Bizzy Bee's

If Harry Potter had ever loved anyone, it would always be Draco Malfoy.

Perhaps not at the start, not in first year and not in sixth year. When was it, when they started talking?

Oh, right. When Draco's wife, Astoria had died, and Harry's wife, Ginny had left him.

A help group, you say?
Well, no. The truth was, that Harry had two kids and Draco had one. Both men had jobs at the Ministry of Magic, both could only find one playgroup.

Bizzy Bee's.

They had both rocked up, rushed and needing to drop off their kids. Though, of course, it wasn't as simple as that. James was too big, Albus didn't want to play with anyone except his older brother, and (Harry guessed, at the time) Scorpius had been too socially awkward.

They ran into eachother, surnames were traded like venom soaked apologises. It made Harry feel old, when had they stopped being so young? When had 'Potter' come out dried, wrung, and lost of all meaning?

Especially from Draco's lips.

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

Please stop, he's too old for old mutterings. He needed peace, he needed rest. He had lived a good life, but even with death knocking, he couldnt get past it all.

Even on his deathbed.
He regretted so much, he wished he had tried harder.

All those moments, wasted. All those opportunities, never fleshed out. If he could, he would do it all again.

If only to just here those words choke from Draco's lips one last time.

One hundred and seventy seven was good for him, he supposed. The world had changed, and not even his kids visited him anymore.

Sixty two... he missed, Draco, dreadfully.

His bones ached, his hair flat, his eyes gone. When had sight left him; what did having sight feel like, again?

He couldn't remember his kids faces, he couldn't remember little Lily's. He had forgotten Draco's long ago, heartache too aching for someone so old.

And then, thoughts left him, and he changed. He shook, this was not like last time, and breath was failing to leave his chest.

He laid there, trembling with fear creeping into the edge of his mind.

Where was he going?

This wasn't like the last time. There was no Dumbledore, there was no white trainstation. There was no third life, a hidden chance he had looked over.

Not even Ginny (lovely, sure, but a hero complex only lasted so long) would be waiting for him.

It was when lights danced on his eyelids, and pain caused his teeth to ache, that it all lifted.

He was sitting in front of Draco Malfoy, Albus younger and Scorpios hanging off his arm. James had gone abroad to Australia, he remembered, to study Aboriginal magic, and Ginny (alive, when was the last time he had seen her red hair?) was at home.

Was it Ginny, who had come back with a promise and a kiss, that had severed all ties their truce had built?

Or had there never been anything there at all?

He was pleading with Draco, both in their late thirties, glasses falling off his nose and grass littering Draco's cheeks, like freckles that Harry had never been able to see before.

The colours were fading, and the warmth and love and desperate hope had ebbed away, only to be slowly filled with emptiness.

Except this time, Draco got up and dusted of his trousers. Harry watched, shaking and fading and twitching away, this wasn't like last time, Draco looking older, and Harry feeling older.

Lines were disappearing and distorting, as did the laughs of his children, he watched as Draco walked away for what felt like the last time, voice echoing back to him through the now empty void.

At least those words were the same.

"Oh Potter, give it a rest. We'll never be friends, and you need to fuck off before I change my mind on not ripping your teeth out."