A/N: Hello my lovelies! First, thank you for the reviews, they really are, like, my favourite thing in the world. Second, sorry it took me so long. I was busy and had writer's block and then the site wouldn't let me do anything…

This is the last chapter, yeah? Yeah. A little short, but I hope it's okay. I kind of like it. Right-O, on with the show.

DISCLAIMER: Gosh, I wish they were mine. Too bad.

Chapter Eight

A month passed, rather uneventfully, and one certain weekend in October found our boys splayed out in the park, lying on a crisp, crunching bed of dead brown leaves. You know how comfortable that is, don't you? Lying on the ground in the fall? It's cozy because of the sweaters. And the view.

The view of clear blue sky past a net of bare brown fingers. The soft dark sweaters shielding you from any danger. There's no place more safe and secure than the ground in the autumn.

Harry wasn't doing anything. Draco wasn't doing anything. Just breathing, and viewing, and being in sweaters.

They had been playing in the leaves. It'd been Harry's idea. Harry had kicked all the leaves together, forming a wide green circle around them, but just as he was turning to get a running start, a gleeful shout erupted and his perfect pile was ruined. Draco did not even apologize. He laughed instead. Harry had made a sound of cheerful frustration and jumped anyway into the flattened, Draco-filled leaf pile. Draco had been squished, and so he hit Harry. They fought. They rolled around, never getting hurt, because it was autumn. The leaves and the sweaters made it safe, you see. As always.

Harry got a bug in his hair. Draco screamed. Harry screamed too, for fun. It was okay in the end.

They were done, then. All of themselves were used up and full and sweet. That's when you lie down and watch the sky, isn't it? Yes.

The blonde one, that's Draco, turned his elegant white face towards Harry. Harry turned his expressive tanned one back, when he heard the rustling.

"Harry dear."

"Yes?"

"What do you do in math class?"

"Math?"

"Yes."

"Math."

"No. I know you, and you cannot ever do math. What is it you are always doing that gives you no time for our charismatically obnoxious professor?"

"Writing."

Harry turned back to the sky. He was a writer. Writers look at the sky.

"Oh." A pause in which the wind carried some far-off voices of the innocent; the young. "Can I see it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I've eaten it." Harry turned back to Draco. Writers look at pretty things.

"Then I'm going to search through your stools."

"Okay actually, you can't see any of it because it is ugly. You are not ugly, and it is. So you can't see it."

Draco thought this over, rolling over on his side. But then he decided to keep going, and he ended up on his stomach, his face still turned to his friend.

"What do you mean by ugly, Harry?"

"I dunno."

Harry wasn't really a writer. Nobody is really a writer. They are just people who cannot keep their thoughts organized in their head, so they have to put them on paper. Writers are simply eccentric thinkers.

He was an eccentric thinker because nobody really loved him. Or liked him. What did he have to think about except the intangible and the unattractive and the unreal?

He looked into Draco's intelligent grey eyes. And all over his face. His lips were sort of quirked up, and his entire face was relaxed. His eyes were filled with affection.

Harry used to be good. He used to write all sorts of stunning poems and stories and his prose was impeccably dark and blackened and muddy.

Now all he did was write stupid happy things.

Horribly structured sentences and clichéd poetry and— gods. Just- just utter crap. Love makes for terrible writing. When you are full inside, you do not need to say anything to make people understand, or to make yourself feel better.

Harry got up halfway and crawled over to Draco.

Draco was still angry about this damned town, what they had done to Harry. He had not needed to bloody his hands any more, though, since Parker. He'd just threatened and extorted and death-glared his way into respect. Nobody touched Harry anymore. Everyone was quiet, mostly. Nobody looked at them or talked to them.

But these two here, lying in the leaves, hardly noticed.

They were side by side now.

Children were laughing, and leaves were swirling, and trees were bending, and the soft breeze was making that constant roar.

And Harry and Draco were side by side.

Fin.

A/N: Please review.