Homecoming
by MagickBeing
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Disclaimer: Harry Potter and co. belong to J.K. Rowling. The following song is named Homecoming by the band Hey Monday. In both cases, no copyright infringement is intended.
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I'm coming home, I'm coming home
Did you take off while I was gone?
I missed it all, I messed you up, I missed you
I'm coming home, I wanna know
When all the leaves begin to fall
If I'm falling, falling apart for you
Descending, I'm spinning
- Homecoming, by Hey Monday
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"Before this year," Draco started, peering out at the crowd, "I never thought I would be one to speak at Harry's—at—"
He stopped, inhaling sharply, suddenly. His eyes dropped down to his cue cards and he exhaled slowly before taking another breath, silently steadying himself. Someone nearby coughed. He looked up again, staring at the bit of air right above the back row.
"I never thought I would be standing here today," he said finally, his voice low but steady. "I don't think either of us did. To say that opposites attract is an understatement. But attract we did. Harry is—was—a remarkable person. His heart was bigger than any I had encountered. He cared about those that betrayed him, lied to him—those who hurt not just Harry or themselves, but others—those that were only able to hate. A glutton for punishment, really."
As an afterthought, he added, "Masochistic git."
A few people laughed weakly, blowing their handkerchiefs afterward.
Draco absently fingered the small vial in his pocket, its glass cool and reassuring as he continued.
"Life pushed him down as often as it could, but Harry always managed to find his way to his feet again, making his heart and compassion that much more remarkable. He survived when others fell, triumphed over many doubts, including his own. He is—was—brave, fiercely loyal, caring and strong. Many of you will remember him as the Boy-Who-Lived, our Savior, the man that banished the darkness and defeated Voldemort."
In his peripheral, Draco could see many shift uncomfortably in their seats, grimacing at his name. It had been nearly a decade, and yet many were unable to heal, the wounds made by the war too deep.
"But he's so much more than that."
He paused, no longer bothering to correct himself. The back of his throat burned and he no longer worried about following his speech. He could feel his heart in his chest, beating hard and fast—beating for Harry. Because of Harry.
"He's bloody naïve and generally clueless. He's impulsive. He has absolutely horrid timing and never knows when to talk or when to be quiet. He's moody as all Hell and he's a bloody blanket hog."
More laughter, not quite as faint as before.
Draco talked over it, the burning in his throat moving to his chest and eyes.
"He's horrible at spelling the dishes clean and he refuses to separate laundry by color. He's constantly misplacing his glasses, refuses to wear matching socks—cause and effect, maybe?—and makes the coffee too strong." Draco's voice caught in his throat and he struggled to continue. "But he always has an open door, a hand to spare or a bed to offer. His hands were always perfectly calloused and his arms open. He won't pick up a book to save his life, but he has a thirst for life that I envy and can only hope to acquire. He—"
Draco stopped, inhaling sharply, his body betraying him as his eyes began to sting, hot tears blurring his vision and marking his face. His heart quickened in his chest, beating against his rib-cage, frantic and hard. His chest ached and he could feel his throat closing up. The ministry official moved to take the stage and excuse Draco to his seat—but before he could, Draco finished in a rush, his eyes now downcast, face flushed with a strange mixture of sadness and embarrassment.
"He's my everything and I love him more than life itself. I don't know how to act without him near. I want so badly for him to be able to come home—come back to me—and at first, I hated him for leaving me. But then I realized I don't need him to come home—without him, I have no home."
He was rambling and he knew it, but he no longer cared. He could no longer see the crowd before him or the ground on which he stood. His tears were running fast and his vision was darkening. The vial was clenched in his hand now, molding his skin to its form.
"He is my home. And I want nothing more than to return to him."
With that, Draco could feel his weight bearing down and his legs give out. Someone must have screamed and surely the ministry official had reached him now—but it didn't matter. The glass vial fell from his hand and rolled across the make-shift stage, empty, catching the light.
The darkness was comforting, safe, and Draco was barely aware of his heart coming to a sudden halt in his chest.
He was going home at last.
He was going to Harry.