a thought about his wand as he throws it carelessly on the floor, the light of his spell blinking out and sending them into darkness. Harry is in his arms in an instant. The darkness that envelops them is warm and comforting, but nothing to the comfort of Harry's body against his own, the feel of his love's fists drawing him always closer. Draco feels the thin fabric of his shirt begin to soak through with Harry's tears, his fingers running gently through the dark, unruly hair. "You're okay, Harry. You're okay. I've got you."

Harry wakes in bed, lost in Draco's arms. It's not the most pleasant feeling in the world, both being pressed together too tightly and having rid themselves of blankets and covers during the night rather than shifting apart. But it's Draco, and he's never felt quite so safe. Harry thinks that's more than a fair trade. Besides, he doesn't think he'd give it up for the world, this chance to watch Draco rest, his face open and defenceless in a way Harry's sure Draco would hate. He's unable to keep himself from running reverent fingertips up and down Draco's soft cheeks, feeling the rise and fall of his chest next to him, and the slow breaths warming his wrist. He's beautiful.

And then it hits Harry all at once like a tonne of chocolate frogs (something he's very much interested in trying): undoubtedly sweet, most definitely sticky and maybe even slightly unpleasant, but still insanely, impossibly, wonderful. They're together. Harry is with Draco and they're together together. He's sure they're best friends, and how could they not be? They get along swimmingly, and oh, this must be their apartment too—their home. Harry muffles an excited laugh into a pillow. That means that these are their pillows, their bed! Their bed. Harry's cheeks heat, even as he raises shy eyes to a still sleeping Draco, a gentle thumb brushing across the other man's soft mouth. But perhaps most importantly, Harry is Draco's, and Draco is his. Harry's never had anything so precious before.

Draco does not like people in their home, period. It has absolutely nothing to do with redheads or blood status, contrary to what Harry believed. Draco has had enough strangers in his home at the Manor to last a lifetime, thank you very much. But this time, Draco can't bring himself to deny Harry the right to see his Weasley horde in his own home, which is why he is currently, begrudgingly, preparing hors d'oeuvres for the pack of weasels about to infiltrate their flat. They might be being fussed over, and Draco thinks he can even hear him laughing. Draco's fingers relax their hold on a particularly stubborn shrimp, a small smile lighting his features. He's glad.

Libby eventually shoos him out of her kitchen, a preposterous idea of course, but she insists that he go and socialize. Draco is courteous, if not a little cold, even when Ron and Hermione corner him in an attempt to deliver a very well deserved apology.

"Draco, Ron and I, yes, we both want to apologise. We weren't sure how Harry would do, going home with you, especially since both of you have been— um..."

"On rocky terms," Ronald offers and Hermione nods eagerly, clearly grateful.

"Yes, exactly, before his accident. But we were wrong. He's doing brilliant and he's so happy. Thank you so—"

Draco can't stand a second more of this Hufflepuffian dribble. "I didn't do it for you, Hermione, or for you, Ronald. You don't have to thank me. I actually do care for him, you realise, and he is important to me. Maybe the next time you apologise to someone, the both of you could be a bit less self-absorbed and at least attempt not to hide an insult within it. Now if you'll excuse me, it appears that your brother has charmed my house elf pink."

Harry is excited to see the Weasleys again; especially George, and he can't seem to stop smiling, especially with his delightful discovery of his affections that morning, one that he has yet to tell anyone, including Draco. The Weasleys colour in Harry's memories, picking up right from Madame Malkin's with Draco, their first meeting on platform nine and three-quarters, and a flying blue Ford Anglia. They speak of happier times, and a laugh or a smile is never far from any of their faces. Draco isn't anywhere to be seen, of course, but Harry doesn't mind. He knows Draco isn't particularly comfortable in a crowd, and he's more than aware that this, in its entirety, is for him. Harry has never felt warmer.

They've broken into smaller groups of conversation, reminiscing of more personal encounters that Harry doesn't, but desperately wants to, remember. It's only when Ginny sits herself down next to him that he realises that there might be a reason that he maybe shouldn't want to. "He hasn't told you a thing you wouldn't want to hear, has he?" she says, but she doesn't sound malevolent. Instead, she simply sounds resigned, if not a little sad. "You don't know a thing about the war."

So she tells him. She tells him about a broken boy, a mad man, and a dark lord: Voldemort. She tells him about every single time he tried to kill Harry in such excruciating detail that he wonders if she was there. She only laughs and says that no, she wasn't, not for all of them anyway. She tells him about a little girl who was rescued by her hero, and how she fell in love with him. Ginny seems to grow before his eyes as she tells him about battle after battle and having to wait for him where it's safe. She says he taught her how to fight, but she was the one who chose to when it mattered.

Draco is sitting on the Very Uncomfortable Sofa, as it has been dubbed, and revelling in the lack of gingers in his home when he's blindsided by a surprisingly, scarily, calm Harry. His lover (though he isn't sure of anything anymore) sits next to him, leaning into Draco, his head buried in his shoulder. Draco's hand instantly goes to Harry's hair, combing through the messy strands with an exasperated affection he has with little else.

"Tell me about the war," Harry says, and Draco's heart stills in his chest. He should've expected this. How could he not have, when Harry had lived and fought in the war far more than anyone, save perhaps Dumbledore? How did Draco possibly think he could protect Harry from this? He never could have after all. They couldn't have protected each other during the war even if they had wanted to. Harry couldn't keep his parents from the Dementor's kiss after the fact; he'd barely saved Draco as it was. Draco can only hold Harry after the screams of his nightmares have filled the air, offering what little comfort he can provide. He can't stop them, can't save Harry from them. Who was he to think he could have kept Harry's knowledge of the war completely?

They talk for a long time—Voldemort's attacks and Harry's unlikely survival from that very first Halloween—and he knows that he gets some of the details wrong. It's difficult thinking you've known something for so long, only to be told straight from the source that all you've ever believed is wrong. So Draco tells Harry both versions: what his father told him, and later, what Harry did. They're both right in different ways; that Draco will never be uncertain of. When Draco finally finishes it's midnight, and they're both stretched out along the Only Slightly Uncomfortable Sofa.

"We won though," Harry murmurs, quietly asking for reassurance.

"You did," he chuckles softly, albeit a little weakly. When Harry tilts his head up and their eyes meet, his green gaze is so fierce with conviction that Draco shivers. He'd been wrong, so dreadfully wrong to ever believe that Harry could ever be any less passionate, any less willing to fight for what he believes in, accident or no.

"No, Draco. We did." And when Harry says it like that, Draco can't quite find it in himself not to believe him.

Weeks pass with nights lit only by candlelight, warm mornings, and days filled with the coming and goings of the Weasleys and Harry's other friends that he still can't quite remember. Libby and Draco are happiest when there are no visitors in the house, Draco especially, and they begin to rebuild the foundations of a magical castle that Harry has forgotten. They start small, with little spells, reintroducing Harry to the eleven years of himself that he's lost.

Libby builds little obstacle courses for a balloon as Harry attempts to guide it while Draco supervises. Draco of course, thinks the whole thing is hilarious, especially when Harry accidentally explodes a vase Molly apparently gave to him as a Christmas present two years before, with a careless flick of his wand. "Don't worry," Draco laughs, ruffling Harry's hair with an almost brotherly sort of fondness. "You hated that vase anyway."

Harry might have hated that vase, but he hates this almost unbridgeable gap between Draco and him a damn sight more. Harry's cheeks are red most of the time, like permanent sunburn. He's tried to, on more than one occasion, attempt to insinuate his growing feelings for Draco, but it appears that the blond is completely oblivious to the things right before his eyes, especially where Harry is concerned. It's when Draco blatantly runs from the bedroom when Harry returns from the shower clad only in a towel that Harry decides on a more direct approach. Anything less obvious would be lost on him. Maybe Draco is more of a Gryffindor than he thinks.

It's late in the evening when Harry and Draco slip into bed, the latter having grabbed their customary candle and matches in preparation for the nightmares. But not tonight. Harry is quiet even as Draco makes light conversation, their companionship and camaraderie easy.

"Did I have nightmares every night before too?" he asks, genuinely curious, sliding into Draco's embrace as they both pull the covers up over them.

"Yeah, you did, but most times you wouldn't wake up and I could only hold you through it. To be honest, I don't think I did anything for you. I thought I did, before, but now I'm not so sure. You just got used to it, like you're getting used to it now. You're fighting the nightmares on your own, Harry. I'm just here to man the candle, if not for a little emotional support."

Harry's cheeks heat, but the warmth that burns him from the inside out is far hotter, this overwhelming emotion that makes his heart threaten to burst through his chest. Here, he wants to say, just take it. It's yours already, anyway. Harry pushes himself up on his elbows so that he's looking down at Draco, his blush bright enough to see even in the darkness. "Draco, I— I'm lucky to have you. Then, too, but especially now." He watches as Draco's eyes widen, a flush reflecting his own appearing across the bridge of Draco's nose. "I think I love you, Draco."

There's a sharp intake of breath as Draco's breathing hitches, hands curving along Harry's shoulders. Draco's brow is furrowed, and Harry can't take another moment more. He can feel Draco's uncertainty, his mouth already parting to speak. But Harry just presses their bodies together, the warmth between them (in them) doubling until it's barely containable.

"Please, Draco, not now. We have time for talking, so much time, Draco. Just— please." A hand slides into Harry's hair, a thumb caressing his cheek, his eyes slipping closed as he leans into the touch. Every single brush of skin feels like their bodies are sinking into each other until they can no longer be told apart. Like melting crayons on a radiator, Draco fills his world with colour. And oh, when Draco's lips finally touch his, Harry doesn't think he's ever known anything quite like this. It's not world-altering or life-changing, and Draco uses a bit too much teeth, but Harry wouldn't give it up for the world.

They kiss, mouths parted in the slow tangle of tongue as they trade breaths and a secret: the secret of secrets inside him that nobody knows—that he is Draco's once again; that he always will be. Their bodies move together as hands move across heated flesh, undressing each other, hanging up their armour and their weapons until only they remain, further and deeper than skin and disguise.

Their bodies and breaths intertwine, familiar and yet new enough for Harry's pulse to flutter nervously beneath his skin. As they slide together, Harry's skin flushed from pleasure, he knows that they won't fail—they can't, not when they feel like this. Harry and Draco push together, and against each other, with such fervour and single-minded stubbornness that there really was no way that they could have ever fought this—them. And soon Harry is coming, pleasure searing through his veins and branding his insides, every vein and every artery, the caverns of his heart especially, with Draco's name. He spills himself between their bodies, and Draco joins him moments later, their bodies continuing to rock through their rapture.

Harry collapses by Draco's side, arms instantly rising to hug him close, his cheek pressed against his love's chest. He's sticky and a little uncomfortable, but he's sated, and he doesn't think he's ever been quite this happy. A small smile adorns his features as he feels all too familiar lips press into his damp hair. He mumbles happily, sliding even closer. "Mmm. Don't you wizards have a spell for this mess?" he mutters, voice lazy as he pokes Draco's calf with his foot, minimal movement required. He hears Draco snort, and with a wave of a hand, they're clean again. "Ah, I thought so." Harry hums, sleep loosening his tongue, though his words are slightly slurred.

"Shut up and go to sleep, Harry," is the last thing he hears, but that's all right. He hears Draco's smile in it anyway.

Draco remembers Harry's lips, his colour, the taste of his name on his lover's lips, a flavour that hasn't touched his tongue in too long. His arms are wrapped around Harry, the foolish Gryffindor sound asleep in his embrace as Draco's eyes trace patterns on the ceiling in an attempt to keep them from straying to Harry's sleeping face. This is the first night Draco can remember in the past year in which neither of them has woken during the night from nightmares. It's also the first time in a long time that they have touched each other from sheer need, stemming purely from what they feel for each other. The love they feel for each other, he supposes. But it's all wrong, all warped with Draco's lack of disclosure of the full truth. Harry doesn't know the real Draco—the Draco who fought with Harry from before about anything and everything, if only as a way for his love to speak to him again.

Harry doesn't remember the bad times, the times when they could barely be in each other's company, least of all sleep in the same bed. Harry doesn't remember the nights that he struggled through his nightmares alone on the couch, wanting comfort but being far too proud to ask. He'll never know that Draco sat in the doorway, not far away and yet too far to cross, always hoping that Harry would be the one to bridge the distance so he wouldn't have to.

Draco knows this, this so completely selfish side of himself that Harry knows nothing about, and yet he'd still allowed—still allowed—Draco can't breathe. Their bodies are so close, their warmth sinking into each other and stifling his breathing. Draco doesn't think he can stand one more moment of this guilt, of having taken advantage of whom he loves most. Draco pulls away from Harry, careful not to wake him, and leaves him alone in bed as he has done so too many mornings before.

Harry wakes with a smile, until he feels the chill beginning to sink into his side, and the absence of his lover is far too prominent to be missed. His eyes blink open, no matter how much he wishes them to stay closed just so he won't have to face this. Not yet, not so soon after last night. Draco has left him again, like all the other times before. Harry actually thought last night was different. It wasn't because he needed comfort for some nightmare. He actually thought that they both wanted this, this new beginning: Draco and Harry's fresh start.

Tears prick his eyes and he knows he's being ridiculous, a grown man crying in bed, but he doesn't know if he can do it anymore. This sitting and waiting, always waiting for either of them to snap and break, to decide that this will be the time that they decide not to come back, not to continue. Harry doesn't know if that'll ever happen, and maybe that's even worse. They're both too caught, too enthralled in each other and more than a little obsessed with the way that only the other can make them feel. Harry lives for the good times with Draco, for the kisses snuck in coffee shops, and for the intertwined hands, ever since that first kiss all those years ago in a school of broken children, fractured soldiers too unfamiliar with victory.

Harry has never shed a tear during these past few months, when things have been growing from bad to worse, as Draco seemed to slip further and further from his fingers with each passing morning. But he does cry now. Harry cries because for the first time in a long time, he believed in them, for who they are, for what they have for each other. He's been relying on their need for each other, their surely unhealthy dependence that makes separation hard and survival impossible. Harry wanted them together for them and nothing else, but Draco ran. He ran because he always does and maybe that's what hurts the most; that he was so close to catching Draco, that one impossible balloon, but that even with his one last good jump, Draco was still too far away to reach.

"Harry?" A voice, the last one he'd thought to hear, and Harry looks up in surprise, his tears running rivulets down his cheeks. Draco shifts uncertainly in the doorway, still clad only his skin.

Hang up your pride, Harry wants to say. Hang up who you thought you were and who you were taught to be. Hang it all up and come here. Bring me your worries, your insecurities. Let me finally see who you are. It's been so long that I've forgotten.

Harry wants to say all that and more but Draco already knows. Draco already knows everything Harry wants to say because Harry's said it all before, he just wasn't listening. Draco steps forward eventually, what feels like hours later, the beginning of that bridge he's never had the strength to cross, the same one that Harry has crossed all too many times.

And when Draco is finally back on the bed, in that very same spot he vacated hours ago, Harry finally feels like he's been returned something he'd lost. Harry's hands draw Draco close, a sigh slipping from his lips that says, Finally, finally. Welcome home, Draco.

His love sniffs, tears drawing tracks down pale cheeks as he pulls away only to say softly, "You remember."

Huh. So he does.

But they don't celebrate the sudden returning of all his memories, as the doctors had told them could happen. This is so much more than that. The memories don't matter: where they've been to where they could go, will go. So what if Harry remembers colours and their very first kiss? There will be so many better kisses (hopefully with much less teeth). Far prettier, deeper colours are waiting to be found in the contours of Draco's body, in the depths of his eyes, and in his smile. There are far more vital things than the exact words that were shouted in an argument, like the bright 'O's of colour in Draco's cheeks when Harry kisses him without warning, or the taste of fresh summer peaches on his love's tongue, and feeding each other pancakes in bed. There are far more important things than losing balloons, like trying to catch them or watching them come back.