Chapter 1 : Always and Forever
| ||Rating: Mature||Chapter Reviews: 10|
Background: Font color:
Through the Looking Glass - A Draco/Harry Fan Fic
* * *
He drew a circle that shut me out
Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout
But love and I had the wit to win
We drew a circle that took him in
Draco Malfoy was eleven years old. His heart was pounding in his chest as he made his way towards the compartment of the boy he’d met at Madam Malkins, determined to make a better impression. After all, it was Harry Potter – the boy he’d been told tales about since he was a baby. His father had been positively and uncharacteristically jubilant when he learned that Draco had spoken to the Boy Who Lived, and enthusiastically encouraged his son to befriend the famous boy. (“It will bring you power and connections, Draco!”)
Draco however, wanted to speak to Harry Potter for reasons of his own. Ever since he’d been a wee child, his mother Narcissa had always told him the story about how Harry Potter, a boy no older than Draco himself, had survived the Killing Curse - cast by the most powerful dark wizard there ever was. Draco didn’t think that neither his mother or Lucius knew just how much he’d always loved that true tale – whenever sleep would not claim him, he’d think about that night ten years ago. Of course, he had not been there when the Dark Lord lost his powers, but the vivid images the tale had created in his mind told him the story well enough.
There wasn’t a child in their world who didn’t know the name of Harry Potter.
The Boy Who Lived was idolized and legendary; he was famous and noble, and Draco had always thought of him much like a fictional figure rather than a true human of flesh and blood.
So, it was not difficult to understand why Draco Malfoy was slightly anxious as he pushed open the door to Harry’s compartment, scolding himself silently for not figuring out sooner who the dark haired boy was. He had, after all, had a golden opportunity at Madam Malkin’s robe shop to bond with the Boy Who Lived.
“So it is true,” Draco drawled, false confidence lacing every word. His father had taught him better than to wear his heart on his sleeve. “Harry Potter is coming to Hogwarts.”
A quick glance at Potter’s company made him purse his mouth into a scornful smirk. “Red hair, and tatty hand-me-down robes? Sounds like Weasley to me, am I right? I must say my father does have a knack for expressing himself – he always said the Weasley family has more children than they can afford.”
“What do you want?” Harry’s tone was sharp.
Draco’s eyes were trained upon the other boy. He knew, then, what the other’s reply would be even before he had asked. The apparent resentment in the face of the Boy Who Lived told him all he needed to know. And yet, he swallowed, gathering the fragile courage he possessed and spoke.
“I just came to ask you if you really wanted to sit in here with him,” he said, jerking his head in Weasley’s direction. He didn’t care about the angry blush that crept on the red head’s face. “If I were you I’d choose my acquaintances carefully, Potter. I could help you there.”
He reached out his hand, hoping with every fibre in his body that Potter would take it. The green eyes looked at him blankly, before replying with a calm indifference: “I think I’ve done good choices so far by myself, thank you.”
The rejection was nauseating; it felt like taking a punch to the stomach. As Draco left the compartment he felt mortified, like he’d lost his breath and his dignity all in the same blow.
And it was all Potter’s fault.
As Draco made his way through the Hogwarts Express with a heated blush of anger on his cheeks, he promised himself that he would make life miserable for Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived was nothing like he’d been in Draco’s fantasies; not noble or special or kind – he was rude and full of himself; he thought he could dismiss Draco Malfoy’s offer of friendship just like that. How dared he.
That night, Draco Malfoy couldn’t fall asleep. The tale of the great Boy Who Lived could no longer lull him to sleep, like it had so many times before. Every time Draco closed his eyes to replay the calming story in his mind, the image of the eleven year old Harry Potter surfaced, his green, dismissive eyes regarding him with little interest, a rejection that still bore its way into the young Slytherin’s soul falling from his lips.
Harry Potter gritted his teeth as he stalked into the Forbidden Forest with Malfoy at his heels. Stupid prat. Had it not been for him, they wouldn’t have had to serve detention in the first place – not that detention with Hagrid could be all that bad.
Malfoy, on the other hand, seemed to disagree. Harry glanced quickly at the Slytherin walking beside him and sniggered. Malfoy’s eyes were darting from side to side; as if trying to keep track of everything going on in the lurking shadows of the dark woods surrounding their narrow path.
“You’re not scared, are you Malfoy?” Harry asked with a small nod at the lantern clutched in Draco’s hand, which was shaking uncertainly.
Draco shot him an angry glare. “Of course not, Potter,” he spat. “Scared…” he muttered, as though the mere idea of him being afraid was blatantly laughable.
“Well, I’ve understood that Slytherins aren’t exactly known for their courage,” Harry said, grinning even though Malfoy couldn’t see him as the Slytherin had sped up his pace as though to prove to Harry that he was not a coward.
He could hear Draco snort ahead of him. “What do you know about Slytherins, anyway? Bloody Gryffindor.”
“I know a lot more than you think,” Harry sniffed. “I was almost placed in Slytherin, you know.”
Harry could have bit his tongue. He hadn’t meant to say it. He wouldn’t have said it; had this been just another confrontation in the hallways surrounded by their friends. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that they were alone, in the middle of the Forbidden Forest. Out here, with the night sky’s magical glow hitting the trees and their roots which were majestically spread over the bare ground, it was easy to forget that there would be another tomorrow.
Malfoy had come to an abrupt halt. He swirled around, the lantern’s warm glow creating unnerving shadows within the thick forest. “You? In Slytherin?”
Harry nodded. “The hat told me so. I asked it not to though, so it changed its mind and put me in Gryffindor instead.”
“I’d rather be in any other house that didn’t have you,” Harry said irritably, sounding much more scornful than he’d intended.
“I’d transfer to Durmstrang before you set your foot in our common room,” Draco shot back, the look in his eyes hardening at Harry’s last comment.
“Really?” Harry inquired, almost thoughtfully. “Actually, I was under the impression that you wanted to befriend me. Remember that day on the train?”
Malfoy blushed pink all the way up to his white blonde hair roots. “That’s different! I just wanted someone to sit with on the train, Potter. I didn’t even know you.”
“You still don’t know me, Malfoy.”
Draco gave him a sour sideway glance as they started walking again. “Let’s keep it that way, Potter.”
Harry rolled his eyes.
Dear to us are those who love us
But dearer are those who reject us as unworthy
For they add another life; they build a heaven before us
Whereof we had not dreamed
Draco Malfoy was twelve years old. He was fairly mature for his age he liked to think; he was tall and he had his way with words, something which he’d noticed impressed adults. He knew how to make people his own age do what he told them – money, influence with those who mattered and a wicked tongue was really all that took to scare the rest of his fellow Slytherins into submission.
It bothered him immensely however, that other houses seemed to think that he’d bribed and talked his way into the position as the Seeker of the Slytherin Quidditch team – he may have provided the team with brand new broomsticks marked with the prestigious name Nimbus 2001, but that was after the tryouts. Draco actually took great pride in the fact that he was now one of the youngest Quidditch players to ever have played for the grand Slytherin house.
Draco was making his way towards the Great Hall, where all the students were to participate in Lockhart’s ridiculous Duelling Club. As if any of the Slytherins had to learn how to defend themselves anyway – Draco knew perfectly well that Mudbloods were the target of… whoever the Heir of Slytherin was. Too bad he didn’t know who it was; he would have sent him or her flowers.
As he made his way through the Great Hall, Crabbe and Goyle pushing first years out of their way, he spotted Potter and his friends by the end of the long podium in the middle of the room. There had been a lot of fuss around Potter lately, Draco acknowledged with a scowl, but then again, there always were a fuss around the sodding Golden Boy. This time however, it seemed as though his great reputation from last year had begun to fade – foolish people claimed they though Potter was the one responsible for the Muggleborn attacks. Nonsense, Draco was convinced. As his father always said; people aren’t as dumb as you may think - they’re dumber.
“Welcome, welcome!” A high, confident voice from above interrupted Draco’s musings.
Lockhart was strutting with assurance along the podium, clearly enjoying the way his voice echoed against the bare walls of the Great Hall. He took a few moments to build up anticipation and to make sure that everyone’s eyes were trained upon him and him alone, before he continued.
“Welcome,” he said again, “to Hogwart’s Duelling Club! As you all know, terrible things have occurred lately within the castle’s walls, and as your Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, I feel that it is on my responsibility to teach you how to look after yourselves and fight against whatever power that lurks behind these attacks. I have, after all, defended myself and others from harm several times in my life-“ Snape cleared his throat, and Lockhart shot him a disapproving glare, “-and you can all read more about that in my books,” the vain man finished, obviously unhappy with the way the Potions master had interrupted his monologue.
Several girls were now glaring in Professor Snape’s direction, but most of the Slytherins laughed in their sleeves. Snape himself seemed to be completely indifferent.
Ten minutes and several failed spells later, Draco turned to his minions and rolled his eyes.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath as he watched how Lockhart once again was being easily disarmed by a practically yawning Severus Snape. “I don’t have time for this, let’s head back to the common room-“
“How about we pair a couple of students together? Potter, Weasley?”
Draco spun around. Now this he didn’t want to miss. It wasn’t every day he watched those two duel against each other.
“Weasley’s wand is nothing but a disaster waiting to happen, Lockhart,” Snape interjected sternly. “May I suggest someone from my own house? Draco Malfoy, perhaps?”
Draco’s heart skipped a beat. He’d get to duel against Potter? Excitement and anxiety fluttered in his stomach as he climbed the podium, pulling out his wand from his robes. He regarded the Gryffindor carefully as they walked up to each other, wands hanging down their sides. Potter looked determined.
“Scared, Potter?” Draco smirked, their faces inches apart. He could see the other’s green eyes sparkle at the challenge.
“You wish, Malfoy.”
“Wands at the ready now, remember only to disarm!” cried Lockhart as the two of them got into duelling position.
Draco was the quickest. “Evertestatio!” he cried out, his spell hitting Potter squarely in the chest, sending the Gryffindor flying backwards and falling back on to the podium. The adrenaline pumping through Draco appeared like a buzzing in his ears, he could barely distinguish the Slytherins’ glee.
Potter got back to his feet, his wand pointing at Draco and his eyes glazing with vengeance. “Rictumsempra!” he shouted, the spell causing Draco to spin backwards through the air, landing before Professor Snape’s feet. The Potions master scowled, pulling Draco up by his collar and shoving him forward. Embarrassment heated Draco’s face; he was determined to get back at Potter.
A snake escaped his wand, slithering towards Potter with the poisonous tongue slipping out through its mouth through sharp teeth. Draco didn’t quite know what he’d expected Potter to do – but whatever it was, it was not what happened next.
Potter strode purposely forward towards the snake, his face calm. Then, something happened, something Draco would remember for the rest of his life; something that would be etched in his memory for an eternity; a blemish on his mind of shame and revulsion.
Parsletongue fell from Potter’s lips, the low, sensual hissing sound bouncing against the stone walls of the Great Hall. Draco listened, fascinated, watching Potter’s face as he commanded and controlled the snake with his hissings. The sounds Potter made… Draco needed to hear more. To hear this, to see the noble Harry Potter command the symbol of Slytherin; a slithering snake, with Parsletongue… He may have been merely twelve years old, but that was when he learned what arousal really was.
Draco moaned inwardly with disappointment at the loss of the Gryffindor’s voice when Snape made the snake vanish with a swift incantation.
He was frightened. Frightened, and turned on beyond belief.
This was bad.
Without another glance in Harry’s direction, he left. As he reached the Slytherin common room in the dungeons, he sat down in front of the fire place, staring into the fire as he leant forwards. His heart was still racing; pearls of sweat were breaking through the skin of his forehead.
As he closed his eyes, he could still recall the sound of Parseltongue coming from Harry Potter, and he groaned as he threw a spell-book across the room with all his might.
He needed a long, cold shower.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. This was not good.
What potions have I drunk of Siren tears
Distill'd from limbecks foul as hell within
Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears
Still losing when I saw myself to win
Draco Malfoy was thirteen years old.
He was home at the Manor for the winter holidays; walking the hallways of his grand home without an aim. The house was empty, apart from a few House elves and Draco himself. His mother had gone off to France for the weekend and Lucius was out of the house like always. His father never explained where he went; and no one even questioned him - Draco because he couldn’t really bring himself to bother; and Narcissa because she knew she oughtn’t to – the answer could either consist of a snappy dismissal; or a cruel declaration of a mistress’ visit.
Strolling past the library, Draco heard a scraping noise from behind the closed doors. Emboldened by the bright daylight flowing through the hallway, Draco pushed open the heavy oak door with a frown. The sight that greeted him made his heart skip a beat.
There, in the middle of Malfoy Manor’s library, stood none other than Harry Potter.
“Potter?” Draco whispered in shock, his eyes widening as he watched how the other boy strode purposely forwards in Draco’s direction. Then, Harry did something that hit Draco like a physical blow. He hissed; a long, leisurely hiss of Parsletongue. Draco let out a silent gasp and gripped the doorknob tightly.
Fear, excitement and shame pulsed through his being like poison, and sweat broke through the skin of his temples as the Gryffindor drew nearer. Tearing his gaze away from the mesmerizing eyes, Draco slammed the door shut, blocking out the sound of Harry Potter’s hypnotic voice.
Resting his forehead to the cool wood of the door, he panted. He couldn’t really have been seeing... Was he losing his mind? Was he going crazy? He knew he had developed quite an obsession with Potter over the years, but it was one of hate, hate and disgust for what the Gryffindor could reduce him to. Draco loathed the feelings of utter lust that only the goddamn Harry Potter could stir up within him; but he never thought he’d start hallucinating about the other boy.
“Is Master Draco all right?” squeaked a small voice behind him.
Draco rounded on the House elf that had scared him half to death. “Do I bloody well look all right?!” he snarled.
“Twindelly is outmost sorry, Master!” the small elf piped, eyes wide. “Did the Boggart in the library frighten Master Draco?”
Draco stared at the little creature. “The what?”
“The Boggart,” the elf replied. “There’s been a Boggart in the library for over a week now; no one has fought it off yet, but if Master Draco so wish then Twindelly could get it done for him, oh yes she could-“
“Get rid of it,” Draco commanded; his face ashen. He couldn’t quite remember what Boggarts were, or why it had assumed the shape of Harry Potter, but he intended to find out.
Later that night, Draco lay sprawled on his bed in the Manor, reading over again what was written on Boggarts in Dark Creatures and Where to Find Them. One particular passage made his heart twitch unwillingly.
“A shape shifter that prefers to live in dark, confined spaces, taking the form of the thing most feared by the person it encounters; nobody knows what a Boggart looks like in its natural state. A Boggart appears to feed on the emotion of fear rather than simply deploying this ability as a defence mechanism, hence its classification as a Dark Creature.”
Draco slammed the book shut with an uncharacteristic growl.
His biggest fear was not something normal, like vampires or spiders or vindictive overlords – it was the attraction he felt for Harry bloody Potter.
Returning to Hogwarts after the Holidays was not easy for Draco Malfoy; and the Defence Against The Dark Arts class did not make it easier for him. A cold, numb fear and resentment rose within him as professor Lupin one day declared:
“Today, we will attempt to repel Boggarts. Can anyone please – yes, Miss Granger, if you will.”
Draco listened dully to Granger’s know-it-all voice as she described Boggarts; creatures which assume the shape of whatever or whoever the person facing them fears the most.
“Correct,” acknowledged Lupin when she was finished. “Luckily, the spell to get rid of Boggarts is fairly easy. You imagine whatever you fear the most in a position where it appears laughable, followed by the incantation; ‘Riddikulus!’”
Draco Malfoy decided, in that very moment, that he found Boggarts to be absolutely ridiculous. He found them so ridiculous, in fact; that he’d refuse to deal with them.
“Excuse me, Professor,” he drawled. “My wand arm has been injured by that beast in Care of Magical Creatures and I won’t be able to perform the spell. Perhaps you could let me go to the library so I can engage in a more theoretical approach?”
“I’m afraid I can’t allow that, Mister Malfoy,” Lupin said firmly, regarding Draco’s arm which was wrapped in a cast. “You can stay behind after class, however, and I’ll show you how to repel a Boggart with wandless magic.”
“What’s the matter, Malfoy?” jeered Ron Weasley’s voice in his direction through the gleeful buzzing that arose as the students began to form a line and Draco withdrew to stand by the wall. “Afraid people will see that the thing you fear the most is your own Daddy dearest?” he said scornfully, and Draco shot him a hateful glare at the same moment as Granger looked at Weasley with a startled expression.
“Ron!” she exclaimed, “don’t! He’s not worth it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Weasley,” Draco shot back. “Perhaps you’re the one scared of your old man, eh? Or perhaps of his vault at Gringotts,” he leered, “afraid you’ll starve to death, perhaps?”
“Shut up, Malfoy,” said a voice close to his right ear. Draco twitched unwillingly.
“Potter,” he said, forcing his voice to be calm as the Gryffindor strode past him to join his friends in the line. “Always so eloquent.”
The dark haired Gryffindor glared at him all the time when he waited in line for his turn to repel the Boggart; his green eyes glittering with venom. Draco felt a thrill go down his spine at the raw emotion in Harry’s eyes; even though he could, deep down, acknowledge the stab of regret at the fact that it was an emotion of loathing and not one of respect or approval in the other’s gaze. Soon, Harry pulled out his wand and strode forwards to face the Boggart. Draco watched expectantly, feeling oddly close to the other – it was after all, quite intimate to admit one’s deepest fear, Draco pondered bitterly.
That was what Harry Potter feared the most. A small, vain and naive part of Draco had hoped he would see the Boggart take the shape of him, of Draco, when Harry Potter stepped in front of it. But of course, this was not the case, and Draco felt a strange urge to step forwards, blocking the Boggart from the Gryffindor’s view at the sound of a slight gasp of despair escaping Harry.
Before he or anyone else had time to react, however, Professor Lupin stepped in front of Harry and repelled the Boggart swiftly. “That’s it for today,” the teacher declared loudly, ushering the student body towards the door. “We may continue this during the next lesson.”
Draco stood perfectly still, watching the pupils leave the classroom one after the other. He was in deep thought; failing to notice Theodore Nott and Crabbe and Goyle waving in his direction. What did the Dementors make Harry relive that caused him so much distress? What were the deepest fears of the Boy Who Lived; what made him curl up at night, what made him falter beneath its excruciating memories? It was a strange curiosity; to his own surprise he didn’t want to gain this information to gloat. He wanted to... not make those fears go away, exactly – but perhaps ease them, understand them.
“Ah, Mister Malfoy. I see you did remain behind,” Lupin’s voice interrupted his muse. “Should we get on with the wandless repelling spell?”
“Actually, Professor, I-“
“Don’t worry, Draco,” the Professor smiled as he approached the cupboard where the dreadful Boggart was hiding. “Boggarts are quite harmless.”
And with that, the doors creaked open, and Harry Potter strode out from the cupboard, Parsletongue pouring from those lush lips like irresistible poison.
Harry Potter made his way back towards the Defence Against The Dark Arts classroom; he’d forgotten his cloak in the bewilderment of another encounter with a Dementor. Ron and Hermione had set off towards the Great Hall for lunch; Harry intended to hurry back to them as soon as he’d –
Harry stopped in his tracks in the doorway of the classroom, his eyes widened in disbelief. Lupin’s voice from earlier came back o him: You can stay behind after class, however, Mr Malfoy, and I’ll show you how to repel a Boggart with wandless magic...
There, in the middle of the room, Harry watched himself walking towards a paralyzed looking Draco Malfoy. His own absurd voice of Parsletongue filled the room, and Harry could do nothing but stare. Malfoy’s biggest fear was... him?
But the blond Slytherin had already gathered his belongings, carrying them with as much dignity as he could muster with one arm in a cast, and pushed past Harry, his face ashen.
“Stay away from me, Potter.”
It sounded like a plea.
When a man dwells on the objects of sense
He creates an attraction for them
Attraction develops into desire
And desire breeds anger
Draco Malfoy was fourteen years old, but he was not quite like the rest of the boys in the Slytherin dormitory. Instead of engaging in the curious, exhilarated discussions regarding the expectations of the approaching Yule Ball and what could possibly, hopefully, happen with the girls afterwards, Draco sat in the common room’s couch, staring dully into the fire.
“What about you, Draco?” issued Theodore Nott’s voice. “Reckon Parkinson will put out, eh?”
The crowd of boys sniggered, looking expectantly at Draco.
“Dunno,” Draco said unenthusiastically. “We’ll see.”
“What, don’t you fancy her?” asked Blaise Zabini.
Not that he felt anything in particular of the prospect of jumping just any bloke. He’d only felt this attraction for one person.
Draco’s lips curled into a crooked smirk. “I like her looks.”
It was partly true, at least. She had black hair; that was a start. And, if you squinted in poor lighting, her blue eyes could resemble green.
“Spying on snogging couples, are we?”
Harry Potter was standing outside the Great Hall, obviously sneaking around and not wanting to be seen. Unluckily for him, however, Draco had spotted him sneak out from the Ball and hadn’t been able to resist following the Gryffindor.
“I was not spying on snogging couples,” Harry said defensively, his cheeks rather pink.
Draco smirked, and walked closer towards the other boy. The winter clung to the dark night like frosty crystal around them, and snowflakes large like Knuts coins floated from the velvet sky.
“Nothing wrong with a little voyeuristic kink, Potter.”
“I don’t have a kink!”
Draco clicked his tongue. “You don’t have to be ashamed, you know. Everyone has a kink.”
Harry’s eyes widened, then a grin spread across his face, and a mischievous gleam appeared in his eyes. “Really, Malfoy? Everyone? What’s yours, then?”
Draco felt his breath hitch as he stared into the Gryffindor’s smoothly mocking face. Oh, if Potter only knew what Draco’s kink really was; he’d be running away screaming like a little girl.
“Dirty talk,” he lied smoothly, completely unfazed.
Potter went into a fit of coughing and spluttered laughter, and Draco frowned. “Finding my kink amusing, Potter?”
“Perhaps,” Harry replied merrily, eyes glittering.
Draco looked at him suspiciously. “Did someone spike your drinks?”
Harry turned serious again and rolled his eyes. “I’m laughing, does that mean I’m drunk?”
Draco shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. You Gryffindors do strike me as the type of people who need a drink or two to loosen up.”
“Oh, shove off Malfoy.”
“You know what, I think I could.”
Draco arched an eyebrow. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
Harry drew closer, and Draco took an immediate step of caution backwards.
“You’re afraid of me,” Harry stated simply. “I haven’t forgotten about that Boggart last year, you know.”
Draco sneered, feeling his heart race. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“Liar,” Harry said almost softly.
“Where’s your date, Potter?” Draco said, changing the subject. His shoulders dropped in relief as Harry took a step back.
“Inside, dancing with some Durmstrang.”
Harry laughed. A soft, gentle laugh, which made Draco’s heart jump. “Not at all.”
Green eyes peered at him curiously. “Where’s yours?”
“Probably looking for me,” Draco replied honestly.
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I want to ask you something,” Draco said, eyes fixed upon the slightly reluctant face of the Boy Who Lived.
“What do you hear when the Dementors get close to you?”
Harry stared. “What – why are you asking me that?! Fuck off, Malfoy. Why the hell would I tell you?”
“Because I want to know,” Draco said quietly. And he really did. He wanted to know what memories could possibly cause the Gryffindor so much grief that he passed out whenever he was reminded of them.
“You really want to know?” Harry asked, his voice thick with emotion, eyes glued to a soft drift of glittery snow.
Harry’s voice sounded strangled as he began to speak. “I see myself, Malfoy. I see myself as a baby, reaching up my arms and crying for someone to pick me up and comfort me. I hear my aunt and uncle mutter about what a freak I am; how ungrateful and disgusting I am. I see the inside of the cupboard I was raised in. I hear my own sobs during the nights, I hear myself chanting how I’m not afraid; how I’m brave, like my parents surely must have been. I feel my cousin and his friends beat me up before school, I see my uncle smack me around and my aunt force me to make breakfast by a sink I can’t even reach up to-“
Anger, shock and repulsion flooded Draco’s veins; he was positively trembling with rage at Harry’s words and without the trace of hesitation he strode forwards and embraced the Gryffindor; whose words still came pouring out from him, accompanied by a single tear that ran agonizingly slowly down his cheek.
“Shh,” Draco hushed softly, awkwardly stroking Harry’s back.
“-and then, I hear my mother’s scream the night Voldemort killed her.” Harry finished, his words delivered in an almost unbearably anguished tone.
“I’m so sorry,” Draco whispered, not caring that Harry’s snivelling nose was buried in his most expensive dress robes; not caring that they could be seen by anyone where they stood in the snow outside the feast. “I never knew. I’m sorry for making you bring this up.”
“Wasn’t this what you wanted?” Harry whispered bitterly, pulling away. “To humiliate me?”
And to this, Draco held no reply, because it should be the truth. He was Draco Malfoy and Potter was Potter, and he should be gloating right now; should be taking pictures and selling it to the Daily Prophet, but there was something so fragile about Harry this very moment that he was afraid the Gryffindor would break if Draco would as much as taunt him.
Instead he said nothing, merely watched Harry calm himself down and regain some of his composure. He refrained from pulling the dark haired boy into his arms again; knowing that it had felt far too good.
Soon, Harry spoke, his voice quiet but calm. “Why did you go with Parkinson, then?”
Draco blinked in surprise, but replied truthfully. “She’s got black hair.”
“Maybe I like black hair.”
A couple of seconds passed, and Draco avoided Harry’s gaze.
“Draco... Are you scared of me?”
Draco stiffened. “No.”
“Slytherins aren’t brave,” Harry mumbled, smiling slightly. “You know that, don’t you?”
Draco snorted. “Maybe this Slytherin is,” he said loftily.
“Why were you so determined to get into the Slytherin house, anyway?”
Draco stared into the Gryffindor’s eyes, noting with a slight awe how the snowflakes stuck in the other’s dark eyelashes sparkled above the emerald orbs. “Maybe I like green,” he said softly.
Something indefinable glittered within Harry’s eyes at the reply.
The conversation ended there, but Draco and Harry remained outside the castle for a while after that, sitting by the stone stairs and watching the Hogwarts grounds disappear beneath stretches of fine snow that gleamed in blue in the winter moonlight.
Revenge is an act of passion
Vengeance of justice
Injuries are revenged
Crimes are avenged
Draco Malfoy was fifteen years old, and the summer that followed his fourth year at Hogwarts could only be described as hell. No longer did he feel at ease at the Manor – the threat of the Dark Lord’s frequent visits brought an uncomfortable sense of foreboding into his everyday life.
Lucius, too, seemed fretful and tense; Draco had never before seen his father’s impeccably composed exterior falter like it did right before his eyes under the demands which followed Lord Voldemort’s return to the Wizarding World.
When Draco returned to Hogwarts for his fifth year, he had been following the Daily Prophet carefully throughout the entire summer with great interest and a slight annoyance. He knew exactly what had been written about Harry Potter; how the paper had claimed Potter to be deluded and crazy for attention and how the stories he’d told about Cedric Diggory’s death were nothing but lies.
Draco did of course know the truth. The Dark Lord was back, and that meant that there was no longer room for the childish crush he’d developed for the Gryffindor over the years. This time it was real; a war was approaching and Draco would soon be required where he belonged – with his family, with his pride and behind the Malfoy Crest.
And, should it be needed - behind a Death Eater mask.
“Look who we have here,” Draco Malfoy sneered. “Still around, are you Potter? I thought they would’ve sent you off to St Mungos by now, what with all that load of rubbish you’ve been telling people about You Know Who having returned.”
Harry Potter rounded on him. “Shut your mouth, Malfoy!” he spat angrily.
The look in his eyes was startlingly hateful; but Draco thought he could distinguish a flicker of hurt behind the emerald abhorrence. Repressing his nagging urge to make the pain and loathing in the Gryffindor’s eyes go away, he continued: “How convenient it must be, to be Dumbledore’s pet, Potter. Although, he’s clearly off his rocker too.”
Draco found a bitter enjoyment in this; found a bizarre comfort in knowing that with every jeer and cruel taunt, he drove Harry further and further away, making the wall of detestation and resentment that would forever keep them apart more solid for every day that passed.
The night had invaded the castle and was only lit up by the flickering torches which hung upon the corridors’ walls of Hogwarts. Harry had followed Malfoy on his way from the Great Hall after dinner, his stern gaze firmly fixed on the Slytherin’s back as the other made his way swiftly and quite alone towards the Slytherin dungeons.
Hurrying after him, he reached out and grasped Malfoy’s collar and shoved him against the wall roughly, glaring into the Slytherin’s eyes venomously.
“What’s the matter with you, Malfoy? What’s all this bullshit about Voldemort not being back?!”
Malfoy’s grey eyes glittered in the torchlight, and he let out a soft gasp as he was slammed against the wall as he squirmed uncomfortably beneath Harry’s weight at the mentioning of Voldemort. Harry didn’t care; he was beyond enraged.
“Look at you,” Harry growled. “You can’t even bear to hear his name! You know I’m bloody right about everything, Malfoy. Don’t tell me that Daddy Lucius failed to mention the return of his cherished leader!?”
“Oh I know the truth,” Draco sneered, speaking up at last. He glared at Harry from underneath his white blond bangs as he continued nastily: “But since when would I turn down an opportunity to join in on the public humiliation of the Grand Harry Potter?”
Harry had him pressed so firmly against the wall that he could practically feel the other’s heart beat against his robe clad chest; and he could almost feel the waves of anger radiating off of him; making Draco crumble in his grip.
“You,” Harry began quietly in a resentful tone, “are still the same arrogant, cruel monster I always saw when looking at you. I can’t believe I actually thought you...”
“Thought what?” Draco’s voice was calm, challenging.
Harry looked away.
“I can’t believe I for a minute there thought you were different.”
Shame and disgrace laced the name, taunting Draco. His father was in Azkaban; a filthy prison of vermin and dirt. That was not a place for a Malfoy, and yet that was where his father currently was located because of Potter.
Potter had tainted the respected name of the Malfoys, brought them down to the level of simple thieves and bandits.
Hot blood pulsed beneath Draco Malfoy’s surface as he strode towards the Gryffindor tower, his eyes blazing in black. He had forgiven Potter for things the Gryffindor wasn’t even aware he’d inflicted upon him; he had suppressed the rejection, he’d forgiven Harry for beating him in everything, for being better, quicker, cleverer.
But this, he could never forgive. The one thing Draco had been brought up to cherish; the pride of the Malfoys, the family name, had Potter ruined for him.
“Potter,” he said lowly, dangerously.
The Gryffindor met his gaze firmly, not looking away. This angered Draco even more. How dared he look him in the eye after what he’d done?
“You’ve disgraced the Malfoy name,” he hissed venomously. “You’ve taken away my father.”
“Malfoy... I know what it’s like, you know. Having to go on without a father. And I’m sorry.” Harry’s eyes shone with emotion, and Draco was stunned, and bit his lip uncharacteristically.
“I’m sorry. Draco, I really am. For your sake, not for your father’s. He deserves Azkaban. But no one deserves to lose their father.”
“Don’t you fucking dare say my first name, Potter. It’s Malfoy for you,” he spat.
Harry reached forward desperately, trying to put a hand on Draco’s arm but the Slytherin took a step back, slapping the dark haired boy’s hand away. He glowered.
“Don’t touch me. I’ll get you for this, Potter. I swear I will.”
With that he turned on his heel and stalked off, never looking back.
If he had, he would have seen a regretful pain shine in a pair of emerald orbs.
Seldom, very seldom does complete truth belong to any human disclosure
Seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised
Or a little mistaken
Draco Malfoy was sixteen years old. He had always lived his life in the shadows. When he was a child, he had always been told he looked just like his father with his blonde hair and sharp features. He’d been the shadow of Lucius; the younger, less powerful shadow who never lived up to expectations of his family.
Then Hogwarts came along – and so did Harry Potter. Bloody Potter with his scar and his fame and his marvellous broomstick. (And the traitorous Parsletongue and devilishly emerald eyes and unruly jet-black hair.)
But then that day came. It had been years of being pushed and shoved into the dark and into shame, but the day had come: The day when the Dark Lord himself acknowledged Draco. He was awarded a mission; a mission of great importance. Draco Malfoy was to kill Albus Dumbledore; and by doing so, gain himself a given position of power within Lord Voldemort’s inner circle.
Draco Malfoy would, for once in his life, prove to everyone – to his father, to Voldemort, to Potter – that he was capable of accomplish great things. The tension he’d been building up over the past year would help him – he was angry and determined. He was ready. He was practically designed to kill; schooled by his father since birth about how nothing mattered but serving the darkest wizard of all time.
It was Draco Malfoy’s time to shine.
“Draco? Draco, are you coming or what?”
Draco looked at Pansy where she stood in the door of their compartment, her small hand offered to him as though she expected him to take it. Her eyes were trained upon him questionably, and he waved his hand at her irritably, as though waving away a tedious fly.
“Go on,” he told her quietly, his eyes flickering back to the shelf above. “There’s something I want to check.”
“All right,” she replied, sending him a longing look which made him shudder unwillingly. “See you by the carriages.”
The moment she left, Draco rose to his feet, his heart pounding furiously in his chest as he closed the curtains to the compartment. He took his sweet time, enjoying the power he held over Potter’s head.
“Petrificus Totalus!” he cried out, pointing his wand directly towards the spot where he knew Harry was hidden beneath a concealment charm or something of the sort.
The Gryffindor fell from the shelf with a loud banging noise, tumbling unceremoniously to the floor before Draco’s feet. The Slytherin’s heart fluttered in his chest as he watched the Boy Who Lived; the boy he’d come to hate with such a vigorous passion for years, almost not knowing why, or perhaps, not daring to admit why. One thing Draco knew, however, was that he’d many times fantasised about having Harry Potter here like this; before his feet and at his mercy.
Harry’s legs were still only partly visible, and Draco bent down to withdrew the cool fabric of a –
Ah. Of course; an Invisibility Cloak. This explained much, Draco thought grimly, as he glared down at Potter.
“Eavesdropping, are we?” he said dangerously. “I don’t care what you think you know, Potter. You don’t matter to me anymore. But - when I still have you here... Didn’t I tell you I would get back at you for what you’ve done to my family?”
Draco drew back his leg, and in one forceful motion he kicked Harry’s nose with his heel. The noise of bone breaking beneath his expensive leather boots was nauseating, and a profound, inescapable sensation of guilt invaded Draco unexpectedly as he watched the dark haired boy before his feet; his nose crooked and blood trickling down his pale face, emerald eyes glinting with hatred.
An irrational part of Draco wanted to fall to his knees and undo the pain he’d caused; but that part was repressed by another part of himself; a part which remembered the cold rejection and pain this boy had caused him on this very train almost exactly six years ago. Covering the Gryffindor with the Invisibility Cloak in a hurried movement, he croaked: “See you around, Potter. Or not. If you’re lucky they’ll find you once you’re back in London.”
With those words he left the compartment, striding numbly through the empty train before he exited it at the front. As soon as the brisk, inky darkness of the Hogsmead night met his face, he crumbled. Resting his forehead to the cool metal of the train, he choked on an aching sob he hadn’t known had been building up in his throat. Kicking the Hogwarts Express out of pure despair and regret, he cursed Harry Potter for the millionth time for what he’d reduced him to.
“I’m telling you Harry, you’re making a big mistake in accusing Draco for the accident with Katie Bell! You haven’t any proof.”
“I know it was Malfoy who handed over that cursed necklace, Hermione. I saw him at The Three Broomsticks.”
Hermione and Ron exchanged exasperated looks.
Harry didn’t notice. He was still staring at the Marauder’s Map.
Draco slammed the door to the Vanishing Cabinet shut with such force that he had the crystallised glasses on the shelves in the Room of Requirement shaking. He rested his forehead to the polished ebony wood, his breath coming out in uneven gasps.
That was what he was, what he would be called by his father and his master. What he deserved to be called. Three fucking months in the Room of Requirement. Three months of achieving nothing. The thought of not succeeding in mending the cabinet was terrifying enough – he barely dared to think what lay ahead once he did. The real assignment. The real task he’d been ordered to perform.
Would he have the strength to murder?
Shaking, he slid down to the floor and rested his head in his hands. His throat was aching with repressed sorrow and desperation. It was pathetic, a laughable wish, but he still wanted nothing more that moment than to be held by someone. He needed someone to lie to him and tell him that it was going to be alright, in spite of everything. One hot, angry tear made its way down his face, and he wiped it away quickly with his fist, feeling more alone then he ever had in his entire life.
Little did he know that he was not alone, for Harry Potter was standing a few feet away; outside the Room of Requirement wishing for nothing but entrance.
“Harry, you mustn’t keep up this ridiculous obsession with Malfoy anymore!” Hermione hissed at his during Transfiguration class. “You should focus on the task Dumbledore has given you – Slughorn’s memory!”
“I know he’s up to something. Something dangerous. If only I could get inside the Room –“
“Forget about the Room, mate,” Ron interrupted quietly. “You talk more about Malfoy these days than about Quidditch.”
Harry didn’t reply, his eyes were trained upon Draco who sat in the back of the room. The Slytherin looked almost ill.
“Shouldn’t you be at the game, Malfoy?”
“Shouldn’t you? Mind your own business, Potter.”
“Malfoy… I - ”
“Get out of my way,” the blonde sneered and shoved past Harry before he stalked away towards the castle.
Draco bowed his head, his hands resting on each side of the sink. The tears streamed down his cheeks and into the white bowl, mingling with dirty drops of water. Katie Bell’s piercing scream was ringing in his mind, echoing much like Snape’s words of caution. The Dark Lord’s inhuman leering face flashed across his inner vision and he broke down once again into sobs, feeling his entire being crumble under the pressure of his impossible task. Lifting his head, he stared into his own colourless face in the mirror. He didn’t see who he wanted to see; didn’t see his own powerful sneer, his confident arch of an eyebrow, instead he saw a frightened, weak teenage boy who was crying tears of shame and frustration.
Then, he did see something else. A flash of stunned emerald eyes was reflected in the mirror, somewhere by the door.
Spinning around, he drew his wand. “Rictumsempra,” he snarled, watching how his curse missed the shocked Potter by an inch.
“What are you up to, Malfoy!?” the Gryffindor shouted, aiming a curse of his own in Draco’s direction, which Draco blocked before firing off another curse.
“Like I’d ever tell you, Potter!” Draco shouted furiously before throwing himself to the side to avoid getting hit by another one of Potter’s raging curses.
They battled like this for minutes; curses and hexes flying across the bathroom lighting. Draco fled further into the bathroom, trying to avoid Harry’s raging curses. The tension they’d built up over the year consumed the room, they could both feel it; all the unresolved fights and hatred, and confusion and frustration they’d bottled up was finally released, pouring out magic through their wands.
Draco’s fury flooded his being uncontrollably; he wanted to physically hurt Potter, he wanted to make an impact on the Gryffindor; mark him like Harry had forever marked his soul without even knowing it. He was so close, when –
The unexpected curse hit him squarely in the chest, and Draco fell to the water-drenched stone floor, hot blood trickling down his torso. His task, his shame, his fears, it all drifted further and further away. As he felt himself slip away beneath the aching pain of Potter’s curse, he could only feel one thing.
Finally, someone had done to him what he hadn’t been strong enough to do to himself. And ironically, it felt strangely right that Harry was the one to hurt him like this. That was the very last coherent thought in Draco Malfoy’s mind before he finally faded into blissful unconsciousness.
Harry watched, petrified, how his curse hit Malfoy’s chest with a violent force, making the Slytherin topple backwards to the floor. Blood surged down the blonde’s torso, mingling with the water on the floor.
“I’m so sorry,” Harry whispered as he stumbled forwards, falling to his knees beside Draco, who was shaking in the pool of his own blood. As he racked his panicked mind for healing spells, he grasped the Slytherin’s hand in a childish attempt to provide comfort, all the time chanting to himself; “Oh god, what have I done? I didn’t mean to... Malfoy, listen to me, Malfoy, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to...”
Draco’s eyes drew open at last, and Harry clasped his hand tightly, letting out a sigh of relief.
“Potter,” Draco wheezed, his chest heaving from uneven gasps. “Harry...” There was an eerily calm acceptance shining in his steely eyes and his face had an empty set to it, however ruffled with fear at the edges. “Please don’t,” his grimaced from the pain, “don’t heal me.”
“What?” Harry breathed fearfully, fingers tangled with Malfoy’s. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
But Draco’s eyes were firmly fixed upon Harry’s face; his hands grasping Harry’s so tightly it almost hurt. “I want to go,” he mumbled quietly as his eyes shut and his head lolled to the side.
“No!” Harry said with a shocked exasperation. “Malfoy, stay with me, I’ll get Pomfrey, we’ll fix this-“
“Let me go, Harry.” Malfoy’s voice was a weak plea; a wish for release and silence.
Before Harry could do anything else he felt a strong hand grab the collar of his robes from behind, yanking him backwards. As he scrambled to the corner of the room, coming up short against the wall, he watched numbly as Severus Snape bent over Draco, muttering an incantation in a songlike voice as he traced the deep cuts upon the Slytherin’s torso with the tip of his wand.
A hallow, frightening sensation crept upon Harry as Malfoy’s voice came back to him; asking him not to heal him, asking him to let him go. Malfoy had asked him for... death. Harry’s heart ached for the other; what could possibly cause the Slytherin so much pain that he could see no other way to escape it but to let himself be killed?
Rage for Tom Riddle rose within him, and as he finally returned on shaky legs to the Gryffindor Tower, Harry was more determined than ever to find out what kind of task Lord Voldemort had ordered Draco Malfoy to perform.
Draco’s hand was trembling where he stood facing one of the greatest wizards of their time, Albus Dumbledore, in the Astronomy Tower in the early summer night. The sheer bizarreness of the situation was overwhelming; he hadn’t quite believed he’d ever make it this far. He’d hoped it, told himself he would manage, perhaps, but to actually accomplish to mend the cabinet and allow Death Eaters into the castle...
A numb determination ached in his chest as he tried to shake off Dumbledore’s attempts at persuasion; he could practically feel his aunt’s leering words of encouragement hit his neck as she mumbled into his ear: “Do it, Draco! The Dark Lord expects you to kill him, you must not fail!”
Draco’s head dropped for a second in despair, his gaze glued to the sparse wooden floor. Then, he saw it. Through the narrow gaps between the floorboards, something emerald glinted in the restricted light that had found its way below the Tower.
He would have recognised those eyes anywhere.
Harry’s eyes bore into his; shock, disappointment and grief written all over the Gryffindor’s face. A wave of nausea washed over Draco that very second; regret and desperation searing through his entire being. He could never do this, not now; not with Harry’s gaze trained upon him with an intensity that almost scared him.
The look of relief in Harry’s eyes when he lowered his wand was enough to make Draco’s doubts disappear within the space of a heartbeat. He may have failed the Dark Lord; but he had gained something he had desired since forever – the approval of Harry Potter.
“Step aside, Draco,” Severus Snape commanded testily behind him. Before Draco had barely realised what had happened, the Professor had shoved him to the side, strode forwards with his wand raised, and the Killing Curse gripped the Headmaster’s body in a brutal flash of emerald, causing the old man to fall down from the Astronomy Tower towards the bare ground below.
The last thing Draco could remember clearly before Bellatrix and Snape made him escape along with the other Death Eaters, was the moment after the murder of Albus Dumbledore when he stole one final glace at the immobilized Gryffindor beneath the scene.
The momentarily flicker of hope that had been awoken in Harry’s gaze was gone; his eyes were numb; blackened like two bottomless pits.
Wanting to stay behind so badly it made his chest ache; Draco forced himself to keep running beside Snape, away from Harry who now sprinted after them, shouting threats and abuse after the Potions master. The pure venom in the other’s voice was terrifying; Draco could feel the Gryffindor’s anger rolling off of him in waves.
When they had finally reached outside the Hogwarts grounds where Apparation was no longer impossible, Draco allowed himself a final glance back. Harry lay quite still; looking very young with his chest heaving and glasses askew.
Closing his eyes to shut out how very breakable Harry looked; fallen to the ground by Severus’ wand, Draco Apparated to the Malfoy Manor with a soundly ‘crack!’.
I'm afraid that I'll spend the better part of next year scared that I might need you
Bring me down and I'll feel again
Everything I've ever done
I've done because I love you
Draco Malfoy was seventeen years old.
He was the only teenager in the whole Malfoy Manor; surrounded by Death Eaters who had since the war taken into their habits to come and go at his childhood home as they pleased. Of course, Draco thought bitterly, how could he ever expect anything else? After all, the Manor was no longer his home and fortress, but the resident of the Dark Lord himself.
His gloomy muse was interrupted as he stared into the fire, when he heard the werewolf Greyback’s loud and triumphant roar declare from the other side of the salon: “We’ve got Potter! We’ve captured Harry Potter!”
Utter turmoil instantly ensued; and Draco felt his heart clench as he spotted the three captured figures across the room.
He recognised Harry Potter immediately.
Harry’s heart was hammering in his chest; hoping with all his soul that Hermione’s Stinging Curse would not wear off before they could escape from this dreadful mess. Listening to the Death Eaters’ heated discussion on what to do with them, he felt himself stiffen at the mentioning of one particular person.
It was Narcissa Malfoy who had spoken. “Draco,” she said coldly, “Come here. Surely you will be able to tell if this is Harry Potter or not?”
Harry held his breath, not daring to look directly at Draco. A tall, pale figure drew nearer; his white blond hair shimmering in the light from the crystal chandelier hanging right above. Harry prepared himself for a gloating confirmation; “It is him, Father! It is Harry Potter.”
However, Draco seemed to be just as reluctant to look at Harry as Harry was to look at him. He was standing several feet away; his facial expression impossible to read through Harry’s swollen slits for eyes.
Harry felt that all hope was gone. Draco had proved to him more than once where his loyalties truly lay; and it was not with him. Then, Draco spoke at last.
“I can’t be sure,” he said quietly.
In that moment, Harry was happy his features were a swollen, pink mess because had it not been, his expression of relief and gratitude would have given them away instantly. He knew Draco would recognise him; the Slytherin had watched him closely over the years, he knew it; because they both were the kind who believed in the old saying: “Know thy enemy.” Draco knew, he knew it was Harry, and yet, he did not sell him out.
Was Draco really the enemy, after all?
Then, Lucius Malfoy grabbed his son’s sleeve, shoving him forwards so that the blond came face to face with Harry. The two Malfoys were strikingly alike, Harry realised up close; however where Lucius’ pale features showed a wicked excitement; Draco’s were marked by fear and reluctance.
“Look properly!” the senior Malfoy ordered. “Are you certain this isn’t Potter?”
“I don’t know,” Draco said, his voice small. With that, he withdrew back into the room again, eyes glued to a spot somewhere by one of the dark corners of the room.
And in that moment, nothing could have spoiled Harry’s delight.
A few hours after Harry and his friends had been brought and imprisoned at the Manor, a small smile spread over Draco Malfoy’s face and his heart fluttered with relief as he heard the outraged roars from below.
Harry had escaped.
Walking towards the large windows of his bedroom, he gazed out over the seemingly never ending gardens of the Malfoy Manor, finding a small and warming pride within him that he had helped the Boy Who Live flee. The legendary boy who he’d idolized in secrecy as a child had been helped, perhaps even saved by him; Draco Malfoy.
“Be careful, Potter,” he muttered quietly into the empty room, looking at his own narrow shadow which was inky black against the floor which bathed in pearly moonlight.
Knowing Harry Potter like he did however, he knew that the Gryffindor never was.
Harry could barely extinguish Ron’s cries about how he was crazy for going after Malfoy over the roaring flames which engulfed the Room of Requirement. His eyes were searching desperately for the Slytherin, his lungs aching painfully with sooth and the heat was unbearable. Then he saw him; Draco was standing below on the ground with an unconscious Goyle in his arms.
Without a trace of a doubt, Harry dived.
Ron and Hermione were not far behind him; and he watched impatiently how they by joined forces dragged Goyle on to their broomstick and set off towards the exit which was partly visible through the heavy black smoke and smouldering, threatening flames that licked the walls and the ceiling.
Harry caught Draco’s hand and pulled him on to his own broom. Draco had saved his life at the Malfoy Manor, and he was determined to do this for the Slytherin. The thought of losing the other now was unthinkable; it left Harry feeling numb with fear and regret and he knew he could never forgive himself if he would fail to save Malfoy from the flames.
As he felt Draco cling to him, his arms around his waist and chin buried on his shoulder, he realised that even like this, on a broom in the middle of a lethal inferno, it felt right.
It felt just as right as it had that night of the Yule Ball, when Draco had embraced him, his arms around him felt protective and reassuring, and Harry felt the need to promise the other that it would all be over soon; that the heat and the pain would disappear; but he knew it would be fruitless – nothing could be heard over the deafening flames and Draco’s terrified scream.
Once they made it out through the narrow door, leaving the inferno behind, they smashed into the opposite wall before tumbling to the ground, Harry falling on top of Draco, who let out a gasp of pain.
“Sorry,” Harry mumbled, watching in concern the Slytherin’s face which was covered in soot, his white hair grey with ashes and his chest heaving violently.
Getting off of Draco to give the other some breathing space he leant towards the wall behind him, relieved to see Hermione and Ron looking unharmed. Goyle lay slumped against the wall, his face looking empty and numb.
Draco stirred, and stared at the wall where the door had disappeared, dread in his eyes. “Crabbe,” he whispered hoarsely, coughing as he spoke his friend’s name.
“He’s dead,” Ron said harshly. “Like you would be if Harry had a shred of sense –“
“Ron,” Harry interrupted, “get the Tiara and destroy it. I’ll be with you in a bit.”
Ron looked at him, dumbfounded. “You want us to do it? Harry, are you sure?”
“You’ve done it before, haven’t you?” Harry managed with a weak smile. “Go. I’ll be with you soon.”
As Hermione and Ron disappeared along the corridor, side by side, the Tiara buried inside Hermione’s robes, Harry turned to Draco.
“Are you all right?” he asked carefully.
“Better than Crabbe,” Draco replied grimly.
“I’m sorry,” Harry said softly.
“He was never a loyal friend,” Draco said bitterly, and Harry recalled the spite Crabbe had shown Draco when the Slytherin had tried to order them not to hurt Harry. “But he’s been a part of my life,” Draco continued. “And don’t say that, Potter. You saved me.”
Harry looked him straight in the eye, determined not to let his gaze drop. His heart was pounding in his chest. “You've saved me too,” he pointed out weakly.
“Nothing I do can ever redeem me,” Draco whispered, his eyes shining. Licking his lips, he looked away, staring at the now passed out Goyle.
“Go on,” Draco said quietly. “They need you out there, Potter.”
“There’s somewhere else I need to be first,” Harry whispered and reached out to tilt Draco’s face towards his; green eyes once again locked with grey. The look in Draco’s eyes was so unlike he’d ever seen it before – hopeful and yet filled with caution and regret.
“And where... where’s that?”
“Right here,” Harry replied simply as he leant forward and kissed the Slytherin softly on the lips, one hand curling around his neck, fingers tangling in white blond hair. He felt a small gasp of surprise escape Draco’s throat as the other boy opened his mouth to return the kiss, trembling hands found their way around Harry’s waist.
As he pulled the Slytherin closer and kissed him deeper, feeling Draco’s rapid heartbeat to his chest, all he could think of was how this was so very wrong, but at the same time so incredibly right, and oh god, Draco was moaning and pressing himself against Harry’s body and in that moment Harry hadn’t been able to let go of the Slytherin even if Voldemort himself had appeared before him.
“Harry,” Draco said huskily, “What are you doing?”
Harry pounced on him, knocking him to the floor and pinning him there by his wrists; a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Something I should’ve done years ago.”
The kiss that followed was nothing like the first one they’d shared; not gentle or tender. This time there was a raw, passionate feel to it, and Harry hissed in delight when Draco arched up against him, his teeth nibbling at Harry’s bottom lip. Draco’s own scent mingled with the smoky smell of their clothes and skin, the heat driving Harry mad.
“How long have you wanted me like this?” Harry asked, eyes wide and fixed on Draco, whose lips curled into a coy smile.
“Second year,” he replied, flipping Harry over so that he was now on top, not caring that they were in the middle of a hallway and could be seen by practically anyone – Death Eaters, Order members, school mates or even Dark Lords.
Harry’s eyes looked at Draco’s mouth as the tip of the Slytherins pink tongue wet his lips slowly. A strangled “Why?” was all he could manage, especially when Draco was grinding into him ohgodjustlikethat.
Draco leant forwards; his lips brushing against his ear as he purred: “Remember my kink, Potter?”
Harry’s eyes widened again. “Dirty talk?” he asked, frowning. “But I’ve never-“
“Oh, trust me, you have,” Draco said grimly as he yanked Harry into a sitting position, still straddling the Gryffindor’s lap. “When we duelled.”
Realisation hit Harry like a Bludger. The Boggart and the Parsletongue; it all made sense now. He could do nothing but stare, feeling his cheeks grow pink with embarrassment, and, to his humiliation, lust.
“You really are a kinky sod, aren’t you, Malfoy?” he mumbled, pulling the blonde in for a kiss again.
“Only for you, Potter,” Draco sighed, moaning quietly when Harry proceeded to do wicked things with his tongue to the shell of Draco’s ear.
“So that was all, was it?” Harry asked, his tone now graver, teeth digging a little too hard into the soft flesh, punishingly. “All this, just because you get off from Parsletongue?”
Draco’s eyes drew open instantly, and he pulled back, staring into Harry’s glistering emerald eyes. “No,” he whispered fearfully. “Harry, you have put me through so much without even realising it during these years – things I would never be able to forgive had it been anyone else but you.” His gaze dropped, and his voice got quieter as he spoke. “You rejected me. You wanted nothing to do with me, you were so much fucking better than me, you imprisoned my father and I’ve been going crazy in my attempts to convince myself that I could work against you; that I could fight this, but every time I fucking looked at you it hurt –“
“Hush,” Harry said softly, threading his fingers through Draco’s sooty hair, feeling his heart swell at the Slytherin’s confession. Then, a sinful idea came to his mind and Harry wasn’t strong enough to fight his urge to try it.
I understand you, Draco.
The lazy hiss of Parsletongue hit Draco like a physical blow and he let out a gasp, his eyes shining with passion and he was positively trembling with need when he pleaded: “Again, Harry. Do it again.”
Harry’s eyes bore into Draco’s wickedly, and his hands cupped his face as he leant forward; whispering against his lips.
I will never let you go.
That was all Parsletongue Draco could handle. He crushed his lips against Harry’s, drinking the Gryffindor in completely, devouring him. He poured his heart and soul into the kiss, wanting to catch up on years of longing and denial in a few minutes, stolen in the middle of a raging war.
“This is crazy,” Draco mumbled when they broke for air, their foreheads resting against each other, chests heaving; their hair and clothes dishevelled.
“This is us,” Harry breathed, tangling his fingers with Draco’s. “And it’s perfect.”
And in that moment, everything is.
Disclaimer: Everything in this that you recognise (which should be quite a lot) is property of JK Rowling and the Warner Bros. I own nothing.
Author’s note: This may have been the most emotionally draining one-shot I have ever written. For those of you who are familiar with my work, you will know that Draco/Harry is indeed my OTP. The ship is very dear to me, and writing this; trying to compress every single aspect and obstacle of their relationship into a one-shot has been quite demanding just in terms of the sheer scope of it all. In the beginning, this story was intended to be a chaptered fic in seven parts (one part per year at Hogwarts) but in the end I decided that this piece would deliver a bigger impact as a one-shot. Thank you for reading, and please – leave me feedback. It really means the world to me!
-Edwin Markham; first quote
-Ralph Waldo; second quote
-William Shakespeare; third quote
-The Dhammapada; forth quote
-Samuel Johnson; fifth quote
-Jane Austen; sixth quote
-Matt Caplan; seventh quote
The line where Malfoy mentions that he wants to send the opener of the Chamber of Secrets is taken from a scene with Hermione, Ron, Harry, Draco and Narcissa Malfoy in the Half Blood Prince – Draco’s Detour.
The references on Boggarts are taken from HP Lexicon, available online.
Other Similar Stories
by Sleeping ...
Eyes Wide Open