A/N: A fluffy drabble thing for Drarry. Because they are cute, because I was bored, because Drarry.
This is for you Nomi ;)
Draco knows that he's a black stain on the clean slate of the Boy-Who-Lived, but he can't help it.
It's his nature, despite his snow white hair; he is the one who exists in conflict and cruelty, sharp words and mocking laughter. It's Harry, he of raven black hair, who lives in daylight and happiness, smiles and grins, and Draco knows that it is a world not for him.
If Harry's the sun, Draco's the rain and can only bring Harry down.
"That's not right," Harry says frowning, and Draco only smiles sadly (after all Harry's been through, after all he's seen, he is still so naïve and innocent. It's his job to protect his friend from the darkness) and gives up on it. He'll never persuade the other.
Maybe if the world was different and not made up of black and white pockets (everything has its place) then they could be together in the way he wants them to be, but the wound is too sore to pick apart and throw salt into.
The world is still not ready for a new colour to be added; grey is disliked for a reason.
"It's too dull," they say, and he just frowns because the days of the prince of slytherin are over and if he were to pick a fight, he'd just get hurt ("It's not a real colour," they say and he breaks, just a tiny bit).
Harry notices his pain though and comes over, fire burning up the spider webs, and all of a sudden the guys in front of Draco are all too happy to agree that grey is a beautiful colour and who would ever think differently.
Draco's cuts are stitched up and he's as good as new, just maybe not as shiny. He hasn't been polished recently (a dull blade doesn't cut) but he has been tempered down to a milder form of himself and he totally blames Harry for that.
Harry with his blinding laugh and soft humour has whittled away at Draco's corners and is slowly melting away his armour (but whatever lies in the centre is foreign and strange and he doesn't like it).
Some days, he wonders why Potter decided to become his friend because it certainly wasn't a conscious decision on Draco's part, not since brushed off promises and empty handshakes and yet Harry is a sort of irrevocable presence in his life, one he doesn't know the counter-measure for.
There's another thing about the situation that terrifies him; his lack of control. He's always had some form of control in his life (over pupils, over potions, over muggles and mudbloods and) maybe just the thought scares him half to death.
If it does, he's not admitting it.
The only control he has over anything these days are his own actions, the places he hides and the words he speaks, the things he reveals and the items he keeps, and so it's only his rather impressive self control that conceals the crush that he may or may not have on Harry bloody Potter.
Once again, that wasn't a conscious thing. Draco doesn't know if it started with small trays of food brought to him in his library hideout, or before that with pleading green eyes at his manor, or way back when before all of this started and they were just two excited children standing in a shop and wondering about the future (he never knew it would come to this).
However, he's not going to act on it. Harry would never feel the same: he's straight, has a girlfriend and barely tolerates his presence in life anyway. How awkward would that be ("I like you,""I don't feel the same,") and Draco's not prepared to risk his only friend for a chance at a relationship that would never play out and would just end in tears and "Do not pass go. Do not collect 200 pounds" and he enjoys Harry's company more than the silence that has kept him tethered for years.
But Harry looks perfect at this moment, staring at the stars with bright eyes and vivid words, and Draco tries to listen, he really does, but he's become distracted with glimpses of perfection and ends up looking softly at his friend and only snaps out of it when Harry turns to look back and then Draco watches the sky.
It's silent, with only the sounds of synced breathing, and Draco doesn't know how they got here (friends to enemies to rivals to opposite-sides-of-a-war to saving lives to acquaintances to friends to-) but he's damn well pleased about it.
A star flashes across the sky, an inferno of fire and he leaps away from his ice castle and wishes upon it ("please, please let me have this,") and he kisses Harry.
There's no response, but his lips are beautifully smooth and every bit as pleasing as he imagined they would be, but there's no response there's no response and he realises that he's overstepped his boundaries.
"I- I'm sorry. I should- I should go," he stumbles out and stands up and races away. The red flush of mortification lingers on his cheeks all evening as he tastes the bitter tang of disappointment and the faint smell of gasoline and crushed hopes.
He stays by the lake where no one comes to torment him, but fortune has had enough of him and it starts to bucket down.
Draco stays where he is and allows the water to soak him to the bone. It can't make him feel any worse, and so if it doesn't feel any better either than he's not saying anything (he deserves to be left alone in the rain after his violation of Harry's rights earlier) and he squints wearily at the sky.
The clouds have covered up the stars, and the foreseeable future seems to have disappeared with them.
He sleeps there, waking up in the grey gloom at around midday and never being so thankful that it was a Saturday and no lessons where waiting (or outstanding by this point) but he's not got the energy to move, so he lies there like a sloth and wallows.
Draco knows that he's finally lost his mind when he starts hallucinating Harry's voice yelling his name and feels phantom lips kissing his own, but when he opens grey eyes they stare right into green ones.
"It's okay, love," Harry whispers and hugs Draco tight, and he mutters something about his theory of how he's the rain and Harry is the sun and they are doomed to be opposites all their life, but Harry just laughs.
"Who cares? There's a reason that rainbows exist,"