Warnings: Slash- Draco/Harry, angst, minor self-harm
Beta: Edna, Missy Padfoot. Send her some love :)
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
It was what one would call the stereotypical cheerful day. The sun outside was shining with an almost unnatural brightness, and the owls were gently hooting. There were crowds of robed wizards mingling around with the muggles, who weren't even hiding their curious, and sometimes, disdainful glares. Most wizards looked overjoyed; some were even crying from their sheer delight, only choking out the most important words.
You-Know-Who. Dead. Harry Potter. Dead.
The second part was rarely heard, if ever. Who cared that the young wizard hero, just seventeen years old, had been killed? What did it matter that his whole life was plagued by the wizarding public, who just expected him to vanquish the world's most evil wizard by just pointing a wand and saying a few well-chosen words? The adoring public, which used to shout his names in the streets, rejoiced at his every spoken syllable, now just turned their back on him as if he never existed. As if he had fulfilled his purpose in life and wasn't needed any more.
No, they quickly forgot about that Potter boy and shunned him to the darkest corners of their minds. After all, what was one death, no matter how important, in the grand scale of things? You-Know-Who, He Who Must Not Be Named, is dead. Gone from our world, never to return and wreak havoc again. Yet even after his death, nobody dares speak his true name: Voldemort.
What had the great Harry Potter once said? "Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself." It's true, so true, but the wizarding world will never listen to Harry Potter again. The days creep past and more and more people forget that he had even existed. In their euphoria, they don't even spend a second's time, commemorating that one boy spent his entire life chasing Voldemort down, and in the end, was his downfall.
There were a few who didn't forget. The entire Weasley family, Hermione Granger, the Hogwarts staff and a few more Gryffindors. The Ministry of Magic itself decided to hold a ceremony to honour Harry Potter, but it was more glamour than actual grief. Rather sadly, the news of the service wasn't very widely spread, and even those who did hear about it chose to celebrate Voldemort's death with their family and friends instead. In the end, the Minister just erected a tombstone for his body which was found the day after his death. Nothing special. Just a slab of stone with a few ornate designs and the inscription: Harry Potter.
Harry Potter.
Draco Malfoy slammed his fist into the wall again, already growing numb to the aching and pulsating sensation in his bleeding knuckles. He decided he liked the blood engulfing him—so warm, so dark, so safe. His skin was too pale, almost unnaturally so, and the blood such a deep red. A perfect contrast, beautiful, if you didn't feel it anymore. But the pain wasn't that bad either; he welcomed it. It let him know he was alive, let him know he wasn't dreaming, let him know that this was all reality.
He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and roughly slid down into a sitting position. He didn't even notice his hand staining his trousers and the remains of his torn shirt, now stained with blood as well as dirt. He hadn't changed since the day he heard the news. Maybe, if he left things the way they were on that faithful day, he could just imagine it didn't happen.
He'd gone through the same routine for the past four days; hitting the wall endlessly, a strangled groan breaking from his lips, then sinking to the floor, too worn out to move. He falls into a restless sleep and wakes up a few hours later and lets the news hit him again. And again. Never believing, never truly believing it. Harry Potter, who he always knew would kill Voldemort, wasn't supposed to—to…
He won't say the word out loud. Death. The thought alone sends shiver up and down his spine, and chills him to the bone. Death. Even Voldemort's name wasn't as horrible to think about, and it meant 'flight from death' in French. Ironic, isn't it, how his flight from death was interrupted by a seventeen year old boy?
Harry Potter.
Draco moaned again and opened his eyes. His eyesight's gone slightly blurry, probably due to sticky tears he could never bring himself to wipe off. They're a reminder, a constant reminder.
There's a mirror across the hall, cracked, as is everything else in the room, and he could see his reflection. He looked young, and as innocent as one could be after a war. He shed his robes on the first day, not wanting to see any reminder of the wizarding world ever again. Still, his muggle clothes are covered in grime, and his hair is almost unrecognisable. Mussed. Rumpled. His hair used to be a standing joke for Harry and his friends, back in the school days. Not so long ago.
"Hey Malfoy, wait up," a voice called, and Draco turned around. He rolled his eyes and snorted. Potter and his pet weasel, how precious. You never actually see one without the other.
"While I'd love to stay and chat," he began, already turning away from them, "I have much more interesting things I could be doing, such as—"
"Taking care of your hair again," Potter suggested, and Draco stopped in his tracks. It wasn't very often that the Golden Boy decided to grace him with his fickle speech. It might actually turn out to be amusing. "Seriously, I've never seen a boy who spent as much time on your hair as you do. Styled to perfection, no doubt."
"Ah, so you're finally admitting that I'm superior to you?"
"Not bloody well likely," Weasley said, and Draco glared at him. This was between him and Potter, and he had better stay out of it.
"Actually yes, hair wise," Potter replied, shocking them both for different reasons. At least Draco was able to regain his composure quickly enough. "Although I wouldn't say that I'd actually want to spend as much time on my hair as a girl. In your case, I'd say even more than a girl." His redheaded sidekick snickered faithfully.
"You're just jealous that my hair doesn't look like a heavily disgruntled owl's nest." Draco said haughtily, with a pointed look at Potter's hair.
Weasley let out another burst of laughter. "Being a poncy git isn't anything to be proud of, Malfoy."
Draco had just opened his mouth for a retort when Potter interrupted him. "I can't believe we're actually discussing his hair," he said in disgust and turned to his red-headed friend.
"Come on Ron, let's go." And without a single backward glance, they left.
Draco had lived for those moments. Those single moments, usually lasting only a minute or less, in which he'd just be with Harry Potter. Their conversations were never pleasant, they were far from that, but Draco still got to be around him. Close to him. Almost too close to bear.
He'd never told anyone his secret. No one, not even his parents or closest friends, no matter how much they pestered him, knew.
Draco Malfoy was in love with Harry Potter.
This wasn't one of those silly school crushes either. How many schoolboy crushes were there that fully intoxicated one's mind to a point of a single addiction?
Harry Potter was his addiction.
He'd be the first thing Draco thought of once he awoke, and the last thing before he fell asleep. And almost every other second in the day would be spent thinking about him, how to talk to him, what to talk to him about, even though he never actually instigated a conversation. Harry Potter even filled his dreams at night.
He had different kinds of dreams, but they all involved him. Sometimes, they were just replaying a meeting the two of them had the week before. Another one was recurring and always the same; Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were soaring through the air, only the two of them, reaching for the tiny golden ball just inches in front of them. Draco would take his eyes off the Snitch for just a second to look at his determined expression, and that's all the time Harry Potter needed to catch it right under his nose. As always. The two of them would stop flying as soon as the ball was caught, and Harry Potter would look at him with an unreadable expression. "Nice game, Malfoy," he'd always say, before Draco awoke.
Other dreams were of the more intimate nature. In some, it was just the two of them sitting side by side, leaning against the castle and touching ever so slightly. Every so often it'd just be an entire night of kisses, some almost agonisingly slow and others angry and fierce. And then there were the dreams that he hoped for every night, those during which he awoke, panting and crying Harry's name. Those dreams in which Harry would give him everything he ever wanted—the only thing he'd ever wanted. One final thrust, and an almost strained "I love you Draco," were all he needed to be pushed over the edge.
Names are a funny thing. Both he and Harry had never called each other by their first names, unless it was followed immediately by their surnames. Coming from Harry, these would always be mocking. "Draco Malfoy," he'd drawl, trying to imitate Draco's regular voice and always succeeding. It stung every time. How could Draco Malfoy, the sworn enemy of the Boy Who Lived, actually be hurt by his mere words? It was simply unthought-of. That was the reason why Draco could never tell, and never will.
Harry Potter.
It was such a beautiful name; it really wasn't given enough credit. The two names just seemed to flow together and just slide off the tongue. Harry. How often Draco had just whispered that name to himself, wishing that he was actually there next to him. Just his presence would be enough, but he always hoped for more, so much more. A sweetly spoken word, a gentle caress, his mouth pressed against Draco's own. Or repeating his name over and over. Draco. Compare it with Harry and it seems so plain. But it'd never be plain if it's his lips forming that word.
He didn't want to be thinking about his lips right now, or any other part of his body, for he'd never see them again.
When was the last time they'd actually met? Must have been less than a week before Harry went off to battle. Draco remembered it clearly, as it was the last memory he ever had of Harry before seeing his burned body. Last time he was alive. It was after hours, and Draco had been sitting by the lake when Harry stormed up to him.
"What are you doing here," a voice had said, which Draco immediately recognised. He whirled around, carefully putting a scornful expression on his face and raising an eyebrow. Nothing. The place was empty.
There was a quiet swishing, as of fabric, and Harry's head materialised in front of him. Draco yelped and slid off the rock he was sitting on. "What the?"
Another swish and the rest of him appeared. He was holding what appeared to be a cloak in his hand—an invisibility cloak. Draco groaned with realisation.
"You've never answered my question," Harry said through clenched teeth. "What are you doing here?"
Draco carefully pasted on a neutral expression and raised an eyebrow, as if indifferent.
"You can't prance around as if you own this place; in case you haven't noticed, it's public land. I can be here if I want—"
Harry lunged at him, or more specifically, his arm. Draco pretended to be afraid and avoid him, but it wasn't for real. He had always longed for this touch, and even when it wasn't meant in an intimate way, it was pure ecstasy. It took a lot of self control to stop his eyes from rolling back, and a vacant expression from appearing on his face.
Harry roughly rolled his sleeve up, exposing Draco's pale and unblemished skin.
"You're not a Death Eater, then," he said, and Draco couldn't for the life of him figure out what his expression meant.
"Yet," Harry added as an afterthought. "You're going to become one of them, aren't you?" He didn't even let Draco reply before continuing. "A killer, a follower of that psychopath who wants to destroy the entire wizarding world. His faithful servant," he said bitterly, "and yet nothing more than a pawn to him."
His hand was still resting on Draco's arm. Draco thought he'd forgotten to breathe. It was so warm…
"Do you really think he'd spare you in the end?" Harry spat, ignoring Draco's silence.
"He's a merciless murder who wouldn't stop for anyone. Do you know he killed his father, and to some extent, his mother? Compared to that, what do you think you are? I'll tell you—you're nothing to him. Nothing but a slave to do his every bidding, and if you were to disobey him, he'd kill you before you could say 'master.'"
Harry looked Draco straight in the eye. "You disgust me," he whispered, and turned away. Draco closed his eyes. His words stab, like always. He should have been used to that, but he hadn't.
Harry shivered, and even with his fierce expression, he looked vulnerable. Not weak, for Harry Potter never looked weak, but helpless and more human. It hurt just to see him like that.
Never taking his eyes off him, Draco stood up. He took off his Slytherin scarf and wrapped it around Harry. He looked up, his face twisted with loathing and yet his eyes softly startled. "Like I want anything that ever belonged to you," he snapped.
"You're cold," Draco said simply, tucking it snugly around him, and surprisingly not meeting any resistance. "I'm going inside." True to his word, he made his way back to the castle, still relishing in that single touch on his arm. He turned one last time before going in. Harry was sitting in the same position, carelessly twiddling the end of the scarf, and looking off into the blackness in front of him.
It's those touches that push Draco past the point of no return. It's an addiction. A single touch could fuel his desire, force his pupils to dilate, and run off into the nearest empty classroom to calm down.
Draco would press his flushed cheeks into the cold stone, let out a
long ragged breath and collect himself. Then he'd walk back out as if nothing had happened.
Because truly, it was nothing.
At least to everyone else. His two friends, Weasley and that Granger girl, they were always touching him somehow. How often would Draco see Granger put her filthy hands on his shoulder and ask him a question? Or even Weasley giving Harry a playful clap on the back? The two of them probably never thought twice about those small gestures, but Draco would notice them. Seething, he'd clench his hands into a fist and dig his nails sharply into his tender skin. They never appreciated those touches.
For Draco, it was everything.
There was a reason why he kept calling Granger a mudblood, and as always, it was Harry. The first time he'd ever said the word was in Draco's second year, and Weasley, stupid fool he was, had ended up with the slug spell originally meant for Draco. Next time, and every time after that, it'd be Harry who took action. Harry who grabbed him by his shoulder and hit him wherever he could reach. Hit him, and by an extent, touch him. It was sick, really, how Draco would do and say anything for the slightest touch, no matter how painful.
Harry Potter.
Draco couldn't take it anymore. That name echoed in his head, over and over, again and again at an alarmingly fast pace. His heart was beating to the same chaotic rhythm, and Draco just closed his eyes, letting the insanity wash over him. It wasn't going to be long until everything would catch up to him and he'd truly go mad. It was that single name that brought all this upon his. He groaned.
Harry Potter.
He still remembered that moment when Harry's body was brought in, charred, burned, and barely recognisable. It was sheer irony that the only part of him left unscathed was his lightning bolt-shaped scar on his forehead. The only part of him left undamaged was the part of him that killed him.
Just like Harry, there was one thing that was killing Draco deep inside. Twisting his insides with doubt, suffocating every single breath he took. Draco was close to passing out, or harming himself to a point of just swallowing and choking on the pain.
The scarf.
The Slytherin scarf Draco had lent Harry that last time they met. That green scarf which Draco had wrapped so tenderly around Harry to protect him from the cold. That Slytherin scarf which Harry had accepted and kept on.
That Slytherin scarf which Harry was holding the very moment he died.
That Slytherin scarf which remained in Harry's clenched hand even after his death. The Slytherin scarf which Harry had taken so reluctantly, yet was what he thought of when he took his last breath. The scarf, which belonged to Draco.
He didn't know what to think anymore, didn't know whether to continue hoping that possibly, the scarf had meant something to him.
The tears which had been threatening to fall weren't being held in anymore. Draco sobbed, tears racking his body, causing it to shake and convulse. He clumsily reached for the scarf around his neck, the same scarf Harry had worn. He brought it closer, buried his face in it, pretending Harry was still here. With trembling fingers, Draco brought the scarf up to his lips and whispered the words he had been too afraid to say.
"I love you."