For @drarrymicrofic prompt: “Sink” V2 wc 578
“It’s okay,” Harry whispers. “You don’t need—”
“It’s not,” Draco cuts in, voice hoarse. “I’m pathetic.”
The water in the tub hasn’t been warm for over an hour now. His fingers are pruney, skin puckered.
It’s been six weeks since the death of Vincent Crabbe. Complications from Fiendfyre inhalation. After years of suffering in silence, Crabbe had passed quietly in his sleep. A sudden loss to everyone who knew him.
Draco has been crying on and off since then, and Harry—patient Harry—has been a constant presence.
Knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around his legs, Draco rests his head against them. He feels small. Useless. Achingly sad.
He looks down at his toes and wiggles them once.
Then he snorts, because it reminds him of the time Crabbe got drunk during eighth year and transfigured bread rolls into shoes. They’d lacked structural integrity; his feet went straight through the fronts.
“You thinking about the bread shoes?”
Draco looks up. Harry is watching him, kind and soft.
“It was sourdough,” Draco says flatly, and leans into his knees.
From the corner of his eye, he clocks the movement—a flick of a wand—and the water heats instantly. Draco sighs as warmth seeps back into his bones. He isn’t cold anymore. He feels like he’s sitting in honey. In tea. In buttered crumpets.
He inhales. Harry’s magic smells of sage and earth. It grounds him.
There’s a shuffle. A soft thud. Clothes hit the floor.
Draco looks up just as Harry—naked—steps in behind him, guiding him gently forward. Harry sinks into the tub, water sloshing over the sides, and Draco leans back into his chest without thinking.
“It’s okay,” Harry says again, voice low.
“I wasn’t raised to grieve,” Draco says. When Lucius died, Draco cried for an hour and then moved on. This feels different. Deeper. Like an ache instead of a single, sharp stab. Like someone carved something vital out of him and left the space behind.
“Well, I'm telling you it's okay. It’s okay to grieve. To be angry. Crabbe was your best friend, and—” Harry takes Draco’s hands, threads their fingers together. “—it’s okay.”
The tightness in Draco’s chest worsens. His eyes burn.
“Remember when we got together?” Harry whispers.
“Remember when I told you I loved you? How long did it take for you to believe me?”
“A few weeks,” Draco says, confused.
They hadn’t even named what they were back then. Just months of fooling around, the war still raw in everyone’s minds.
“And when I asked you to move in?”
“What are you getting at—”
“How long did it take you to believe I meant it?” Harry presses.
Heat creeps up Draco’s cheeks. “A few months.”
“And this?” Harry’s thumb brushes the ring on Draco’s wedding finger. “How long?”
“A year,” Draco whispers.
“Exactly,” Harry says, lips near his ear. “It takes time for things to sink in for you. This is one of them.”
“It’s okay to grieve,” Harry continues. “To cry. To be angry. And if I have to tell you that a million times, I will.”
Draco turns into Harry’s chest, and the tears come hard and fast—salty, bitter, unstoppable. His body shakes as his heart finally gives in.
Harry warms the water again. And again.
He just keeps saying it, over and over, until it sinks in.
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