Summary: Draco used to know everything about Harry. Not so much, anymore.
Warnings: Not really. Ideas of slash.
Disclaimer: Don't own it :)
You asked me to go, of course. I said no, just like you knew I would. After all, did you really expect me to turn up at your wedding? I wonder, in a way, why you are marrying her; the pretty, pureblood girl your parents chose. Not for long though, because I understand. You will obey their wishes. They control your life, and they will until their death, and you will grow up to become strong and successful, powerful and ruthless, carrying on your family name and business exactly as you are expected to do. I know that.
It's the night before your wedding. I know where you are; a stag night with friends, old Slytherins, in Hogsmeade. I am sitting where I always liked to think; by the shores of the lake at Hogwarts, staring into the dark water as little waves lack against the grey sand and wondering. I don't think, tonight, not quite; I simply feel. I watch the waves grey against the shore and I wonder if you think of me at all.
"Harry." Yes, you do. I don't move, don't stand, and don't react. I wait. "Draco." I respond curtly when you repeat my name, stepping closer to me. I don't try to hide how my shoulders tense. Silence, I find, makes people start talking. I wait.
You used to be immune to the silence. Perhaps we would always have something to talk about, something to say, or else you would simply wait until I wanted to speak, but I rarely remember us having pauses like this. You were always the one I wanted to confide in, to talk to. Odd, that now I will never have a chance to do hat again, I have nothing to say.
"Harry, please." You whisper, touching my shoulder. I take this as a sign of how far we've fallen, but I stand and face you. Somewhere in the back of my mind or the front of my heart, I know I owe you that much.
You look so different. To anyone else, you would seem perfect – the Malfoy heir, pale, immaculate skin and shining hair, stormy grey eyes and pale lips pressed tight. I know better. Your skin is just a shade lighter than usual, there are vague shadows under your eyes, and that tiny vein throbs in your neck like it always does when you're distraught. I wonder if your new wife knows this. You try to smile. "So." You whisper. I stare stonily at you. I refuse to make this easy.
I can see you wracking you brain for something to say. I wonder when you lost the knack of silence. I wonder if it was the same time that you started twisting your fingers when you think again. "I was at the stag night, but I couldn't stop thinking about you. I wanted to be with you." The words 'one last time' echo between us louder than if you had screamed them. "And now you are." I say expressionlessly, my voice deliberately flat. I wonder if this still annoys you. I wonder when I stopped knowing all these things.
Anger flashes in your eyes, along with something soul-deep that sears like desperation. "Stop acting like you don't care!" You snap. "I'm giving up so much for you, you know I want to be with you, we've only got one more night, why are you doing this?" The words tumble from your lips, exclamations and accusations and questions and pain, all whirled together into something I couldn't answer if I tried.
I simply stare stonily at you. In asking order; I'm acting like I don't care because that's how I deal with things that truly upset me. You used to know that. You have given up a lot for me, but I've given a lot more for you. You used to know that too. If you really wanted to be with me, you might actually try to stay. I know we've only got one more night, yet you're acting like you don't.
If you still knew me even the tiniest bit, you'd know why I'm doing this, but since you don't seem to, it's to make it easier for you to leave, because it seems like you want to. It's so I don't break down crying in front of you, because I've got more pride than that. It's because I want to see what you'll do, and if you still understand.
I don't say any of this, only stare at you in silence, wondering. Then you raise a hand, fury twisting your faces into a caricature of frustration, and slap me so hard across the face that my cheek stings and my vision blurs. I stare at you for one more moment then turn and walk away, your shouts ringing in my ears and furious, humiliated tears coursing down my cheeks. You don't know me at all.
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