Pretend
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
A/N – A short little something that popped into my head and wouldn't leave me alone. Enjoy. :)
They're pretending. They're all pretending. Draco stares out over the backyard of the Burrow, face a mask, mind scornful and a little bit shocked at how they can possibly find it in themselves. Laughter floats across to him, standing in the shadows of the monstrosity of a house; standing on the outskirts.
Always standing on the outskirts. Even when he'd thought he'd chosen a side.
He doesn't know how they can fake it so easily. And easily it does come, expressions loose, no pain or sorrow shining from bright eyes. Just laughter and companionship and memories most of the time, so many shared memories. Family.
He despises it. He doesn't want to be here.
Why was he here?
"Hey. All right?"
That's why.
Potter's face is in shadow, just like he is. Draco watches him from the corner of his eye, not turning in his direction. His hands behind his back, legs casually spread and not a hair out of place, he continues to observe the celebration.
April 1st. George Weasley's birthday.
Fred Weasley's birthday.
"Why do they pretend?" he asks, the words falling out before he can stop them. Sensing Potter's surprise, he presses his lips together hard and stands up straighter. Why does he question? It isn't any of his business. These people don't know him; this isn't his family. The step away from Harry is instinctive.
"They're not pretending," Potter says, then closes his mouth when Draco flicks him a disbelieving look. Do you think me a fool? He sighs. "Okay, yeah they are. But not as much as you might think. Fred would never want them to spend their lives mourning, Draco."
His eyes falling on the one half of twins that's split right down the centre, Draco sees the over-exaggeration the others are better at hiding. He's been seeing it all day. The laughter just this side of maniacal, the happiness with its sharp, cutting edges. Razor sharp.
George Weasley is trying much too hard.
"It shouldn't be forced," he mutters under his breath, then stiffens when fingers flutter over his wrist and a hand pries his own clasped hands apart to capture his palm. Draco hadn't realised how tightly he'd been holding the stance until the tingle of pins and needles begins to spread up and down his released arms.
Potters squeezes his hand gently.
"Anyone would think you care," he murmurs, shoulder solid and comfortable, warm against Draco's. Draco's chin rises silently and Potter's answering chuckle is amused. "Now who's pretending? It's what people do, Malfoy. They do it until one day they aren't pretending anymore. It's the natural progression of things."
"I don't pretend."
"No," Harry says, turning fully and meeting Draco's eyes. Draco could get lost in that green.
He frequently gets lost in that green.
"No, you don't. Don't ever. I don't want you to."
"Sure?" Draco asks, a terrible crack of emotion in the word, pulled unwillingly from the depths of himself he doesn't like to explore too often. A sound escapes Harry and then he's burrowing himself against Draco's chest, his atrocious hair tickling Draco's nose.
One day Draco's going to figure out a spell that either makes the unruly locks lie flat, or makes Potter's hair accept a style and cut that doesn't resemble uncouthly bedhead all the time. He pressed his face into it.
"Yes. Yes, very sure. You don't have to pretend with me. Not ever."
A gentle breeze blows across the backyard, bringing with it forced laughter that one day won't be so forced. Draco stands in the shadows of the house with the man in his arms who's steadily chipped away at his defenses until he doesn't have any when it comes to him, and thinks that maybe, just maybe, he might be around to see that day come to pass.
They can pretend. They may need the falsehood. Him, however? His arms around Harry tighten, heart thumping rapidly with a mixture of vast relief, gratitude, and something else he's not quite ready to name.
Pretending isn't something he has to do.