at all.

“Merlin, Harry.” Draco feels something building in his throat and he is afraid it is tears, so he busies himself by clawing his way out of the blankets and lurching over to the doorway, moving from chair to chair for support. (He and Ge had positioned all the furniture so he can walk all the way around the room on his own.) “What took you so long?”

Draco sinks down to sit in one of the arm chairs that Molly had conjured with her wand the last time the Weasleys came to visit, and Harry just keeps staring at him, right until the moment where he drops to his knees in front of Draco and presses his lips down onto Draco’s bandaged knuckles. It was scaring him, the way that Harry still wasn’t speaking, so he’s almost glad that when Harry finally talked. “We got them.” There is no need to ask who they were, or ask for any further explanation of where all these fresh injuries hade from. “We got all of them. Every last one that hurt you.”

There’s a cut underneath Harry’s right eye, and Draco’s hands find their way to it, following the pathway of the wound with his thumb. In a few weeks, this would only be another scar, but in some way, Draco knows this one belongs to him. Is because of him. Is owed to him, somehow.

“Is it over?” Draco wants to fall into Harry, to hug him. “Is this it?”

He wants it to be over. He wants to be done feeling afraid. He wants to be done with hospitals and guard duty and feeling that each good bye you have with the people you love is your last one, done with the feeling that this world is a terrible place. He wants someone to tell him that he finally gets to be at peace.

“It’s over.” Harry said, and he raises his own hands to trace over Draco—at the bandages on his chest, the flowers that Luna had drew, the cuts curling up his neck and behind the back of his ear from the awkward way he had been laying on the ground. “It’s really the end this time.”

“You’re done leaving me?” Over the past few days, Draco hadn’t wanted to think too closely about what his continued absence meant, but the possibilities spun around his mind now—that he might not want Draco after all, that Harry was never going to be able to see him again, that something had happened to Harry, that while everyone was busy saving Draco Harry had went and got hurt saving someone else. “Because I don’t want to wake up without you ever again.”

“Done leaving,” Harry promises, and this time Draco really does fall into him, pain in his ribs be damned, and when he kisses him, he is not thinking of all the reasons they shouldn’t, he is only thinking of the reasons they should—about how all their good-byes seem like they are the last good byes, about how there is all kinds of pain in this world and they don’t need to give more to themselves when it is not needed, about how he has sat here in this room alone and only thought of the what ifs, and Draco is so, so done with what ifs. He is done dancing around this thing between them, even if it means one of those terrible what-ifse true. Draco has decided he needs to stop avoiding his chance at a happy ending when everyone in his life is so desperately trying to give him one.

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