For @drarrymicrofic prompt: âSinkâ V2 wc 578
âItâs okay,â Harry whispers. âYou donât needââ
âItâs not,â Draco cuts in, voice hoarse. âIâm pathetic.â
The water in the tub hasnât been warm for over an hour now. His fingers are pruney, skin puckered.
Itâs 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 Harryâpatient Harryâhas 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. Theyâd lacked structural integrity; his feet went straight through the fronts.
âYou thinking about the bread shoes?â
Draco looks up. Harry is watching him, kind and soft.
âIt was sourdough,â Draco says flatly, and leans into his knees.
From the corner of his eye, he clocks the movementâa flick of a wandâand the water heats instantly. Draco sighs as warmth seeps back into his bones. He isnât cold anymore. He feels like heâs sitting in honey. In tea. In buttered crumpets.
He inhales. Harryâs magic smells of sage and earth. It grounds him.
Thereâs a shuffle. A soft thud. Clothes hit the floor.
Draco looks up just as Harryânakedâsteps 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.
âItâs okay,â Harry says again, voice low.
âI wasnât raised to grieve,â 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.
âWell, I'm telling you it's okay. Itâs okay to grieve. To be angry. Crabbe was your best friend, andââ Harry takes Dracoâs hands, threads their fingers together. ââitâs okay.â
The tightness in Dracoâs chest worsens. His eyes burn.
âRemember when we got together?â Harry whispers.
âRemember when I told you I loved you? How long did it take for you to believe me?â
âA few weeks,â Draco says, confused.
They hadnât even named what they were back then. Just months of fooling around, the war still raw in everyoneâs minds.
âAnd when I asked you to move in?â
âWhat are you getting atââ
âHow long did it take you to believe I meant it?â Harry presses.
Heat creeps up Dracoâs cheeks. âA few months.â
âAnd this?â Harryâs thumb brushes the ring on Dracoâs wedding finger. âHow long?â
âA year,â Draco whispers.
âExactly,â Harry says, lips near his ear. âIt takes time for things to sink in for you. This is one of them.â
âItâs okay to grieve,â Harry continues. âTo cry. To be angry. And if I have to tell you that a million times, I will.â
Draco turns into Harryâs chest, and the tears come hard and fastâsalty, 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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