A/N: Helloooo. To be honest, this is my first time writing a Harry Potter ff at all – but I've adored Harry/Draco for so long, I couldn't resist! I shamelessly love fluff, and well-written clichés, and all of that good stuff. Don't vomit if it's too horrible, pleasu D: Read and review – tell me what you think! This is going to be a two-three-shot, so another chapter or two are coming soon!

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. It belongs to JK Rowling.

He could hear the sounds clearly – the running shower, the soft pitter-patter as water hailed against the walls, the quiet rustle as the inhabitant finished his morning cleanse. He could hear it all, almost painfully so, the signs of the other whom he shared his abode with – he could tell when Harry had finished his shower, could tell when the other began to shave, could tell when he had finished and was in the midst of getting dressed.

Draco remained stone still, half-huddled in the mass of plush white sheets, grey eyes blinking languidly as he stared pointedly at the bathroom door. Slender arms draped themselves about his legs, drawn up to his chest, and he felt distinctly uncomfortable resting his back against the wooden headboard of the bed, but he couldn't find it within him to actually get up and move. Instead, he waited, quietly, tensely, for Harry to emerge from the bathroom-

Click.

The door swung open, revealing Harry Potter, in all of his post-shower glory, the steam from the bathroom coming to swirl behind him. In the middle of returning his glasses to his eyes, Harry strode to their closet and pulled out his Auror robes – all the while, explicitly avoiding Draco's eyes, which seemed to follow him almost…forlornly. But the blonde blinked all that away within moments, because by Merlin, he was Draco fucking Malfoy, and Malfoys didn't-

Well, for one, they didn't shack up with a certain Harry fucking Potter for four years, nor did they act like smitten, lovesick bumbling fools whenever said Harry fucking Potter was around.

But all that aside, Malfoys didn't act hurt, or, or-

"Bye, Harry – have…have a nice day," Draco hurried to murmur softly, tentatively, when he saw that the other was done getting ready, and had been ready to leave the bedroom.

He managed to keep the wince from his features when Harry merely gave him a passing glance, a jerky nod, and continued to rush out the door.

Draco sunk into the bed, brows furrowing and lips trembling as he struggled to remain quiet and still, rather than rushing out after Harry – rather than demanding to know what is it that he'd done, rather than screaming at Harry to actually tell him what Draco had done wrong, instead of avoiding Draco as though he were some disease.

Which is how Harry had been treating Draco, these past two weeks. As though Draco were something he shouldn't touch, shouldn't speak to, much less look at. Something had gone horribly, irrevocably wrong, somewhere along the way, and Draco didn't know what. And he knew something was wrong.

Because if it hadn't been-

"Bye, Harry," Draco murmured, still half asleep, tufts of blonde locks tousled as he shifted from within the mass of jumbled sheets. He rubbed idly at one eye-

-and allowed his lips to curve into a bright, bright smile when he felt a pair of lips descent upon his own, when the scent of musky sandalwood and aftershave invaded his senses, when locks of unruly dark hair tickled his skin. He laughed, then, when Harry nipped playfully at his nose, bringing his arms around to wrap around Harry's neck.

"Hi, Harry," he said, then, eyes blinking fully open into playful green.

"Hi, love," reached his ears, and even then, after years of hearing the same phrase, he could feel his heart fluttering in his chest happily. "Sorry; I didn't want to wake you up."

Draco only shook his head softly. "S'okay. I like seeing you off," he managed to whisper, before leaning in to trace the curve of Harry's chin with his tongue. That was greeted by a soft groan, and the feeling of Harry pressing him down against the sheets again – right where he'd just emerged from.

"Draco, at this rate, I'll be late – again."

Draco only smiled wickedly, mirth twinkling in grey eyes. "Oh, bollocks. Those twats at your workplace won't mind. What'll they say to the great Harry Potter?"

Harry sighed, smile never once leaving his features. "Something along the lines of…' , please do keep your devilishly beautiful boyfriend from distracting you in the mornings, because we've suffered another casualty due to your absence-'"

And the rest of his words were muffled, as Draco pressed his lips against Harry's, laughing.

That had only been a mere two weeks ago. And now – now, Harry wouldn't even look at him. Quietly, Draco stared at the other half of the bed, where Harry usually slept; with a sigh, he lay back down, on Harry's side, breathing deeply as the other's scent was welcomed into his senses.

He missed Harry.

Harry strode into his office, an impressive swirl of his robes fluttering behind him, a dark expression scrawled across his features. The door slammed hard enough to startle those within hearing distance, and Harry felt a sort of primal satisfaction at the damage. "Bye, Harry – have…have a nice day."

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He'd so dearly wanted to gather Draco in his arms, kiss his cheek, coax out one of those smiles he'd come to so love, tell him that he'd miss him-

But he couldn't. And just the memory of hooded grey eyes and a painfully obvious disappointment lingering within them was enough to have Harry bury his head in his arms, a muffled groan escaping his lips.

"Trouble in paradise, mate?"

Harry's head shot up, brows raised. Ron stood in his office, grinning jovially, bright red hair invading Harry's line of sight. However Ron managed to get into his office so quietly got Harry every time, really.

"No. I'm fine, Ron," he managed, before reaching hastily for a paper to sign, for a file to read – anything to distract his mind.

"Looking for this?" Ron waved a file merrily in the air, and Harry almost groaned again. Instead, he sighed, and leaned back in his seat.

"Yes, Ron. May I please have the file?"

Ron's grin widened.

"Nope."

Harry's scowl deepened.

"Well, I guess you'll allow the culprit to get away with another five murders while we dawdle here."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Please, Harry, half the cases we get nowadays aren't nearly as exciting. I only wish."

Harry's brow quirked.

Ron blanched. "You know what I mean."

Another sigh from Harry.

Dropping the grin, Ron came forward, seating himself comfortably atop Harry's desk, ignoring the groan of protest as a few papers were crumpled beneath his weight. "C'mon mate, you've been an absolute terror to work with these past few weeks; and I've put up with Fred and George for ages, so when I say you've been a terror, imagine what you've been like to everyone else."

But when those words reached Harry's ears, all he could imagine when he heard 'everyone else' was the image of Draco, huddled alone on their vast bed, pointedly hurt eyes staring at Harry. That sent him capitulating to his misery all over again, and his hands came to pull harshly at his hair in frustration.

Ron's brows rose. "No offense mate, but you seem a little loopy, if I may say so myself-"

"I'm not loopy, Ron!" Harry finally burst, heaving great breaths.

"Then tell me what's making you loopy, Harry!"

Harry muffled a roar of exasperation as he buried his face in his arms, again. Ron rolled his eyes, and groped for his wand – because he needed to call Hermione, apparently, because he'd never been much good at this 'talking' mumbo jumbo.

Draco mused that perhaps – perhaps this was just the manifestation of his fears all along. Because Harry…Harry was Harry, and Draco had always assumed that one day, Harry would wake up, and realize that he didn't really want Draco after all, once he'd actually thought things through. Because Draco was Draco Malfoy, the pitiful idiot who'd taken the Dark Mark, who'd been a coward throughout the war, who really only had his fortune to be proud of. Draco wasn't strong, or reliable, or admirable – he wasn't any of the things Harry was.

He was Harry bleedin' Potter for Merlin's sake.

But somewhere along the way, between the constant "I love you"s Harry had whispered in his ear, between the flowers and chocolate and little gifts Harry sent for no reason at all, between Harry's delight whenever Draco entered his vision – Draco had fooled himself into thinking that perhaps Harry would want to keep him after all. That perhaps Harry loved him as much as Draco did him, that this happiness would be permanent.

He hadn't learned his lesson, he supposed, when Lucius was busy spouting nonsensical shite he believed was true guides to life. Because one of the things he'd always heard, to the point where he felt sick, was that all good things came to an end.

Still, he-

Draco didn't want to let go of Harry. Even now, when Harry seemed insistent on staying as far away from Draco as humanly possible, Draco still wanted to cling on.

He knew Harry wouldn't break things off first; because he was the ever-noble Gryffindor, the prat. He would never have it in his heart to end things, and Draco knew that it was up to him to bring this misery to an end. He knew that he should. That this was what Harry needed, that Harry deserved someone better, prettier, smarter – maybe a pretty girl who could give him the family that he'd always craved.

But Draco, Draco would be lost without Harry, and he just – he just wanted to be selfish, for a little while longer, and hang on to the only happiness he'd ever really known, for just a little more-

And then, Draco caught sight of one of the pictures in the frames by Harry's bedside. The only one he'd ever had of his parents, where infant Harry was held lovingly by both his mother and father-

-and he felt an inexplicable sort of guilt lance through his chest.

He knew. He knew, what sort of things Harry had given up to be with him. He'd given up the family he'd so desperately wanted, even as a child; he'd given up an easy life, where he could simply take a wife (that damned Weaselette, for one) and have thousands of pretty green-eyed children and live happily ever after. He dealt with the constant media, that seemed intent of hounding himself and Harry for more quotes, for more 'comments' on their relationship – former Death Eater reformed, and the Golden Boy himself. He dealt with Draco's mood swings with a sort of unending patience that Dumbledore himself couldn't possibly possess, dealt with Draco's possessiveness, dealt with Draco being Draco.

It really shouldn't have surprised Draco all that much that Harry had finally realized that he'd had enough.

And Draco, Draco loved Harry dearly enough to – to let things go first. Because Harry would never be able to do it himself, not even when it killed him from the inside.

He only wished that he'd had a little more time – that he'd been able to try a little harder to make Harry as happy as he'd made him. And then, the first tear fell, then the second, and after that, he couldn't stop himself, and could only sit brokenly in the center of the living room, wishing desperately for time to reverse itself.

That day, when Harry came home from work, all that greeted him was a small, simple note – Goodbye, Harry. Sorry, and thanks. Draco.

It was only after his trembling hand lowered the note, that he noticed all of Draco's things – from the little teacup he so adored, to the hideous fountain he'd insisted on installing in the living room – were gone.