Potter would never know.

Could never know. It was an impossibility. A wish. A single good dream among the nightmares, and one Draco felt he had no right to, not even within his own mind.

Draco stood to one side, all awkward angles in the aftermath of the battle's end, not sure whether to stay or go. His skin no longer quite seemed to fit, too tight over limbs that refused to do as he said. He had lost control of everything, and it left him standing there, dumb as a newborn babe.

His mother touched his arm, but Draco shrugged her away. Instead, he forced his foot to move toward the knot that surrounded the Hero of the Wizarding World. One step, shaky and slow, then another and another. His gaze remained fixed on his target to the point that he missed the man coming in on his left until a hand grabbed his shoulder roughly.

"Oi! Where do you think you're going?"

Draco fixed Weasley with a stare. "Remove your hand from my person." His tone was sharp, with just a hint of his usual aristocratic undertones. He would never let Ron Weasley see the pain from the squeeze to a shoulder that had been wrenched, bruised, and burned in the last twenty-four hours. He would never let Weasley see past the calm Malfoy mask to the jealousy that raged bright on the inside.

"I don't think so." Weasley raised his voice, pulling on Draco. "Bill! I need your help!"

Draco had no choice but to follow, his frame slender and reed thin after a year of abuse, compared to the muscles Ron seemed to have built while on the run. He felt eyes on him at the call. He didn't bother to look, able to guess who it had to be. Bill Weasley. Granger. Potter. Draco's thin shoulders straightened under their regard, and he took advantage of the interruption and spoke into the silence. "Potter. A word."

He made it sound as if they weren't enemies, and as if it didn't matter. He had always been good at that, which suited him well when he had to learn Occlumency. He might not have survived the war if he were as open as others. His pointed chin lifted, waiting.

For a moment, he thought the Golden Boy would refuse. Draco fought not to shake as exhaustion seeped into his bones, every ache throbbing with his too rapid heartbeat. But Potter finally moved.

"Let him go, Ron." Potter's voice was hoarse and rough. Overused. But it was still a command, and the lanky redhead took two steps back immediately. Potter crossed his arms. "What is it, Malfoy?"

"Alone."

Potter smiled tightly. "I don't think so. Whatever you have to say can be said here. In front of my friends."

He didn't say your enemies, but Draco heard the words clearly, nonetheless.

Fine. It seemed there was nothing to be done for it, and this would play out publicly. It changed the script, destroyed the original intention of what Draco meant to do. But that was answer enough, that Potter refused him a private conversation.

Draco put on a bland, polite smile. "Thank you for saving my life." He wouldn't think about the scent of flesh burning behind them as they fled, wouldn't think of the feel of being pressed tight behind Harry, arms wrapped around the warmth of his saviour.

Potter's gaze shifted, pausing on first Weasley, then Granger, before returning to meet Draco's carefully calm gaze.

Green eyes fixed on grey, and Draco felt walls inside his mind slip and start to crumble. He remembered another time when their gazes met, as he stared at Potter's swollen face. That memory of fear shivered through him, terrified that they might take Potter. Destroy him the way the Dark Lord had killed so many others. His stomach roiled with the memory, with the absolute knowledge that he could never let that happen.

Potter's eyes widened as Draco's secret slipped through the slivered cracks in his defenses, and he saw why.

Draco looked away first.

He dragged in the shreds of his shattered walls, wrapping them around that core, fragile thought that had never wanted exposed. He didn't look up until Potter clasped his hand.

There was no welcoming response in Potter's eyes. Pity, perhaps, and possibly a hint of understanding. No disgust, at least. But he had seen down to the depths of Draco's desire and he could destroy him.

Instead, Potter merely clasped his shoulder. "You saved my life," he pointed out. "I saved yours. Now we're done."

Not even, done. Draco heard the note of finality. He watched as Potter turned his back and rejoined the Weasleys. Watched as he embraced Ginevra and held her close, pressing a kiss to her temple.

Draco had been an idiot to even let the thought take root. In the end, though, it had given him his life and nothing more.

He carefully squished the wish in his heart like a bug twisted under his heel, then turned and walked away.