Previously posted as part of a Multifandom Drabble Collection.
Inspiration: fleshdress
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry & Draco
Word/Situation:
Mood/Theme:
Approximate Timeline: Post HBP pre DH... slightly AU
Other:
Title: Unreachable
Author: Winter Ashby (rosweldrmr)
Disclaimer: Harry Potter © JK Rowling
Rating: T
Word Count: 500 - exactly!
Summary: Anger flares in him, hot and sharp. It slices open old wounds that weren't his, but he now carries, alone in his grief. He wonders if his father ever loved the enemy. (Harry & Draco)
Authors Notes: This is a thank you to the wonderful, talented fleshdress, who made me like slash, and James Potter. This was very much inspired after reading her stuff. You should too... she's ridiculously talented.
"Malfoy, did anyone ever tell you, you're kind of tragic?" Harry props himself up on his arm; the soft givings of the mattress lets him sink closer to Draco. The sun is setting out the window of the Gryffindor tower, the curtains of his bed drawn back to let the light in. Draco's face is blurred, without his glasses on, but angular and proud still, as always.
(Too good for you.)
"What's that supposed to mean?" He stirs, but keeps his eyes shut, breathing lightly.
Harry spares a glance at the golden pocket watch the Weasleys gave him for his seventeenth birthday. He squints. They wouldn't have long. He could feel the vibrations of hundreds of students standing in the great hall, clapping. The house cup will have been awarded. With some late addition points, he thinks Draco might actually have regretted not going.
"Just that, you know, your life… your family –"
The word is barely off his lips before Draco was sitting upright, legs swung over the bed, callused soles against wood grain. "You don't get to speak about my family, Potter." He spat the name, like it was a curse. Harry wonders if he's reaching for his wand. With his back to him, he can't be sure. "At least I've got a family. I'm not an orphan, like you."
Harry tries, he really does. But anger flares in him, hot and sharp. It slices open old wounds that weren't his, but he now carries, alone in his grief. He wonders if his father ever loved the enemy. "All I meant was that you're…" he trailed off, lost the nerve, lost the words, never had them to begin with. "Never mind."
"No, tell me. What'd you mean?" Draco asks, dressing roughly. The coarse fabric of his shirt scraping over the soft texture of his naked back and Harry groans and folds up on himself, ashamed that even now, especially now, when the fight, he wants him still.
"Why do you always have to be such a prick?" Harry speaks to his tucked-up arms and bent knees.
"Don't go soft on me now Potter." Harry looked up, past the oranges and pinks of the fading day, fading light. It reflects off Draco's silver-white hair and makes his cool grey eyes look uncharacteristically warm. He thinks, maybe he loves him then, for the asshole that he is.
"All I meant was that you're kind of tragic. Misunderstood, burdened too young, made to do things you didn't want to, your father, Voldemort. You never really had it easy, did you?" Harry reaches for Draco's forearm. To that spot where the skin puckers in the faded shape of a now-stationary skull and snake. His fingers already know just how far he can get before –
"No." Draco pulls his arm away. "Not everyone can be The Chosen One. See you 'round." Draco stood, leaving Harry's fingers hanging in the empty air, still supplicating, reaching for the eternally unreachable.
He never does look back.