Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

Warning: Self-destructive behaviour, sexual content & sado-masochistic undertone

Thanatos in Your Palm

Part II

Time moved in slow motion, as though the gears in the clock had rusted. There were two things that reminded Draco of the passage of time: pay-days, and the constant influx of new books and vinyl records in the house. Taking Draco's advice to heart, Harry filled his time with various trifles to distract himself from his brooding.

One evening, Harry tried to play Scarborough Fair on the piano with little success. The next evening, he made a treacle tart under Kreacher's guidance; the result was pleasant enough that Draco had a slice. The evening after that, he reorganised all the books in the library. Although he had not gone out late at night and gotten hurt again, Draco could tell he was restless.

When Draco got home one humid evening, he found a familiar figure sitting cross-legged on the floor in his room, listening to some kind of alternative rock. Once Draco had changed his clothes, he sat down beside his landlord and stretched his legs. Accompanied by the throbbing bass and the distorted guitar, a baritone voice was urging the listeners to seize the day.

"I'm on active duty again." Harry's voice disrupted the flow of the music. "Two of my co-workers have resigned. They said they want to move on to something new and do what they really want to do. I'm happy for them, but I'm feeling a little lonely as well."

Such sentimentality was not what Draco would expect from Harry; then again, his landlord was not as heartless as he was. "If you weren't an Auror, what do you think you would be now?"

Harry tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling in search of an answer. "I hadn't really thought about it. At the time, the Auror's Office was the only option left. If I become an Auror, I would be able to fight better and stay alive longer." He turned to Draco. "Which career did you pick back then?"

Ignoring Harry's gaze, Draco picked up the album jacket on the floor and examined the cover art. A neon blue mannequin head in a fedora hat made up the foreground, while wires dangled like miniature nooses at the back. "I don't remember. A male escort, maybe."

Harry sniggered for a moment and stretched out his legs like Draco. "Someone who attends important dinner parties with a client, or someone who works his magic in the bedroom?"

"I'll leave that to your imagination." Draco put the album jacket aside. "Are you feeling better now that you can officially hunt someone down and curse him into oblivion?"

The mirth on Harry's countenance faded, and his smile became a little crooked. "I don't know. It's great to be out there again, but I'm afraid of what I might do. It's not about justice or even vengeance. It's... I don't know what it is."

"Does it matter? No matter what your motive is, you are still doing the same thing." Draco did not meet Harry's eyes; instead, he stared at the wall, which was dyed greyish blue by the evening light. "If you catch someone, and if you can get away with it, are you going to make him suffer?"

"I won't know until it actually happens." His voice laced with uncertainty, Harry leant towards Draco until the side of his head touched Draco's. "Sorry, can you distract me right now?"

"Like last time?"

"Yes." Harry raised his head and contemplated Draco, as if yearning for something he could not quite understand. "Like last time."

Several experimental kisses later, Draco held Harry's hand and invited him to sit in his lap. After giving him a withering look, Harry shifted onto his lap and reclaimed his mouth. Slipping a hand inside Harry's T-shirt, Draco felt his way around the lean back and explored uncharted territory. A shiver coursed through Harry's body; a beat later, he licked the tip of Draco's Cupid's bow like a kitten.

More like a wild cat, Draco thought while gently sucking Harry's bottom lip. Although the house was equipped with a cooling charm, he felt too warm. Everything about Harry was too warm: his face, his breath, his mouth, his tongue, his body. He was suffocating.

Breaking away from the kiss, Draco gazed upon Harry's flushed cheeks, moist lips and lustrous eyes, tell-tale signs that in spite of his insensitivity to pain, he could feel pleasure. "Are you properly distracted now?"

Harry said nothing; instead, he blew air into Draco's ear and embraced him tightly.

At any moment, Kreacher would have called them down for dinner, but the call never came. There was no sneaky house-elf lurking outside the open door and spying on his master having sex with a man on the floor. At the other end of the room, the needle of the gramophone had already reached the end of the album, and a faint noise remained. All Draco could hear, however, were his heart pounding in his chest and Harry panting beneath him.

Looking down upon his landlord, who wore nothing but a T-shirt hiked up to his chest, Draco had an urge to curse himself. He had not meant for the distraction to go this far; he had not known it was Harry's first time being penetrated. Staying still inside Harry, he asked, "Does it hurt?"

As though he had tumbled back to reality, Harry squinted at Draco for several beats and shook his head. "Do it the way you like. Be rough if you want. I won't break."

Unable to find his voice, Draco nodded once, placed his hands on either side of Harry's waist, and began to move. With every thrust something inside him broke a little, but he could not stop moving. The sound of Harry's stifled moaning flooded his ear; the taste of Harry's fluid lingered in his mouth; the sight of Harry's body shaking with his filled his vision. As he pushed deeper into Harry and felt him shudder, a dull ache spread outward from his core like a disease.

The room was dark as if it were at the bottom of the sea, yet Draco, feeling unwell for reasons he could not recall, could see everything around him. In the middle of the room, the bathtub, which reminded him of a white whale, had taken on a ghost-like presence in the dark. He walked over and looked down, but there was no dead fish floating in the cold water, for he was that fish.

Slowly he climbed into the bathtub and sank into the water like a merman. However, no part of his body made contact with the porcelain lining of the tub; there was nothing but water all around him, enveloping him and rushing into him. No sound reached his ear: no one was screaming or shouting or biting back a cry out of stubborn, meaningless pride.

Death by drowning was an excruciating way to die, but soon he would lose consciousness and never wake again—and just like that, he had killed the white fish in his dream again.

Draco woke up to a hazy night and to a naked body press up against his back. There was an unpleasant stickiness at the spots where their bodies touched, as though their skins were melting and fusing together until their bodies could no longer be separated. Feeling Harry's warm breaths on his back, Draco lay still and wondered what the hell was wrong with both of them.

Everything is wrong about you two, a sardonic voice replied in Draco's head. Harry's vices were getting hurt without feeling pain and receiving pain without getting hurt, while Draco himself had too many vices to count. Between a man who was struggling to feel alive and a man who was only beginning to learn how to live, there was no use in pondering what was not wrong about them.

Without a sound Draco extracted himself from Harry and moved to the edge of the bed. In the next moment, he found himself thrown back onto the bed and his upper body pinned down by Harry. When he felt the tip of a wand poking at his head, any indecent jokes he had entertained was tossed aside.

"Are you going to curse me, Harry?"

The pressure on Draco's chest was gone, and the gas lamp flickered to life. Avoiding Draco's gaze, Harry sat on the bed and put down his wand. "Sorry."

Draco sat up and rubbed his neck. As soon as the choking sensation on his throat vanished, his annoyance evaporated. There was little doubt in his mind as to why Harry was so experienced in close combat: the answer did not lie solely in Auror training. The scars Harry had received in his late night excursions were still visible.

"I didn't tell you about the knife under the mattress, did I?" Draco ignored the surprise on Harry's face and went on in a nonchalant tone. "You can't be too careful when you are on your own. Still, it hurts quite a bit here." He pressed a hand over his heart, feigning agony.

His lips curving into a smile, Harry patted the back of Draco's hand in solace. "Do you want me to massage it and kiss it to make you feel better?"

"If you want to touch my heart, you'll have to cut me open and saw through my ribcage first." The gruesome joke prompted Harry to grimace in disgust and amusement.

Turning away, Draco reached for the jar of ointment on the nightstand. "Bend over." When Harry shot him an indignant look, he let out a sigh. "Since you can't tell me if there's anything wrong with you, I need to check."

"I feel shagged and I feel fine. You don't need to keep playing Healer with me." Harry took the semi-transparent jar from Draco and squinted at it. "Are you hungry? You haven't eaten anything since you came back, have you?"

In Harry's hand, the round blue jar resembled an artefact carved from a fragment of the frozen sea. For one bemusing moment, Draco wondered if he was still trapped in the embracing water in his dream, suffocating and hallucinating. "I was busy distracting you and being distracted by you."

Harry blinked. A beat later, he looked away as if struck by a fit of shyness. In an attempt to disguise his discomfort, he put on his glasses and got out of Draco's bed. "Let's hope Kreacher left us some food in the kitchen."

As rain lashed down upon the city in torrents, the scorching heat at last relented. In the midst of these idle rainy days, Harry celebrated his twenty-third birthday—the same bittersweet age as Draco. At the crack of dawn, Draco gave Harry one of the presents; at night, he went up to Harry's room and gave him another present; in the morning, Harry smiled a bashful smile at him.

After that, Harry began to come home late, at times covered in dust or soaked to the skin. While he rarely talked about work when he was home, Draco found out from the Daily Prophet what kind of case he was working on. A series of unspecified incidents had occurred in several former homes of convicted Death Eaters, and the Aurors were brought in to investigate. The article did not mention the Malfoys or Malfoy Manor.

Once Draco had read the article twice, he folded up the newspaper, put it on the table, and looked out the window. Dark clouds hung low over houses and buildings, as if with a slight push, they would tumble onto the roofs. When Draco turned on the lamp and looked again, he saw his reflection mouthing something to him.

"Why are you worrying about them now? You abandoned them in the manor and ran away to this city, remember? After everything that had happened, you just couldn't bear staying in the manor anymore..."

The voice trailed off in a dispassionate note; a beat later, Draco went over and closed the curtains, hiding his other self from view. A recurring dream of fish and drowning, casual sex with random men, a conversation with his own reflection—he had gone mad even before he stepped foot into this house.

Harry would not be home for dinner; therefore, Draco had dinner by himself in the kitchen. The fish pie Kreacher had made was a golden, brilliant affair, though the chef in question had gone off somewhere. While Draco ate, he listened to the clock ticking the second. Across the table, the empty seat stood out in silent mockery. Annoyed with himself, he finished the meal, but the food had lost its texture and flavour.

After a quick shower, he took a book from the library and returned to his room. Settling down on the bed, he began to read. During the scene where the detective was questioning a witness, drowsiness overcame him. Every time he nodded, the book in his hand grew a little heavier. Strands of the plot swam in his mind and knitted themselves into another pattern: he knew who the real murderer was.

As soon as the revelation took shape, however, it melted into the background, for something else had surfaced from the deepest recess of his memory.

Floating in a state between sleep and wakefulness, he was both recalling and dreaming of a scene from the past: the sound of water, the chill, the glittering chandelier, and at last, blissful silence. That was where the scene diverged from his usual dream. Someone dragged him out of the water and called his name. He shivered, and the chill was replaced by warmth. When he looked upon his father's stricken face, the trembling stopped, and an impulse unlocked something inside him...

A loud disturbance jolted Draco out of his half-dream; the book slipped out of his grasp and fell onto the blanket, forgotten. He rubbed his face, got out of bed, and went to the corridor. Voices from below drifted into his ear. Kreacher was scolding someone, and Harry said something in reply. A third voice, which belonged to Ron Weasley, chimed in with a joke.

Struck by a sense of déjà vu, Draco went downstairs and beheld a scene he had half expected. In the front hall, Kreacher had cornered Harry. Behind Harry's glasses was an eye patch that covered up his right eye; around his head were bandages that covered up his brow. At the sight, Draco stood still halfway down the stairs, and something inside him began to crack.

Ron, who was standing closest to the door, shot Draco a dirty look before turning to Harry.

"I'm off now. You know how scary Hermione can be when something irritates her." Ron made a face, prompting Harry to chuckle in good cheer. "Get some sleep and leave the rest to us, all right? Now Kreacher, stop worrying about your master. Since Voldemort couldn't kill him, nothing else will."

Except Harry Potter, Draco added as he watched Ron vanish into the night.

"Like Ron said, you don't have to worry about me, Kreacher. I'm used to getting injured. This is nothing." Before Kreacher could launch into another lecture, Harry continued. "You know what? It's late, and I don't really need anything. If you want to, you can go to bed."

After making a huffing sound, Kreacher bowed to Harry and shuffled down the hall. Once he had disappeared into the kitchen, Draco descended the rest of the steps and met Harry at the bottom of the stairs. The smile had vanished from Harry's face, which had taken on a sickly pallor.

Heaving a sigh, Draco stifled his agitation and tapped on Harry's glasses. "What is it this time?"

"I was careless on the job," Harry said in a self-depreciating tone. "You know what dark witches and wizards are like. Their houses are like museums of dark artefacts, complete with death traps and murderous creatures."

Even though Harry's injury did not stem from a fight, the disclosure did not lift Draco's mood. "Were you careless on purpose?" There was no reply. Instead of asking further, he waved his hand in front of Harry. "Can you see me?"

"Yeah, but it's difficult to judge the distance," Harry replied, looking amused. "My right eye will take a while to heal, so I'm on medical leave again. The cut on my forehead isn't as serious as it looks. It'll probably heal in a day or two."

"It's good to know that there's nothing wrong with your head, at least in the literal sense." Draco grabbed Harry by his hand and led him upstairs. "What you need right now is a shower and a change of clothes. You look as if you've just crawled out of the grave."

"I lied. It wasn't because of a dark artefact."

Draco stopped in his tracks, and his fingers tightened around Harry's hand; nevertheless, Harry would not complain about the pain he could not feel. Without an expression Draco turned around to face Harry.

Beneath the gaslight, the whiteness of Harry's eye patch and bandages burnt into Draco's retinas. Harry's clothes were caked with blood, mud and other substance Draco could not identify. The only part of Harry that was in a less alarming state was his dark hair, which appeared to be washed and a little damp. He resembled the wounded soldier that he was, but his countenance could not be more composed.

"I duelled with a dark wizard," came the answer to Draco's unspoken query. "When I hurt him and when he hurt me, I was happy. I felt so alive I didn't want it to end. When he threw the Cruciatus at me, I almost wanted him to hit me, but my body moved out of the way on its own. Too bad that Ron and the others showed up so soon. We could have gone on longer."

Tension stretched in the space between Draco and Harry, held together by their connected hands. "What do you expect me to say?" Draco demanded.

The self-possession Harry had adopted began to crumble, and with a morose look he pulled his hand out of Draco's grasp. "Nothing. Don't do anything for me anymore. You are wasting your time. If you want to move out of the house, I won't stop you. I'll return all the money to you. If you are in a hurry to leave, I'll ask around and help you find another place."

No longer looking at Draco, Harry brushed past him and went upstairs; a while later, his footsteps faded into silence. Biting the inside of his cheek, Draco returned to his room, sat down on the bed, and stared at the open door.

The thought of leaving the house had occurred to Draco before. Any sane person would have left the house by now. For him, the most appropriate course of action would be to move out, start afresh elsewhere, and chuck these past few months up as little more than a brief bout of insanity. As for the money, he would make do somehow. It was not too late for him, he told himself.

Cutting ties with Harry would be as easy as walking out of this house without a backward glance. After all, Draco had done this in the past, and he could do it again. There was no reason for him to stay, no reason for him to drown with Harry, and no reason for him to share in Harry's delusion.

Nevertheless, why was it that the air in this room was more stifling than usual?

Draco stormed out of the room and climbed the stairs. In the dimness of the night, the staircase seemed crooked and endless. Struck by a spell of vertigo, he clutched the ebony handrail and looked up; faint light flickered above him. After taking several deep breaths, he pressed on. Each step became a little easier than the last. At each landing, the voice of reason in his head grew a little weaker. Another thirteen steps later, he reached the end of the spiral.

The sound of running water flowed into his ear. Not bothering to knock, Draco barged into the bathroom; the door bounced against the wall with a thud. Dirty clothes were scattered across the ashen tiled floor, and a pair of black-rimmed glasses was left on the black vanity top. At the other end of the room, Harry stared at him in shock through the shower stall glass.

Without a word Draco closed the door, strode across the room, and stepped into the stall, fully clothed. Drops of cold water splashed onto his face. It was not unexpected that Harry would choose to take a cold shower. Was it because of the season, or was it because he did not care about the water temperature since he could not tell the difference? Reaching over Harry, Draco fiddled with the knobs until warm water came out of the shower head.

A strange expression flitted onto Harry's face: surprise, bewilderment, doubt, scrutiny, craving, all of the above or none of the above. As Draco's gaze trailed down Harry's body—scarred skin stretched across lean muscles—he caught sight of the white bandages around Harry's leg: a wound he knew nothing about.

Draco understood Harry was under no obligation to tell him everything. In the same vein, he had rarely, if ever, told Harry much about himself. Even though they had slept together, Harry was only his landlord, and he was only Harry's tenant. Their trust for each other was limited to casual conversation, one-sided confession, the giving of pain, and the exchange of pleasure. And yet...

"Draco—"

"If I shouldn't do anything for you, I'll do something for myself." Draco peered into Harry's eye and imagined seeing his own face reflected in its depth. "I want you. Here. Now. Or you can finish what you started the other day and choke me to death."

Harry gave him a long, hard look. Several beats later, he grabbed Draco by his shirt and kissed him. Without skipping a beat, Draco shoved him against the glass wall and forced his legs apart. Warm water rained down on Draco's back and soaked his clothes, but all his senses were directed at Harry. What he hungered for right now was not just sex. He wanted Harry, this man who wanted to be hurt, and he wanted him so badly it hurt.

With the urgency of a man dying of thirst, Draco sucked Harry's tongue. His breathing quickened, Harry ensnared Draco in his arms and tangled their tongues together. It was not enough, Draco thought, not nearly enough. Reaching behind Harry, he slid his fingers into the crack between Harry's cheeks; he was rewarded with a squirm and a low, purring noise. When they drew apart for air before locking their lips together again, Harry slipped his hand into Draco's trousers and took away the last of Draco's self-control.

They spent the entire night making love like animals who knew they would die tomorrow. After they did it once in the shower, they returned to Harry's room, rested for a while, and did it again on the bed.

Did Harry have an insatiable desire for him that night? Was he trying to feel alive using the most basic method? Was he looking for a distraction from his dark thoughts? Was he letting himself loose because there might not be a next time? Draco did not know the answer anymore. What he knew was that he and Harry were out of control—and he had no intention of stopping either of them from sinking.

With his uninjured leg hooked around Draco, Harry swayed his hips in time to Draco's rhythm. His expression was that of an addict high on his favourite drug. "Be rough to me," he panted out in plea. "Hurt me, Draco. I want to feel you."

Drawn into the dark pupil of Harry's glistening green eye, Draco did not remember whether or not he had complied with the request, for everything after that became a blur of heat and sweat and sighs and entwined bodies and pleasure mingling with pain.

In the morning, Draco left Harry sleeping on the bed and ventured outside. The air was mild with a touch of dew, and a light breeze chased away some of his lethargy. Beneath the hazy violet-blue sky, the street was quiet and deserted as always. It was as though someone had cast a spell over this forgotten part of the metropolis. The impression might not be far from the truth, for there were two wizards and a house-elf living in a house that did not exist on any map.

Rounding the corner, Draco reached the telephone box. Once he stepped inside, he fished out a coin from his pocket and called his boss at the cafe.

When the call ended, Draco hung up and let out a tired sigh. He had lied about having a family emergency in order to request for a day off, though whether or not his boss believed the story was another matter altogether. After what happened last night, he did not want to leave Harry on his own with only a house-elf for company.

Raindrops splattered without warning against the side of the telephone box. The sound reminded Draco of the scene in the shower last night: damp black hair, hands pressing on the misted glass, and a naked back almost as slippery as a fish. A sense of restlessness washed over him, but it had nothing to do with lust. He should go now; Harry was waiting at home.

In Harry's monastic bedroom, a wooden tray containing two sets of full breakfast was placed on the bed. Propped against the headboard, Harry ate a sausage with the appetite of someone who had woken from a long sleep. When Draco entered the room, Harry looked up and smiled; his bloodless face brought a pang of guilt to Draco's heart.

"Did I wake you up when I left? You should have gone back to sleep."

"I'll sleep later." Weariness dripped out of Harry's voice. "You should eat quickly, or you'll be late for work."

"I have a day off today, and I intend to spend it right here." Sitting down on the bed, Draco stared at the heaps of food on the tray and frowned. While Kreacher was never stingy with regard to food, today's serving was even more generous than usual.

"Is this what you always do after a long night?" Harry joked. Draco chose not to answer. Several beats later, Harry spoke again. "How's your..." He tapped on the right side of his neck.

In Draco's mind, the kiss mark he had seen in the mirror surfaced to the forefront: a purple bruise that stood out on his skin like the Dark Mark. If the culprit had been another man, Draco would have kicked him in the crotch. Harry, on the other hand, was a better fighter than he was, and it was never wise to attack a somewhat paranoid and somewhat unstable Auror.

"It doesn't hurt much. I'll put some ointment on it later. How are your wounds?"

"Kreacher helped me change the bandages. Everything seems to be all right." Harry reached for his cup, but he fumbled around for a beat or two before he managed to grab hold of it.

How much more damage can your body take before it breaks down? Draco wondered as he fixed his gaze upon Harry's eye patch. Agitated, he poured himself some tea. "I'm fine with rough sex once in a while, but it won't be much fun for either of us if I make you bleed."

There was a dazed look on Harry's face. "Oh, right. I couldn't tell if you were rough or not. I just thought it felt good and I wanted you to—" Overcome by embarrassment, he held the cup with both hands and took a sip of his tea. "That sounded odd, didn't it?" he muttered.

"Not really. I've heard stranger things."

"I'm sure you've heard many interesting stories while living in London." Harry stole a glance at Draco. "For someone who was raised in a pureblood family, you are adjusting surprisingly well on your own in the Muggle world."

"You do what you have to do to survive, that's all," Draco heard himself say.

In languor Harry shifted his legs beneath the blanket. "Perhaps I was wrong about you. You are hardier than you look, and you aren't all messed up like me."

The sound of water trickled into Draco's ear. Turning away from Harry, he looked out the window, beyond which was the storm grey sky; not a patch of blue or a tip of a roof was in sight. The window was open, and the noise he was hearing was only the sound of rain.

"I'm just better at hiding things. When you are busy trying to live and sleeping around, you don't think much about anything."

Without observing Harry's reaction, Draco picked up the fork and the knife. The pile of meat on his plate was an alarming sight to behold. "It appears Kreacher is trying to boost my energy so that I can keep you happy all day long," he drawled.

Harry chuckled, yet he seemed distracted by something else. "I'm sure he meant well for both of us. After all, breakfast is the most important meal of the day."

"House-elves can be such a meddlesome lot—not that I'm complaining." His stomach whining in hunger, Draco sliced the sausage into little pieces. "I like Kreacher's cooking, I like living here, and I like you. I'm not going to move out of the house."

The pitter-patter of rain grew so loud that Draco could not hear the clink of his knife striking the plate. Nevertheless, the noise gave him some comfort, for it drowned out the feeble voice of reason in his head. After putting down his fork and knife, he regarded Harry and waited for an answer.

With his lucid green eye Harry gazed at Draco, as if longing to hypnotise him and longing to be hypnotised. At length, he took a shaky breath and put down his cup. "I see." Those words came out as little more than a whisper.

A pregnant silence descended upon the room; seconds ticked by. When Harry stirred awake from his musing and let out a breath, the pensive mood passed on without resistance. "Maybe I should add a house rule: Do not attack the landlord in the shower."

"Well, I don't mind if you attack me in the shower instead," Draco said in jest, and in response Harry gave him a look of feigned indignation. "I've always had an affinity with water."

Raindrops had drenched the window sill and a section of the floor, but no one bothered to close the window. It was raining inside and outside this bare, spacious room, and the rain showed no sign of letting up any time soon.

Summer waned in a murmur of rain. Having recovered from his injury, Harry returned to active duty once more. On certain nights and on certain mornings, he would come down to Draco's room, or Draco would go up to his room. Every so often Harry left marks on Draco's skin or wanted him to be rough in bed. Every so often Draco misjudged how much Harry's body could take and ended up hurting him.

What Harry was doing was akin to substituting pleasure for pain, one drug for another. Although he had not mentioned the Cruciatus Curse or gotten seriously injured again, Draco could tell the thought of receiving pain and getting hurt haunted him at times. Likewise, Draco could not stop dreaming about drowning the white fish in the bathtub. However, there was a slight change to Draco's routine: Harry had become the only cure to his hunger.

In the meantime, Draco had learnt other things about Harry. For instance, Harry had a tendency to curl up on his side while he slept. When Draco asked him about it, Harry mumbled about how, as a child, he used to sleep in the cupboard under the stairs. Since he sounded sleepy when he said it, Draco was not sure if the reply was a joke or the truth.

Talking about nothing important, listening to records, sharing Kreacher's delectable concoction, taking a stroll on the empty street, joking around, making love—those hours Draco spent with Harry was like an eerie dream that could descend into a nightmare in a heartbeat.

As the harvest season loomed over the country, green foliage became tinted with red and orange. The cafe was selling apple pastries, and pumpkins were on display in various shops. The green apples Draco had brought home were baked into an apple pie by Kreacher. When Ron and Hermione came to visit, Ron ended up polishing off most of the pie by himself. As an apology Harry brought back more apples and treated Draco to an apple-flavoured kiss.

On the afternoon a certain someone walked into the cafe, a light drizzle enveloped the city in a gentle embrace. Dressed in a black suit, Harry took a seat in a corner and smiled at Draco, though his smile seemed strained. The top button of his shirt was undone, and his black tie was loosened. However pleasant a sight Harry's bare throat was, Draco knew he had gone to the funeral of a retired Auror that morning—suicide, or so he heard.

After placing a cup of latte on the table, Draco studied Harry's face, but he could find no traces of tears being shed. A beat later, it occurred to him that this was the first time Harry came to the cafe. "A rather gloomy day, isn't it?"

"It's worse over there." Harry gave Draco a quick smile in gratitude and took the cup. "I want to try the coffee you have been boasting about, and..." There was a glint of mischief in his eyes. "I want to see you in your uniform. The apron looks good on you."

With a faint smile playing about his lips, Draco held up a corner of his black apron like a dancer about to take a curtsy. "I can wear this at home if you like." His co-worker coughed somewhere off to the side, and Draco dropped the playful tone. "Are you going home after this?"

"I have to take care of something at the office first, but it shouldn't take too long." In undisguised wonder Harry peered at the white angel floating on the surface of a sea of coffee. "There's no magic involved here, is there?"

"In the sense as you and I know it? No. It took me a while to master this the old-fashioned way."

"Don't you think the old-fashioned way is far more impressive? I like it better this way." Raising the cup to his lips, Harry drank a mouthful, and the furrow on his brow disappeared at last. "It's delicious. It must taste even better if I can feel how warm it is." Wistfulness flashed onto his face, but it was gone in the next beat. "I should've come by sooner."

"It's good enough that you are here now," Draco whispered.

Taken aback, Harry stared at Draco for a moment before turning away, his eyes downcast. The angel in the cup had lost its legs, and the rest of its body was dissolving like a certain lovelorn mermaid at daybreak. "Too bad that this doesn't last very long."

"A latte is meant to be drunk, or there would be no meaning. I can make you another one if you want. You'll have to pay for the second cup too, of course."

Harry let out a snigger. "Is this a marketing ploy?"

"Why, you found me out." Draco shrugged his shoulders. Their little exchange was so ordinary that it could have been lifted from any love story, yet their relationship was built upon something a little warped and a little disquieting. "I should get back to work. Take your time."

"Yeah, I'll take my time and relax."

Draco smiled a wry smile and left Harry to his own devices. Business was as usual that afternoon: a handful of people drifted in and out of the cafe at regular intervals. However, something was a little different that day. Filtered through the clouds and the rain, grey light streamed into the cafe and softened the edge of reality.

After bringing a cappuccino to a customer, Draco cast a glance at the man sitting in the corner. Seated in front of the monochrome landscape mural, Harry, in his black suit, seemed to be on the verge of melting into the painting. When their eyes met, Harry gave Draco a boyish smile and a little wave, but beneath the charming surface lay a shadow of unrest.

Even though Draco was not a Seer, he could picture the scene that would unfold later that night: Harry's naked body moving on the bed, his lips murmuring a plea for pain and hurt and pleasure, and his green eyes gazing at Draco as though beholding a delirious dream. Nevertheless, Draco also knew that he would silence Harry before a word could tumble out of his mouth.

In the dead of night, Draco would dream he had returned to a certain room in Malfoy Manor, and the sound of water would flood his ear. Unable to resist the temptation, he would climb into the little white boat of death and dive into the cold water. Muffled silence would soon transform into the sighs of rain outside the window, and beyond the aquatic dream, he would feel Harry press up against him.

As voices of the present drifted into his ear, Draco let the thought sink to the bottom of the sea, drew a deep breath, and returned to Harry's side.

Finis.

A/N: As Draco has said, his relationship with Harry is a rather twisted form of romance. Perhaps he believes they couldn't save each other, that all they can do is to slow each other's descent while holding each other close. Is it a good thing or a bad thing? I'll leave it for you to decide. Thank you very much for reading.