bottom_draco | Fest Fic: It's a Cold and it's a Broken Hallelujah

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Title: It’s a Cold and it’s a Broken Hallelujah
Author:

khasael
Prompt: #128 by

plotting_pen
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~3000
Beta::

mathnerd
Warnings: angst, non-explicit sexual scenes, use of the F-word, no happy ending, songfic
Summary: After a tumultuous break-up, Draco reflects on his life before, during, and after his relationship with Harry, revisiting both the good and the bad moments, and finally is able to make his peace with what was and what he has lost.
Author’s Notes: There are so very many versions of this song out there (Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah), and all of them contain a different combination of verses. I stuck with the ones the prompter listed, and the song shaped the fic. The prompter wanted “a sense of brokenness”, and that is what I went with. The ending is not for those of you who only want fluff/overtly happy ends to your fics, but it does have some uplift to it. If you’re familiar with the song at all, it shouldn’t be much of a surprise.

The water dripped in the kitchen sink, the only sound in the silence, but Draco couldn't be bothered to turn the tap.

He sat on the steps that led up to the next floor, where their bedroom (his bedroom now, his mind whispered insidiously) waited, clothes tossed about and bedding rumpled. Draco did not want to go back in there. He would hear the things he was trying to forget, and he did not think he could face that cold, empty room just now. He could not even straighten up. Something about that seemed much too final.

There were no footsteps in the hall, no sounds of movement from the kitchen, no voices in the sitting room. It had been two hours, and he was starting to realise that no matter how long he sat there, waiting, what he was waiting for was never going to happen.

That was it, then. It was over.

With a ragged sigh, Draco stood and went to make the bed.

* * *

I’ve seen this room and I’ve walked this floor. I used to live alone before I knew you.

Harry was everywhere in this house, even when he wasn’t.

It was an impossibly long walk to the bedroom. Most days, it wasn’t more than a few dozen short steps, taken quickly and without thought. But now, each of those steps had their own meaning.

In the days before Harry, this place had been austere. There had been white walls at first, and then tasteful paintings of the countryside. There was furniture and a radio, but none of it spoke ‘Draco Malfoy’, or even ‘Draco’, as the Manor had been Malfoy Manor from its hedges and the great iron gate to the spare bedrooms and the dungeons. There was no spark of personality, no indication that a life was lived within the walls. It had been a house, but not a home. It was a place to live, to store his things, to sleep at night. It provided safety and shelter, but no real comfort.

And then Harry had barged his way into Draco’s life, moving with as little grace in that as he ever had. He left things strewn about, out of place, surfaces cluttered; Auror’s robes were flung across the back of the chairs and Quidditch magazines lay atop the ottoman. Harry’s silver Auror badge turned up in the oddest places, and there was a brief whirlwind each morning as he strove to find it. Draco had complained, but not really minded.

Now those things were gone. Surfaces were bare and clean, but it wasn’t right. It was not the same as it was with Harry, with signs of him everywhere. And somehow, it was not as it used to be, in the time before Harry had come into his life. The clutter was gone, but the feeling was different. The place had been bare then, or perhaps simple. Now it was…empty. A vacuum.

Draco stopped at the door to the bedroom. If it was this bad out in the hall, how might it be through the archway?

* * *

I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch, but love is not a victory march. It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah.

Sometimes Draco wondered if Harry would ever outgrow that drive—that need—to deal with something by conquering it. It was always all about victory and loss, and Harry never seemed to get it through his thick skull that not everything was a war against something else.

There were times he had loved it, of course. Harry (still simply ‘Potter’ back then) had often fixed him with that stare, the one that smouldered hotter than could possibly be safe. It had taken Draco a while, but he had finally figured it out—Harry was assessing him at first and then trying to figure out the best course of action to attain his goal.

There were tender moments—dozens, perhaps hundreds—but those had come later. There were evenings that held nothing but whispers and touches and gifts that had been slipped onto the pillow next to his for him to find when he woke. There had been a cool hand across his forehead when Draco was ill and a warm bath for them to slip into when the nights were cold. There had been gentleness and care, but those had taken time in coming.

It had all begun, it had all been over, from the moment when Harry had thrown Draco down atop his bed, grinning down at him with that look that made Draco think battle lust, and taken him, finally proving to them both that Harry had won.

* * *

Well there was a time when you let me know what’s really going on below. But now you never show that to me do you?

“What do you want?” Harry had asked late one night as Draco stood in the doorway to the study.

Draco remembered the distance in his voice, something he had missed at the time. No, he hadn’t missed it. He had ignored it. “Nothing.”

“That’s a lie, Draco, and we both know it. You’ve been giving me that look for weeks now. I can’t take it anymore. What is it?”

Words had bubbled within him, questions and accusations and pleas, but he swallowed them down deep, ignoring the way the jagged bits tore at his throat. When was the last time they had really had a conversation? They had spoken, but there were fewer meanings behind the words. They were nothing more than hollow outlines, sounds to fill the silence and nothing more. Harry may have been in the room with him, but he was never really there anymore.

He could remember vividly, then and even now, how open Harry used to be. It was the little things—talking about his day at work, mentioning something he had seen, or even just a quick note by owl to say how things were going when they were apart. But even more than those, Draco had loved the moments late at night, when nothing mattered but the two of them, exchanging whispers and touches in the dark.

Merlin, how he had missed those. Quietly, not wanting to start another argument, Draco had shook his head and answered. “Nothing, Harry. Sorry to have bothered you.”

* * *

But remember when I moved in you and the holy dove was moving too and every breath we drew was hallelujah.

They had fucked for months before they made love for the first time.

It had been a cool night not long before the leaves changed colour, and Draco remembered thinking that it was nearly time for things to change again, for the world to take on a different, barren look before it was reborn once more. Harry had come home looking exhausted and broken and Draco had gone to him, wanting to take that look away.

“It’s all right,” Draco remembered saying quietly as he knelt next to Harry on the mattress, and then Harry had turned to him and hung his head.

“No. It’s not. But it can be.”

Draco had not known what that meant, but he reached out anyway, undoing Harry’s robes and sliding both hands down, watching as the robes fell away from Harry’s shoulders. Harry had sighed and let Draco undress him slowly. When Harry was ready for bed, Draco had slid beside him, pressing his chest to Harry’s back and planting soft kisses up Harry’s spine.

Harry had turned to face him, his face naked and open. “Make it all right,” he had whispered, and Draco had only smiled and kissed him as gently as he knew how. This was not the forceful Harry that had shared his bed, the aura of power that was so commanding and so ingrained cloaking him. This was the man underneath, the one Draco had thought lived inside, finally feeling safe enough to show himself.

They had moved slowly, nothing at all like their previous nights together, and instead of being sure and purposeful, Harry’s touches had been light and wanting, equally as desperate as Draco thought his might be.

Draco vividly remembered the feel of Harry’s hands caressing his chest, touch almost reverent when it traced the scars that had faded with time. He remembered lying on his back, Harry’s silhouette framed by moonlight as he entered Draco slowly, and the shudder that had run through them both as the wind howled and they moved in tandem. Draco had known lust before, had known desire and pleasure, but that night had awakened him to more.

Every breath he took, every beat of his heart, had all been for Harry. It was sublime and torturous and he knew nothing in his life could ever compare again. And he knew Harry felt the same.

* * *

Well maybe there’s a god above but all I’ve ever learned from love was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you.

Draco smoothed the covers over the bed and plumped both pillows. If he didn’t know better, he would think that things were set right, just as they should be. But to someone who knew what to look for, the scene was… off.

The bed was straightened, and as long as Draco only focussed on that, things would be fine. But once his eyes drifted to the floor, the illusion shattered. Clothes were still strewn about, mostly Draco’s things, tossed about as Harry had taken as many of his own belongings as he could manage. But mostly it was the things that were missing. The framed photograph of the two of them at Pansy’s wedding, the one they had not even known about until she gave them a copy. In it, they had been standing together at the edge of the garden, pressed closely together, hands joined. They stood still for a moment, until Harry dipped his head and placed a soft kiss on the back of Draco’s neck. Draco saw it every morning, looked at it for reassurance to know this wasn’t some dream, but now it was gone.

Gone as well was the pewter stag Draco had gifted him on their first anniversary, a nod to Harry’s Patronus. It was always at Harry’s bedside, one of the few things that could always be expected to be in its place. As he bent to straighten the hem of the duvet, he stopped. Harry had not taken it with him. It was there, on the floor, discarded as if it meant nothing, had not reduced Harry to tears when he had seen it. Draco ignored the ripping feeling in his chest.

He didn’t even know how it had come to this. One minute it had been a conversation about attending an event for the Ministry or the Aurors or Harry’s work, and then it had been an argument about how things had changed between them, and the next thing Draco knew, they were hurling insults at each other. He had seen the final blow coming. He knew the look on Harry’s face, the one that went from livid to deadly calm within the span of seconds. Before Harry could deliver the final line, the one that would send Draco’s world crashing down around him, Draco beat him to the punch.

“We’ve been fooling ourselves all along. There’s nothing here between us.”

Harry had gone pale; his hands limp at his sides. And then the colour, that furious crimson, had hit, and it was more than just insults being hurled through the air. “So that’s it, is it?” Harry had shouted, tossing aside a photo album. “Regrets?”

“Nothing but.” It wasn’t true, not even close, but it was meant to take Harry down before he could take Draco down instead. It was the only way he could get through this. It was always like this, in the end. No relationship of his had ever gone right.

“Fine.” Harry had begun tossing things into a bag, items flying everywhere as he cast furious spells, and all Draco could do was stand there and watch it happen. He may as well have been struck mute. Harry said nothing more, no final goodbye, before walking out. There had only been that look tossed over his shoulder, the one that said there was no going back, and then he had been gone. Draco kept waiting for there to be more, but there wasn’t. There never was.

He sat down heavily, wrinkling the duvet. That was it. He was the common factor. He wasn’t equipped for a healthy relationship. Anytime there had been even the slightest chance at keeping something good, he had sabotaged it. He was too proud at the wrong moments, too co-dependent in others. Whether that sabotage was intentional or not, Draco did not know. Perhaps he never would.

* * *

I did my best, it wasn’t much. I couldn’t feel so I tried to touch. I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you.

“What is it you want from me, Potter?” The question was a surprise to them both, coming as Harry had gotten up to refill his nightly glass of Firewhisky. It had been a hard day for the Aurors, someone injured on the job, and that meant it was a two-drink night. Draco had not thought about the question, not planned it in any way. He had blurted it out in a moment of silence, not aware he had even been thinking it.

Harry had looked down at him, head cocked to the side. “What do you mean by that?”

“It’s occurred to me that I am not exactly a terrific catch. Why? Why are we doing this? What’s in it for you? Is it just the sex?”

“Do you really think that’s all this is?” Harry’s voice had been soft, comforting even without needing words, and Draco had been unable to meet his eyes.

“I... don’t know.”

“Is it just sex to you?”

“No.” It had been the only thing he was sure of.

“Then what is it?”

It was the same question he had just asked, unanswered still, but somehow he was able to see it differently this time. “I don’t have a name for it. It’s just that… I’m trying, Potter. I don’t know what I’m doing. I know I don’t have it right, that it’s probably just one wrong move after another. You had no reason to trust me, but you did.”

“Of course I did.” He had bent down and taken Draco’s chin in one hand. Draco smelled the tang of the liquor on Harry’s breath, warm and sharp, mingled with a scent he would know anywhere. “Malfoy. Draco. This is more than just something physical. I know it, and I know you know it as well. We’re both doing it the best we know how.” He had stroked one thumb along Draco’s jaw and bent in to kiss him, long and slow and deep, and Draco had let himself fall just far enough that he wondered if he could ever right himself.

* * *

And even though it all went wrong, I’ll stand before the Lord of Song, with nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah.

He was still off-balance. Things were once again clean, straightened. Rumpled clothing was safely tucked away, the broken glass was now a whole crystal vase again, empty and perched near the window. It was as if Harry had never been there. But Draco knew the truth. He had. And Merlin, how Draco wished he still was.

Harry was never coming back. It did not matter how sorry he felt, how much he wished he could take everything back. All those shouted insults stuck and could not be erased. Yes, he had regrets, but not the ones he had mentioned to Harry. He regretted saying that he had any in the first place.

In the end, he was not sorry for their time together, as imperfect as it had been. If he had the choice, he would do it over again, even if he knew he would still ultimately lose Harry. He would give thanks until his dying day that they had had the chance to share a life. Even if he had squandered it, had not learnt his lesson on time, he would not, now or ever, regret their time together.

And even if no one but him ever knew that, Draco knew the truth. He would proclaim it, if ever the chance presented itself. And if it never did, he would carry that truth in his heart, a lilting medley of passion and sorrow.

He reached into his pocket and retrieved the pewter stag he had tucked away while he cleaned. He stared at it for several moments. One little trinket. But one that said so much. He had had it commissioned, spent weeks trying to find an artist who could give him what he wanted. It had been worth it. The look on Harry’s face had said so.

He spelled the figurine smaller, conjured a little loop at its back and a thin silver chain to go with it. He let it lie in the palm of his hand for several moments, remembering the way Harry had turned it over in his hands, the way he had brought it up to the light to examine it, the way he had whispered “thank you” in a voice that cracked, and the way Harry had kissed him, his eyelashes damp on Draco’s face.

Swallowing hard, Draco lifted the chain and slipped it over his head, letting the stag rest atop his chest. It was a literal weight in place of the figurative one, a reminder he never wanted to lose. He would carry it forever.