Author's Note: Hello there! I've been out of the loop for quite a while but I'm back. I think!

Well, first things first. I'd like to thank everyone who has read, reviewed and/or favorited my stories even though I was gone for a hiatus. You guys are awesome. I always check my email and I always get giddy when I see I had fooled people into believing I write good enough. Kidding! Thank you all for the support and I hope I get to write these so many great ideas in my head. And that you'll keep supporting me in this endeavor. Thank you.

I can't believe just how busy and utterly-boring my life had been. There just wasn't inspiration for me to write a story and stay up until morning, trying to finish it. There's just nothing. And rather than make something half-cooked, I just didn't write anything at all. Sorry. But I hope this one makes it up for everything.

I've had this story on my mind for months now. I've actually written it weeks before but I can't seem to find the right time. I guess now's the right-est time there will ever be so I've decided to upload it. Tell me what you think, okay?

xoxo,

elphaba's wicked heir

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. The characters and the original stories they are in are not mine. Sadly.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Moonlight, Starlight

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Slipping on a robe over his pajama-clad body, Harry Potter got up from the bed. The springs creaked softly, as if understanding his lack of sleep. The warm feel of the carpet beneath his feet is foreign; he used to love the cold tiled floor of his old home. Without so much as a glance to the sleeping figure of his husband, Harry made his way to the veranda.

The night air was crisp. There was no actual wind whipping but still Harry found himself shivering. The trees in the distance were bathed in a light shadow, like turrets of a magical castle sprouting from the ground. The continuous and rather calming sound of a stream nearby pervaded the air. The cacophony of different insects was ringing softly, a ghostly orchestra playing encore especially for him.

Harry put his hand on the railing and stared at the distance. Everything seemed mysterious and creepy for the moon was nowhere to be seen. Silently, he Summoned a pack of cigarettes from the vanity inside the room, catching it easily in his outstretched hand. He lit one, took a deep drag and exhaled through his nose. Perhaps he should ask Ron to come teach him how to puff those shapes again.

He looked up at the star-strewn sky and blew a cloud of smoke at the tiny twinkling light directly above him. He smiled as he offered the star a cigarette. He received a wink in reply. Harry laughed, quite loudly. Fighting back tears, he fumbled for another stick, lighting it with trembling hands. He still couldn't make Edward smoke. Pity.

It's been three years since he first offered him a smoke in the sky.

It was a sunny Sunday afternoon. Harry was lounging in the couch of his house, feet propped up on the coffee table. He was flicking through a glossy magazine, reading about the latest scandal of one of the Holyhead Harpies' Chasers. He though the whole distasteful affair was pointless. Who in their right mind would not pack up and leave their abusive partner behind after more than three counts of domestic violence? He shook his head as he continued to scan the article.

Then a ball of Patronus light came through the roof and landed lightly on the floor in front of Harry. Standing up abruptly and trying to look as dignified as possible in one of Edward's ridiculously large worn shirts and his own boxers with drawings of little owls in black and white, Harry wondered where it came from. An eagle, giving off a whitish-blue hue, materialized before him. A moment later, Harry was on his feet, summoning a coat. Another second has passed and he has Apparated to St. Mungo's.

When he has finished his third cigar, he scoffed at the memory. He could still hear the clipped tone of the tiny voice that issued from the wretched Patronus' beak. Unfortunately, the words became jumbled up in his mind. All he could remember was hearing his name, Harry James Potter, a harried 'we are very sorry to inform you…', and his name, Edward Anthony Masen Cullen. Then of course, St. Mungo's infamous morgue.

The grief that Harry felt was other-worldly. They said he was in hysterics the whole time in St. Mungo's and only when Hermione and Ron came bursting through the door of the stone-cold morgue did Harry let himself be pulled away from Edward's body. He could not believe he could look so peaceful, as if he was only sleeping. He wanted to punch him, to slap him, to kick him so hard that he would open his warm amber eyes, pinch Harry's forehead and say in that irritating manner of his that even a child would not find those painful, let alone a vampire. He wanted him to wake up, tell him it's all a joke and that he's finally going home, with him. He wanted him to get up from the cold metal slab where he lay, unmoving, sweep Harry in his arms and take him away. Not this. Not a marble-like statue of the man he has loved. Not the pale and clammy face of Edward. No. It seemed hardly fair. Edward looked serene in sleep while Harry was rented into two.

He later found out he was not like others. He slept soundly and ate well. His dreams were always of Edward, of course. Maybe that's why he preferred to sleep the days away. He would eat alone, talking with Edward in his head. It was just like before. Only, it wasn't. Edward is dead. And nothing can bring him back. Reality hurt like a bitch. Harry found out he could not arrange the wake or the funeral. Hermione and Luna did. But not before he threw another tantrum, thrashing wildly against Ron and Neville, not wanting to see the finishing of arrangements for Edward's rites. It seemed so final. As if he would never come back.

He was jolted out of his reverie by the sound of soft material thudding against the cold granite floor of the veranda. Turning his head at the source of the sound, he saw Draco, kneeling in front of him, setting down a pair of warm slippers at his feet. He has dark circles underneath his eyes from being kept awake by Harry's nightmares. They always seem to come more frequently as the days approach any significant date with connection to Edward. But Draco never complained. Draco looked at the star twinkling above them and smiled wearily. He looked at Harry.

'It's that time of the year again, isn't it?'

Harry saw a flicker of lost life in Draco's soft gray eyes, and he found himself ducking his head, avoiding those searching and still-loving eyes, after everything he put Draco through. He held his hand out, as if to reach out and touch Harry's arm but, perhaps realizing the foolishness of the act, he let his hand fall at his side. He shuffled inside, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.

Unblinkingly, he put on the slippers.

Draco was there. He reminded Harry to eat, to bathe, to live. He called two of his house elfs to clean the house up. Draco told Hermione and Ron, as well as the others, to go rest. That he would take care of Harry for awhile. He saw a flash of rage over Ron's face but Hermione's hand found the crook of his arm, restraining him. She gave him a very worn smile, but a smile nonetheless. Luna and Ginny led the group away. But not before stating a few half-hearted threats.

And take care of Harry, Draco did. He bought groceries, asked his elfs to cook, clean, and take care of the house. He soothed Harry when the nightmares came. He was there when Harry would stay up all night, staring out the moon. He would bring firewhiskey, sitting with Harry through the afternoon, quietly drinking the alcohol up in comfortable silence with him, until Harry is sleeping on the couch. Ron and the others come visit Harry's house everyday until they all approved of Draco and their one-of-a-kind companionship.

Draco was there, even when Harry wasn't.

Harry was rotating the band of glittering gold in his left hand. It was warm. But he was cold. So cold.

He still hasn't heard Draco return to bed. Maybe he went to the kitchen. Maybe he was watching the television. Maybe he fire-called their friends. Then Harry found out, he doesn't really care. He barely flinched at his heartlessness.

One day, Draco came home, to Harry's house actually. He has a bouquet of fresh flowers in hand. Harry was sitting in the couch, waiting for him. He took the flowers from Draco, replaced the ones from yesterday in the vase. Harry took Draco's hand, looking at the smooth skin. Then, Draco felt two drops of water hit his hand. He took Harry into his arms, and the tears stopped flowing. Harry looked at him questioningly. He couldn't resist it. He kissed him.

He felt Harry stiffen. But he did not pull away. Draco continued kissing him. Harry did nothing: he neither moved away nor kissed Draco back. Then, he pulled his head away, so that Draco's lips were touching his cheeks. They were wet. Harry's eyes were wet.

Later in the evening, when they were lying side-by-side in the guest room's bed, Draco stood up and wept. It wasn't his name Harry screamed when he came in his hand.

Wrapping the robe more tightly around his shoulders, he went inside. The soft glow of a candle made eerie shadows on the walls. Harry shivered. He walked slowly to the cabinet and knelt down.

Harry touched the surface of the locked drawer. It had an intricate design of flowers. His forefinger followed the etching almost reverently. He was smiling fondly. Harry unlocked the drawer, the click of the lock shattering the illusion of a hushed night. Tremblingly, he pulled it open.

A few months after their wedding, Harry found himself kneeling before the same cabinet. It held Edward's belongings. A few photos of him when he was a boy with his foster parents, Dr. Carlisle and Esme Cullen, were also there, as well as a framed photograph of Edward and Harry, both of them wrapped in layer after layer of clothing against the cruel biting December wind in Godric's Hollow as they laughed and kissed. Some clothes and accessories that Harry could not bring himself to give back to Edward's family or throw away were kept in that drawer, too.

Harry was crying, hugging Edward's favorite sweater (green with an embroidered 'E', a gift from Mrs. Weasley) close to his chest. He was sniffing it, wanting Edward's scent to flood his senses. He felt those strong arms around his sob-wracked body, as he rocked on his heels in their bedroom. He kissed it, almost fervently, silently apologizing for finding a compromise with another, while he lay alone in the ground. Harry wished he could lie beside him.

Harry found himself looking at their famed photograph. Harry looked so happy then. He wondered, what happened?

'You lost him,' a treacherous voice inside his head said timidly.

And he wept. Because he knew, after three years with a loving husband, it was still true. Because he knew, without a doubt, that it always will.

Draco found him there. On their bedroom floor, Draco found Harry weeping into the jacket that belonged to the man he could never replace. Even after forever.

Harry turned around, eyes puffy and red. Tears were streaming down his cheeks and his hair was a mess. And still, all Draco could think of was how beautiful he looked, bathed in moonlight. Even in sorrow. Harry's pale lips were trembling and, Draco knew, an apology was about to spill from them. He shook his head, stood up and went out. But before he closed the door behind him, he said two sentences.

'I don't mind sharing. Even with your past.'

He knew it wasn't fair. He wasn't being fair with Draco. Harry married him, and he was expected to give his heart, his soul, his everything to Draco. But he knows he can't. And, sadly, Draco knows that, too.

But still he lingers. He's still there. Then again, so is Edward. He is always there. Inside Harry. Where Draco could never be.

Harry knew it was cruel. To ask someone silently to give everything up and offer himself to a shell of a man. To watch that someone flail about your life, wanting even a scrap of something thrown his way. To know that it was all in vain. Because there's nothing left.

Harry has nothing left. But still, Draco is there.

Esme led him inside. Waft of cooking food from the kitchen assaulted Harry's nose. He grinned sheepishly. Alice must have told them.

He knew he could not put the meeting off any longer. It had been months. They've been trying to get hold of him, to talk to him. But Harry was good at avoiding them. He did not return their calls. He put wards around his house so that they will think he was always away when they came to visit. But the time has come.

The sweeping view of the forest from the living room was so familiar that Harry felt himself relax instantaneously. Emmett was occupying the couch, his head on Rosalie's lap, her perfectly manicured nails tracing designs on his head. He wolf-whistled, just like always. Then he stopped. It seemed improper, vulgar even, to whistle at Harry without Edward to throw a pillow at him. Harry stopped in his tracks. Suddenly, it became harder to breathe. Rosalie lightly slapped his forehead, her lips in a tight line, the rim of her eyes reddening. Emmett mouthed an apology, not quite meeting Harry's eyes, He nodded, knowing this was probably harder for them. He turned away.

Then, Alice bounded into the room, pulling Jasper along. Harry swiped his thumb over the corners of his eyes. Alice hugged him tightly, whispering 'Sorry.' Jasper clapped him on his back. Everyone now has their eyes trained on him. He fidgeted nervously.

He put down the box he was carrying at his feet. Suddenly, Esme ran into the room in a blur of color, enveloping Harry into a loving embrace. Then she was kneeling at his feet, hugging the box to her chest, whispering Edward's name in an unbroken chant of fevered motherly love. Harry masked the smell just enough so as not to disturb the senses of the family with their Edward's scent. Carlisle was at his side, shaking his hand and muttering a whispered thank you, then took hold of his wife's arm, leading her to their room.

Rosalie was purposefully avoiding his gaze. She looked at her nails and blew on them. An indication that she was overwhelmed with emotion, as Harry has noted before. Then, they all sat in a circle, silently remembering their memories with Edward.

It felt good, comforting even, to be in the company of those who can understand, to some extent. Esme insisted he eat dinner in the house, and he complied. Dinner was a subdued event, but it was definitely lighter than any day Harry spent alone, even in the company of his friends.

It was the first time Harry laughed again.

He tried not to think of the Cullen family. Harry could not bear what they think of him. After hearing about the preparations for the Malfoy – Potter Nuptial, Harry stopped going to their house every Thursday. He cannot face them, knowing they might think he has betrayed Edward. That he has forgotten him. That he was slowly moving on with his life, when they were all still grieving. They might think he was cheating on them, on him.

But he saw them there. At his wedding. He paled. Then they all smiled and nodded. Of course, they understood.

They knew they can't keep him tied down with Edward's grave forever. They knew he needed to move on. That with time, they knew they would, too.

Harry never told them that until now, he still hasn't.

Has it really been three years since he had known of Edward's death? Has it really been three years since he felt that first pull towards the grave?

The moon appeared from behind a group of clouds. It didn't really make much of a difference. It was still dark and Harry could barely see past the gate of their own Manor, But still, he was thankful for the moon's light. Even if he knew it was only a reflection of the sun's.

He put down his cigarette, its smoke floating around him in wisps. He sighed. There were tears in his eyes.

Did he really get up, morning after morning? Did he really eat, thrice or more a day? Did he really sort through their things, keeping what he can't bear to part with, throwing away what he can't bear to look at, separating what he knows never really belonged to him? Did he really pack their flat and move out? Did he really get a rotten but high-paying job at the Ministry? Did he really date, let alone marry, Draco Malfoy, setting aside the fact that he was his sworn enemy from school, knowing he still belonged to someone now six feet below the ground? Did he really go out to meet up with his old friends in the places they used to go to? Did he really shop for new clothes with Hermione and watch Quidditch games with Ron? Did he really feel hungry, bored, angry, content, horny? Did he really sleep, watch tv, work, take photographs, bathe, fuck?

Did he really survive?

He didn't know. He's not really sure.

When he woke up, he was tucked in their bed. Draco was there, smoothing out his hair. He smiled at Harry mildly. Then he got up from the stiff chair he was sitting on and went out the room.

Realizing that Draco put him into one of Edward's old sweaters, he rushed down stairs. He found Draco crying on the kitchen table. Harry approached tentatively. In his grief, he forgot how hard this must be for Draco. They both lost their loved ones. One lost to the arms of death. One lost to to the suffocating grief. Nothing in this situation was fair.

"Draco, thank you for being there." Draco looked up, his angular face showing surprise. He wiped his tears away but Harry caught his hands. He kissed them away. Harry fought off the feeling of betrayal in his part. It was Draco he was betraying. Harry is disgusted with himself. He never knew he could do this. Not to anyone, especially not to his husband. But then, he realized, as he opened his body to Draco, he has done this. For years now.

And he wondered how Draco could stomach him. How could Draco not feel disgust towards him?

It's okay to have the moon watch over me. But I guess I still want my sun back in my sky.

~fin.