Summary: "It is the first morning of the rest of your life."

Pairing: Harry/Draco, Draco/Several

Warnings: Second Person POV, graphic sex, slash, violence, implied sex

When you were a child, you had dreamed of love. One given, taken, shared by two people who were each other's world. You had never seen it before, at least not in real life, and the only examples you've ever had were your mother and father, who were warm only on the outside and avoided each other studiously when they could.

You only read about that kind of love in books, in fairy tales with princes and damsels and knights and dragons. Ones that you had abandoned when you were four, because you've always been smart and things like that were for children. It left you feeling sad, somewhat, but you understood; or thought you did, at least.

You grew up without a smile.

There was really no point in it. Your father told you that it was unbecoming, and your mother warned you of lines and wrinkles well-before you had any right to think about it. And there was little to smile about, for not many things brought you joy. The things you learned were all for father, the friends for mother. The only things that were ever yours were the sky as you flew and the set of books under your bead, dusty and unopened since the time you stopped believing. Years later, when you talk about it, he would say it was a tragic childhood and hold you close to his body, kissing you on the forehead and murmuring that he loved you more than anything; but to you, it was life, and tragedy was something you had yet to understand.

And then you met the Weasleys; your father sneered whilst your mother ushered you away from the scene, muttering under her breath in disgust. You had barely caught of a glimpse of the family, whose red hair and atrocious matching sweaters stood out starkly amongst the crowd, but you had seen something that you never had in their eyes. Everything about them was warm, somehow, and it left you feeling cold and lonely. When your father came home, he sat you down in his study and spoke to you at length, about purity and blood traitors, and though it was not the first lecture, it was the first time you had really listened to him, and the coldness and loneliness inside you festered. If that was love, you thought, then you vowed never to have it. Love led you only to shame, and you couldn't bear the thought.

Your only sanctuary had been Hogwarts. Eleven-years-old and eager, you had been accepted to the best Magical school in England, and had begged your father not to send you to Durmstrang instead. Throughout the whole train ride, you were on the balls of your feet, ready for anything, when you heard that Harry Potter would be on the train. So you went to meet him, and you did, but that Weasley boy, the disgrace, had laughed in your face and you stormed away. You offered him your hand on those steps, but turned away and went onto to laugh beside his friends, and your face burned bright and you decided to hate him for this humiliation and for looking so warm when you are still cold.

That first year, you learned what it was to be nothing.

At every turn, Potter was there with his friends, a mudblood and a pauper, and they shared secret smiles behind the teacher's backs. At every turn, he was there to look down on you, as if he was better in his hand-me-downs and his ugly spectacles. At every turn, he beat you at everything you tried to be. And at every turn, he remained oblivious to every step you took to match him, smiling gently all the while in the other direction.

He took away your sky and you cried yourself to sleep, dreaming of those books underneath your bed.

It is the end of the year and you go back home then back to school for second year, and you tried once more. And once more. And once more. It was never enough, and he was still better than you were, and there was nothing you could do about it. It kills you that the sky is still his; it kills you that he doesn't even know he took it from you.

You are twelve the first time you kiss somebody and that is Blaise Zabini, who is there when your eyes are red in rage and green in envy. You kiss him, because you're tired of throwing the punches, and all you want is to feel like you're warm again and you have no idea how. He kisses you back, surprisingly, but you pull away and speak no more of it, although both of you still met often for years after the first kiss. It brings you back, to days when you weren't all still and frozen with the cold, but only sparingly. It has opened a door that you cannot close; from then on, you sought to reminisce in that safety once more, and the only way you knew how was the touch of someone else's skin upon yours.

You kiss Daphne and Pansy and Theodore and Marcus and Adrian by the end of his second year. In your third, you begin to touch and be touched, and you even move onto those outside Slytherin. In your fourth, you have given yourself away completely.

The warmth is as fleeting as the touch, and you are left more and more numb after each and every one.

Meanwhile, Harry Potter goes off on his adventures with his friends. In his second year, he defeats a Basilisk. In his third, he saves that bird and gets his firebolt. In his fourth, he defeats a dragon and conquers the Dark Lord once more. Harry is the hero, and you are the whore. You self destruct while he flourishes. You are less than nothing to him and he becomes everything to you.

You don't know how, or even when. It probably started from how closely you watch him, how you match his mood, how you know him so deeply. It is probably how he makes you feel when he casts his eyes on you, not warm, exactly, but there.

Like you only ever feel alive when his eyes are on you.

The lessons are coupled with harsher punishments when you return home for the summer. Your father stares at you coldly, no pride in his gaze, and asks you questions as he holds you under Crucio. You have become more fearful, rather than more brave, as he had hoped you would be. You shake in terror when you go to sleep. He asks you why that filthy mudblood beats you in your scores, why the bloodtraitor was awarded at school, why the chosen one beats you every time. You can give no answer, and he knows that and hurts you all the more for it.

You are starting to break from all the strain, in your fifth year, and are consequently more tense as that Umbridge woman is set in charge. You end up joining her inquisition, and you relentlessly crush the imposition when you see them, but it doesn't do anything to abate your fear. The control you once had has disappeared so quickly that you barely had time to register it when you were thrown back into the world. It gets worse when you see Potter kiss Cho Chang, who is sobbing into his mouth about something or the other. It disgusts you, it make you jealous.

Blaise introduces you to drinking. You had never been partial to the taste, but you swallow back the amber liquid and hold back the tears as it burns against your throat. You and he end up tangled on the bed, the whiskey sliding between your lips and your bodies rutting against each other. You are inside him, fucking him harshly and he moans out your name and then he is inside you and calls you a whore and you pull at his hair and choke back a sob and drink some more until you can't tell what you're doing and both of you are fumbling about to finish yourselves off.

You drift off into a sleep where you don't exist. You're dying. You're killing yourself.

You wonder why it isn't going faster.

The next morning, you stumble out of the common room and into the prefect's baths and throw up everything in your stomach. You smell like sex and cheap swill, and what came out of your body is red with blood and your throat is raw. You stay on the cold floor for a long time, you don't even know how long, until Potter takes you into his arms and lays you down inside the warm bath like he actually cares. You didn't even notice him come inside.

He is too strong when you attempt to push him back, away from you, away from your filthy, disgusting body. He shakes his head and tells you that you should see the nurse but you laugh in his face. Heroes shouldn't help whores, you tell him, but he shakes his head again and cleans you off and blushes whilst he does so.

You're not a whore, he mumbles, and you laugh even harder until your throat aches to the point of pain and you don't stop.

I know you've heard of the rumors, you tell him, that I'm an easy lay, that I spread my legs for anyone, and it's true. He has nothing to say after that and he dries you off and leaves you alone with yourself.

From then on, it is unbearable. Potter never deems to look at you, to challenge you, to touch you. He turns away, even to the point of running from your sight when you lock eyes. It frustrates you but it makes you feel all the worse about yourself, because even the Golden Boy cannot look you in the eye. You throw away the mirrors in the room, and feel slightly foolish for doing so, but you can't bear to look at yourself. Losing control is something you do not like, but you've done it once more and it only proves how much of a failure you really are.

Your father is arrested, and you are called home as the summer comes. Your mother and you put up distraught faces, hiring a lawyer to save face, even if you know it won't ever work. So called friends of the family give condolences, but they make no attempt to contact or be seen with your family. It is your worst fear, but rather than you, it is your father that has brought you to shame, and you are so angry. The Dark Lord punishes you and assigns you a task, and you are once more burdened with expectations and the fragile cracks at your soul splinter more and more and threaten to shatter.

Potter is still there, and he follows you on the train to listen to your conversation, so you break his nose. There is blood on your shoe from where you kicked him, and you reach down to wipe it off, reveling slightly in how warm it is.

He doesn't stop following you, though. Around every corner, he is there in the shadows, lurking underneath his cloak like some deranged shadow as he mimics your every move. You cannot stand it, but you cannot catch him in the act, as you see only glimpses of him in your peripheral vision, and so you make a plan to lure him out. It is pathetically easy, too simple, really to have him follow you out on one of your trysts. The boy is some nameless seventh year, whose name you can't be bothered to remember, but he's fit and he pushes against you harshly just the way you like it. He bites at your shoulders, thrusting against you and whispering dirty things by your ear, telling you he wants to be inside you and he wants you to spread your legs for him, so you do. His finger is inside of you before you know it, without even a warning, and it burns. You yelp and push him off, but he continues to press himself into you telling you you're such a good slut and his breath is warm on your lips. Somehow, you forget who you are and stay still; somehow, he is about to thrust into you with his cock before you stop him with a glare and storm away.

The hand on your arm a few minutes later remind you that Harry Potter has been watching the whole time, and you feel yourself tear up as he asks you why you let him speak to you like that. There is nothing left in you to explain so you turn away, but he pulls you back and asks you again and the only answer you have is your tears. Before you can get away from him, his fingers brush them away from your cheeks and his breath is on your lips; you try to lean up, craving the heat he seems to exude, but he pulls away each time you do so, never letting you have a taste of what you've been wanting for what seems like forever.

Am I not good enough for you, you ask him angrily, trying to get out of his embrace only to find that you can't.

You're more than good enough, he says, and brushes the new spill of tears from your eyes as if you're precious, And I won't use you like this.

He spends the nights with you afterwards, beside you instead of hiding in the shadows. He lets you speak and, in turn, you are less cruel and less biting and you begin to trust him. Potter walks shoulder to shoulder with you, and you crave to be able to touch him, yet he is always only almost there and you feel spurned. But you don't ask him for anything, afraid that he may say that he never wants to see you again and you wouldn't have the heart to argue back, so you continue to walk on eggshells, dancing around the issue until, one day, he takes your hand and holds it tightly for the rest of the night, walking you to your dorm. He does this for a few more nights, holding onto your hand and doing nothing else, and it frustrates you to no end. One night, just as you're about to give up, he leans in close and asks you if he can kiss you.

Yes, you breathe out, and he does.

Most of your regular partners are angry at you; they try to proposition you but you turn them away, more than happy enough to leave them behind. Potter doesn't ask you to, but you don't feel right touching them when you remember how his lips feel against yours and how warm his hand is in yours.

Yet you are dissatisfied that he won't go past his small kisses, and you ask him why, but he says nothing and gives you a secretive smile, kissing your lips softly once more. Potter invites you to fly with him the next night, and you are excited to go, but worried as well, hoping that this will be the night. You fix your clothes and comb your hair and practice your expressions in the mirror until you deem yourself perfect. He takes your hand and leads you to the pitch, where he mounts his broom and beckons you into the air, and you and he fly aimlessly; he hardly notices the way you look or how your pants fit your slim legs or how your shirt rides up slightly when you stretch. He asks you to play a game of find the snitch, and you accept, dejected once more, but not wanting to spoil his fun.

You wander, knowing that he will win, until you see it behind him and you circle around the pitch slowly then zoom off in his direction. He follows your sight and rushes for it, but you have caught it in your fingers and you give out a laugh, noticing too late that he cannot stop his broom and both of you topple over onto the floor.

The breath is knocked out of you, but he holds you tight with his eyes closed as he covers you with his body to protect you. You feel the mud splattered all over you and leaves are in your hair and you are red with exertion; he is on top of you and his eyes open. They're beautiful, you notice, the shade of malachite, but it is his expression that leaves you even more breathless. It is wonder, and he leans down to kiss you firmly and you clutch his shoulders, holding on as if he was your anchor. He kisses you like you've wanted him to, but better; he kisses you like you've always dreamed of being kissed, but better. The snitch is in your fingers, and it flutters weakly; you've never felt more beautiful than in this moment.

Your moments with him come crashing down when you receive a missive from your mother, asking about your project, which you haven't seen fit to continue in a long while. You can tell that she is angry, and you become distant with Harry in hopes of appeasing the turmoil that is brewing inside of your chest. It breaks your heart, and you finally admit that you could possibly be in love with Harry Potter but it's useless and it only affirms that you need to stop before you get hurt. The revelation comes too late, really, because it already hurts you and he doesn't understand. No one understands, and you are alone in the onslaught of your own choices and the choices forced upon you.

He corners you and asks you why, but you have no answer, once again. He even apologizes for kissing you that one night, and asks you to forgive him, but you shake your head and tell him to give you up. Refusing, he kisses you once more, but you remain firm and walk away from him, wishing that you could leave behind your feelings just as easily. Potter persists, against and again, without pause or consideration, and you are at your wits end.

He corners you, saying nothing this time, and you cannot help but tell him everything when you see the hurt in his eyes, wanting to erase every bit of pain that you've caused. You nearly cry when he pulls away but he takes your hand and leads you to the Room of Hidden Things and holds you in his arms when he tells you that he'll be here for you. That night, you and he take apart the cabinet and he shelters you within his embrace and doesn't let go.

Your mother is reasonably angry, and your housemates hear of the transgression and attack you, with you barely making it out alive. You take most of them down with spells your father has taught you, amused at the irony but mostly just tired as you trudge up to the Room of Requirement and sleep there every night. It is not long before Harry joins you, and you curl up underneath the blankets with his arm around your waist and your face at the crook of his neck. Nobody goes to the teachers about what happened in Slytherin house, not wanting to reveal why, and mostly afraid of you, which works just as well. They brand you as a traitor, and you agonize over it until Harry kisses you and makes you forget.

Blaise corners you as you are going to your rooms, and asks you why you would do this. You tell him that it is none of his business, but he pushes you against the wall and, before you can speak, kisses you hard. I'll talk to the Dark Lord, he says, Come back to us, Draco, we can make this work. You refuse, and he tells you he loves you. There is nothing there now, you realize, when you would have died a million times to hear those words from anyone. You tell him no, and walk away, going back to the person who held your heart in his hands and still loved you despite it. That night, you tell him you love him, and his malachite eyes nearly glow in the darkness as he kisses you so softly, so gently, that you feel all the cracks inside your soul mend.

With the end of your sixth year comes the beginning of the war, and you seek shelter with Dumbledore, who allows you to lodge inside Hogwarts. You are lonely at nights, wishing that Harry could have stayed with you, but he went home to his relatives for protection. It seems almost like a prison, although beautiful, when he's not there with you. The days pass slowly, and you dream about him every night, wishing he would come back to you soon.

On a hot, simmering evening, when the sky is the color of fire, you hear his voice calling to you as you sit by the lake, and you turn, watching him at the top of the hill, and you get up, running towards him as fast as you can. You aren't wearing your shoes and the pant legs you rolled up are now sliding down onto your wet legs, but you hardly care as you throw your arms around him and he laughs, spinning you with everything he's got and kissing you breathless and making you feel beautiful.

It is only later that you notice his friends, standing beside him, some with looks of displeasure but most just happy to see him smile.

He is busy when he gets to the castle, preparing for his role in the war. He's asked you not to participate, but you refuse, telling him that you know how they work and would be an asset, so he assents and his friends send you approbating looks. Somehow, you find that you love him even more, and spend every spare moment being with him, loving him, and being loved by him. There are little skirmishes that he goes on, ones you aren't allowed to because the Dark Lord is still out for your blood, so you sit by the fire and worry for him and, somehow, for the others, though you would never admit it. When they all come home, you spend the night with them inside the infirmary, eventually learning to help Pompfrey because you find yourself restless without a task at hand.

His and your nights are spent in silence, as opposed to your earlier ventures where all you did was speak. But you didn't need any words to express what you felt for him, to feel what he felt for you. He made you feel warm, unafraid, and complete.

You couldn't say that the final battle came unexpectedly, for you knew it had been looming on the horizon, but you were still afraid. This was going to be the last stand against Voldemort, and that monster was going to die. You didn't even entertain the notion that Harry would be defeated; you couldn't. His touch, his words, his everything was all too real, and there was no way you could bear to lose all of that. Live, you told him, If you must do anything, you have to love. He smiled at you, your hands in his and leans over to kiss you across the table.

I have too much to live for to die, is what he says, and then, I love you, and you throw yourself into his arms and kiss him for all you're worth.

On the battlefield, you throw every curse and hex you know, protecting your allies and striking down your enemies. You failed to keep an eye on Harry, who you lost early on, but you continued to fight in the hopes of running into him. Avada Kedavra, you hear, and you throw yourself onto the floor and look up to see your father, who shouts at you, Avada Kedavra! You are still on the floor and cannot move, so you close your eyes and say goodbye, waiting, but the blow never comes so you open your eyes and see Blaise's lifeless body in front of you. There is shock written across your face and your father's, but you take this chance and strike him down, standing up to battle once more. Then it hits you, and you fall to your knees as everyone else does. Power surges around you and you know that it is the end, but no one knows who has won. You look around, shocked, before the Death Eaters rise in a cheer and raise their wands, before suddenly falling to the floor in pain as they scratched and clawed at their arms.

That is the only sign you need before you start laughing and jump up, hugging the person closest to you, who happens to be a Weasley of some sort, but you could care less.

They gather in the Great Hall after they roundup the Death Eaters, and you keep asking if anyone has seen Harry but no one can give you an answer. You bite your nails, waiting for the news, but none comes within the next hour, or the next, and you are beside yourself with worry. Then someone announces that they've brought him home and that he's in the hospital wing, and you are one of many to rush up to see him, but are stopped by Pompfrey, who scowls at everyone except you and his friends to go back down and wait, so you sweep into the room and spot him immediately.

He is wide-awake, but he is laid down and strapped securely onto the bed. His legs are broken and he is burned in several places, but you reach to hold his hand in yours, watching him smile at you and smiling back, loving every moment that you get to be together. I love you, you tell him, and he nods.

Marry me, he says, and you forget yourself and hug him, saying yes over and over again, stopping only when Pompfrey tells you to get off and you realize that you've squeezed the life out of his half-dead body. But he doesn't groan or complain, and, instead, laughs along with you and is crying because he's happy.

You love him, and he loves you. That's all you've ever wanted, and what he's given you.

You are married on the 25th of March, with all of your friends there. It is a small ceremony, and you can't have been happier in your life. Your heart bursts out of your chest when his hand curls around your jaw and he leans in; you meet him halfway and you are wed as a cheer goes across the crowd, but you hardly notice. After the reception, he carries you to your new home, smiling happily as he sets you down on the bed and places his hands beside your body.

Harry is rather old-fashioned, you found out, and wanted to save this night until after you were wed; you were hopelessly touched.

He kisses you, slowly, his hand around your jaw once more and then trailing down onto your neck and dipping into your collar to touch the gentle slope of your bone. Your hands tangle in his hair and he lays you down, crawling on top of you gently as he unbuttons the robe, palms sliding flat across the expanse of your chest as you gasp out his name, arching into his touch. You shift, parting your thighs as he settles between them, still touching you reverently and gently, kissing the places he touched. He pulls back, and you try to suppress a whimper that dies on your lips as he kisses away your pout.

He pulls down your underwear, watching you with hooded eyes, and you blush in embarrassment, feeling like a virgin when you're not. But he makes you feel this way, like you've never been touched, like you're good and pure, and it's a good feeling. He disrobes as well, and slides down gently, brushing against you tentatively and kissing you everywhere he can, sliding his cock against yours. The pre-come makes the space between you slick and you gasp, pushing your hips up, wanting more of him, before you take matters into your own hands and pin him to the bed.

He looks up at you in amusement, right before he shouts your name as you slide your tongue on the underside of his cock, loving the taste of him. You blow on the sticky head, watching him quiver beneath your touch, and roll his heavy sac in your fingers, mouthing his shaft. He says your name again, and you smile, taking him into your mouth until he reaches the back of your throat and you swallow. The feeling nearly undoes him and he bucks into your mouth, panting as he pulls you up to kiss you, shuffling you into his lap and kissing your throat. Please, you tell him, I need you.

His hands move to your back, then slide down, until his thumbs are at the base of your spine and his fingers spread your cheeks, one hand prodding a blunt digit into you. You wince, slightly, uncomfortable as the sensation, but he waits until you're ready and he continues, pressing in past the tight muscle and then sliding up into your heat. You gasp, throwing your head back, and sit more firmly into his hand as he chuckles and slides in and out of you. I love you, he says, and adds another finger, I want to make love to you.

You nod fervently, just wanting to feel more and more of him, connected to you in any way possible. Finally, finally he pulls out, and despite the loss, you move closer to him, pressing down until you feel the blunt head of his cock against your hole and you slide down and gasp, the intrusion painful, and yet you want to move, to get used to him and to make him feel good.

He stops you, though, and holds your hips still, biting his lip all the while, and waits for your pain to numb before he thrusts up, shallowly, and you give a little moan. Again and again, he did his shallow little thrusts, and you wanted more, yet he kept you at bay. Please, you tell him, please, but he tells you to wait because he loves you.

And then he lays you down on the bed and looks you in the eyes, his hand reaching for your own and threading your fingers together, and drives into you in earnest. You gasp, meeting the move with your hips, and you plead for him to take you, to fuck you, but he doesn't. He is slow, and he is loving, and it feels incredibly full and hot, that you could almost burst into flames with each touch. His breath is getting more shallow, and his pace more erratic as he pistons his hips faster and faster, and you are but a little quivering mass beneath him.

Then he hits that spot inside of you, and you see stars; you shout out his name, or at least broken pieces of it. He thrusts into you faster and faster, his hand reaching between you to jerk at your erection, drawing out your orgasm until his hits and he spills himself inside of you before he collapses.

You pant, holding him atop you and drawing patterns on his back. You love him. You love him more than anything and anyone. He pulls out of you with a wet sound, takes a towel, cleaning you off gently like the first night he spent taking care of you. As you fall asleep, he cradles you to his chest, and you don't feel the cold at all.

You drift off into a sleep where only you and Harry exist. You are alive. You are happy. You are loved.

There is meaning in those books underneath your bed now, and you don't need to open them to find love. You need only to look beside you as you wake up in the mornings to feel that love.

It is the first morning of the rest of your life. It is the start of your "Once upon a time."

A/N. I hope you like it. I enjoyed writing this, although I'm not very sure of the second person point of view. But it just worked out better in my mind, so I did it.

Review please! I adore reviews. :D It motivates me to write more. Anything you got, I will take, whether it is praise, criticism, or flames. Thanks!