this fic is au. drarry isn't canon, unfortunetly. also, wii sports didn't exist back then but. wii sports man. just ignore it.
it's here. ana. it's here. i did it. and it's over 10k o.O. i love you so much. sorry for the wait. happy late birthday. i hope the wait was worth it. i love you.
thank you so fucking much:
to dee, who tried to push through to the end. i know. it's long.
to em, who betaed every fucking word, who's my hoebag, who helped me fit prompts into this. go gryffindor ;)
to grammarly, which always has my back
to ana. you're ana. my little puff. i love you.
prompts at the bottom
10284 words, by google docs (jesus)
September 1991
. . .
"Harry Potter."
Draco furrows his brows as Crabbe tells him the news.
"Harry Potter's on this train?" he asks, wanting to be sure. Crabbe nods. "Let's go find him," he says, getting up. Crabbe and Goyle follow him out of their compartment.
Of course Draco's heard of Harry Potter. Everyone knows Harry Potter. He's a wizarding hero. And he's going to be Draco's friend whether he likes it or not. Draco's always been friends with the most esteemed type of people and Harry Potter is no exception.
Draco immediately rolls his eyes when he sees who Harry is sitting with: red hair, hand-me down clothes. Draco knows who he is as well. One of the sons of his father's work enemy: a Weasley.
Sighing at Harry Potter's bad friend choices—everybody knows that the Weasleys were poor and awful, at least according to his father—Draco slides open the compartment door and struts inside.
"Is it true?" Draco recognizes the dark haired boy and he internally cringes—that's who he was talking to in Madam Malkin's? Harry Potter? "They're all saying that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you? I'm Draco Malfoy," he adds as Harry nods. The Weasley in the compartment sniggers and Draco turns to him. "You think my name's funny? Well," he says, turning back to Harry, "you'll soon find out that some wizarding families are better than others. You don't want to make friends with the wrong sort." Draco holds out a hand—Potter's really going to need a lot of help to be with the right people if he wanted to live his life to the fullest.
"I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks," Harry responds, instead of taking Draco's hand.
Did he just—Draco thinks, feeling his cheeks start to heat up.
No matter; Draco's definitely going to be a Slytherin. If Harry's also a Slytherin, they'd have the next seven years to be friends without the Weasley interrupting them—he'd be a Gryffindor, for sure. All the red-headed Muggle-lovers were.
. . .
Draco considers asking the hat to let him go to Gryffindor.
It's a crazy thought, he knows, but if Potter isn't sorted into Slytherin with him, they'll never become friends.
But it is a crazy thought—the Sorting Hat barely touches his head before telling him that he is a Malfoy and that he should go into Slytherin. He's a Malfoy so he has no choice in the matter. As usual.
A small glimmer of hope appears as Harry's called to the Hat. He stays up there for a long time and Draco wonders if one of the houses he's stuck between is Slytherin.
And then Gryffindor is called and his hope is squashed. He's not going to be friends with Harry; Harry's a Gryffindor.
. . .
May 1993
. . .
It's second year and Draco's safe but he knows that there are plenty of people that aren't. He'd never admit it, but he's slightly scared—what if he gets caught in the middle of this mess?
He doesn't really know what's happening; his father is refusing to let anything slip about the situation, no matter how many letters Draco sends him. All he knows is that students are getting petrified. And that slightly frightens him.
He does recall something about a creature that can petrify by its reflection, but he only learned about it in some tutoring sessions at home—he never really paid attention in any of those! Some type of snake, maybe?
He takes to the library instead; there has to be a copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them there. Draco finds it almost right away, on one of the main shelves, and he grabs it and retreats to a table, flipping through the book.
After skimming the pages for a while, he comes across a passage that he definitely recognizes: basilisks.
'Of the many fearsome beasts and monsters that roam our land,' the passage read, 'there is none more curious or more deadly than the Basilisk, known also as the King of Serpents. This snake, which may reach gigantic size, and live many hundreds of years, is born from a chicken's egg, hatched beneath a toad. Its methods of killing are most wondrous, for aside from its deadly and venomous fangs, the Basilisk has a murderous stare, and all who are fixed with the beam of its eye shall suffer instant death.'
Draco gasps aloud as he reads the passage—he remembers something else about the basilisk that the entry doesn't mention, something that his father told him; if you just see the reflection of the basilisk, you only get petrified. Like a Muggle casino slot machine Blaise says his mother loves, the pieces fall into place. His father hasn't told him directly what's been attacking students, but he has told him about basilisks—but . . . how did his father know?
"What are you gasping about, Malfoy?" Draco looks up and rolls his eyes. Of course, Granger would be sitting in the library; he should've checked who else was at the table when he sat down.
Still, Granger might be able to get the information Draco's discovered to Potter and Weasley; they might be stupidly brave enough to actually stop the snake.
"I figured out what's attacking the students," he says, sticking his head up high, pointing his chin in the air. She immediately drops her cold exterior.
"Who?"
"What," Draco corrects. He looks around, making sure that Pince isn't around them, then rips the page out of the book, enjoying the horrified look on Granger's face. He then scoots his chair closer. "A basilisk is doing it. Look, my dad told me that seeing a reflection of it will just petrify you, not kill you." He pushes the page over to her and she reads it, looking up at him with slight awe. "I just don't know how it's moving around." How could something that big move without being seen by anyone?
"Through the walls, somehow?" Granger suggests. The walls—pipes.
"Pipes!" Draco exclaims, a giddy feeling filling him. "Think about it—the snake is probably around the same size as the pipes, and it wouldn't be seen that way!"
"Brilliant," Granger says, sounding genuine. She snatches up a quill on the table and scrawls the word pipes underneath the passage. "I've got to go and—" She stands up, clutching the paper in her hand. "Bye, Malfoy!"
With that, Granger leaves the table, leaving Draco alone.
. . .
September 1993
. . .
Perfect Potter.
Of course, Potter would be the one to ride the bloody Hippogriff while Draco got hurt by it. It was a stupid creature, really. It was a stupid class, in general. How could someone like Hagrid be teaching them?
"Don't scratch your cuts," Madam Pomfrey scolds Draco as his hand absentmindedly goes to where the Hippogriff struck him. He rolls his eyes and flops his head back onto his pillow with a groan.
He hates being stuck in the Hospital Wing. He hates Care of Magical Creatures. He hates Hippogriffs.
He hates Perfect Potter.
. . .
November 1994
. . .
"Why do you care so much?"
Draco looks over and sees Theo sprawled lazily over Blaise, almost like a housecat. The pair of them never do anything. Maybe if they helped him, he wouldn't have to care so much. Draco's neck is slightly sore from leaning over buttons all evening, but he still needs to figure out how to bewitch them.
"What do you mean?" he snaps at Theo.
"I mean, why do you care so much about buttons that say 'Potter Stinks' on them? Why do you care if we have buttons at all?"
Draco splutters as he tries to respond. "Because Diggory is the real Hogwarts champion! Not Potter!"
It's a lame excuse. They all know it.
"Look, I really need to figure this out, so unless you want to help me . . ." he says, trailing off as he gives Theo a dark glare.
"No, I think I'm going to go to bed. Like a sane person."
Draco's perfectly sane. He just needs to figure out how to enchant these damn buttons!
. . .
July 1996
. . .
"Where's Father?" When his mother doesn't answer, so he repeats the question. He's not particularly in the mood for bad news, but he knows that he's going to get some, anyway; everybody knows the details of what happened at the Ministry, with Potter. It's always Potter.
"Azkaban, by now," she says, sighing deeply. "Come, we'll have tea." Draco's mother tries to take his arm and lead him to the kitchens, but he pulls away.
"I don't want your tea," he says. He doesn't know what he's feeling inside, but he can't stand it. He wants to eject all of his organs from his body. He doesn't want to feel anymore, he wants his life to be done.
How could the Dark Lord let that stand? How could he just let one of his most faithful servants go to jail? How could he throw his father away?
"I'm going to bed," Draco says miserably, walking away from his mother. He can't stand to be in her presence.
. . .
December 1996
. . .
Sometimes, Draco looks down at his arm and hates himself. Why did he let this happen? Why did his father let this happen? How could his father screw up so much without thinking of him? How could his mother just stand by and watch as the Mark was seared into his skin?
Draco spends most nights in the Room of Hidden Things. It's not like he sleeps most days, anyway, and he doesn't want to face his roommates anymore. He doesn't want to face anyone.
He just wants everything to stop.
Besides, he has a lot of work to do, anyway. He utterly hates this task.
. . .
May 1997
. . .
Draco doesn't know if he'll ever feel whole again. He feels as if his body has been torn apart in fifty different ways. Opening his eyes, he can see that he's in the Hospital Wing.
"Urg," is the first word out of his mouth. Madam Pomfrey rushes over right away, leaning over him. He feels slightly uncomfortable and wants to tell her to get away, but he can't seem to get any words out of his mouth.
His body aches.
"What . . . ?" he asks weakly, unable to say anymore.
"Nasty curse," Madam Pomfrey tells him. He doesn't remember any curse. He doesn't remember anything, really.
"What?" Draco repeats, feeling slightly better as Madam Pomfrey tips potions into his mouth.
"I've never even heard of such a curse—If Professor Snape hadn't—"
Draco tunes out Madam Pomfrey as she mentions Snape. Of course. Snape. Trying to 'protect' him. He can do it by himself. He needs to do it by himself. He swallows another potion as she continues to speak.
"Of course, I was very surprised when I heard that Potter had done it." This gets Draco's attention.
"Potter?" he asks as feeling returns to his fingers.
"Yes, you and Mr Potter got into a fight in the bathroom. Do you not remember?" she asks, kindly.
Draco wants to shake his head, but his neck feels so stiff that he thinks he might snap it off if he tries. "No," he whispers instead. Potter did this to him?
Merlin. Draco didn't think he had it in him.
. . .
June 1997
. . .
God, doesn't this crazy old man understand? He's supposed to be the greatest wizard of all time, but here he is, at the mercy of Draco, and he's begging him to come over to the right side? Doesn't he understand that Draco can't? No protection that Dumbledore is offering could ever save Draco.
Draco's hands are shaking so much; he thinks it's a miracle his wand hasn't fallen yet.
"Draco . . . you are not a killer . . . "
Draco can hardly hear the words; there's so much blood pounding in his ears.
He's tempted to lower his wand, even in front of everyone. He just wants everything to stop. He can't do it. He never could.
And then Dumbledore is engulfed with a green light that did not come from Draco's wand and then Draco is being pulled by his arm and there's a battle all around him and he's running and he's running and he's running.
He wishes he could run faster.
. . .
August 1997
. . .
"I don't want to go back." Draco's not sure about a lot of things, but he knows that, for sure. He doesn't want to go back to Hogwarts, not one bit.
"Draco," his mother says in a warning tone. Yes, he knows that the Dark Lord could be listening to them. Frankly, he doesn't care anymore. He is allowed to have opinions and wants, at least.
"I don't. I can't," he says, crossing his arms. His mother is pacing the length of his bedroom while he sits on his bed. He feels very childish, but maybe he deserves that, after losing most of his childhood to this tyrant.
"You must," his mother says and he softens at the grief in her voice.
He supposes that he's not the only one this war is affecting.
. . .
March 1998
. . .
"I'm not sure."
Draco's hoping that he can avoid this question, avoid choosing between life and death. Yes, he knows that Potter sits before him, Merlin, it looks exactly like him. He just doesn't want to be forced to make this choice. He needs to block that thought out.
"Look closer!" his aunt urges, pushing him. "We must be sure . . . "
Draco leans in, looking Harry in the eyes. He feels like he's about to throw up.
"Well, Draco?" his father asks from behind him. The noise almost stings Draco's ears. "Is it Harry Potter?"
Harry's eyes search Draco's face. They're almost on the brink of pleading, but not quite. Draco knows that he hasn't reached that point.
"I can't—I can't be sure," Draco says, finally. The silence is almost torturous for him. "I don't know."
When no one pressures him to say more, Draco stands up and walks over to his mother.
He could've said no. Why didn't he say no?
. . .
October 1998
. . .
Draco feels empty inside, and he thinks that maybe it'd be better for him to just plead guilty and give himself to the dementors. Maybe it'd be better to just give up.
He's given his argument, or, rather, his lawyer has given his argument, and the stone cold faces of the Wizengamot look down at him, unforgiving. He's going to die, he knows it.
The chains on his wrist feel heavier than they should be.
"Any last witness?" the new Minister—Shacklebolt—calls from his stance at the front of the stage.
"I'd like to testify," someone calls out, standing up in the crowd. Draco looks up as he hears the words and he sees the unmistakable face of Harry freaking Potter. Of course, Draco thinks. He's here to testify against me and rub salt in the wound.
Draco fixes Potter with a hard glare. He already knows that he's going to Azkaban; he doesn't need to be hurt further.
Potter, on the other hand, isn't looking at Draco at all. He's looking directly at the Minister.
"Draco Malfoy," he says in a booming voice. Draco prepares himself to relieve every shitty thing he's ever done, and then he hears something entirely different. "has saved my life on several occasions."
Draco's sure he misheard Potter's words, but the Wizengamot is now muttering, looking intently at Potter.
"He had the chance to turn me into Voldemort—" even now, there's a ripple through the room. Draco feels it. "—when we were captured by Snatchers and taken to his house. Yet he didn't. He risked his own neck in the Room of Requirement to save me from Fiendfyre, also." Draco knows this isn't true, but he bites his tongue. Hope seems to glitter around him, for the first time in a long time. "He even saved my life just by being alive, in the Forbidden Forest." Draco doesn't know what Potter's talking about here, but another ripple of murmurs run through the crowd.
Now Potter steps down from his seat, walking down the aisle until he's level with Shacklebolt on the other side.
"If you prosecute Draco Malfoy, Kingsley, I want no part to do with this Ministry."
Draco can hear the sharp intake of breath from everybody; he's in the group of people gasping. Potter's one of the most valuable Aurors for the Ministry. He'd just leave?
"Thank you, Mr Potter," Shacklebolt says as Potter returns to his seat, Draco trailing him with his eyes. "All in favor of the prosecution of Draco Malfoy, twenty years in Azkaban, for joining the Death Eaters, taking part in the persecution of Muggle-borns, and torturing innocent men?"
Hands go up. Draco tries to count them all, to see if it's more than half, but they go down before he can finish counting. Bile starts to rise in Draco's throat—there were a lot of hands.
Even stupid Potter can't save him.
"All opposed?" More hands go up, and Draco doesn't even bother to try and count; the 'for' was definitely more. He was going to go to Azkaban. Shacklebolt clears his throat. "The jury has found Draco Malfoy not guilty of the charges.
What?
Draco doesn't know what to do as the chains around his wrist unclasp. Slowly, though, he stands up and his feet make their way to the door. When he gets out, his lungs fill with air, for what feels like the first time in years. His feet walk faster, subconsciously getting him away from the courtroom. He doesn't know where to go now—he didn't think that he'd make it out.
"Draco!" someone calls from behind him, but Draco ignores whoever it is; he's not in the mood to talk to anyone. "Draco, hey, wait!" The person grabs Draco wrist and he spins around, face to face with Potter himself.
"I don't need your Martyrdom, Potter," he snaps, pulling back his wrist. He turns back around and starts to walk away again, his heart beating hard in his chest.
"I wanted to talk to you," Potter says, falling into step with Draco. Draco tries to ignore him, but he can't ignore all of the people that are looking at the pair of them. "And it's Harry."
"Well, Harry," Draco hisses, "I don't want to talk to you. Thanks for the help, but I don't need any more of it."
"And you don't have to talk to me," he counters. "I want to talk to you. I want to apologize."
This stops Draco in his tracks. "What? For what?" Draco knows that Harry has every right to be upset with Draco. He didn't need to apologize. If anything, Draco needs to apologize. Which he won't, of course.
"For our sixth year, for what I did," Harry says, looking right at Draco. He looks as if he just had to swallow a bunch of pride to choke that out. Draco can feel the scars on his body tingling.
He doesn't know how to respond—he doesn't even really remember it and Harry's saved his life several times; he never expected an apology.
"I forgive you," Draco says in a small voice, and he did feel really small.
"Can we be friends, Draco? Leave Hogwarts behind?" Harry holds out a hand and Draco feels utterly overwhelmed.
Typical Gryffindor.
Still, he feels a strong urge to shake it; he's done with dealing with petty school-year rivalries. Besides, it's not like they'll actually be friends longer than a few months; Draco's relationships never work out. So he grasps Harry's hand, shakes, and smiles.
. . .
November 1998
. . .
As it turns out, Harry won't let Draco drop him. No matter how hard Draco tries to ignore him, Harry keeps on bugging him to hang out with him.
And, weirdly enough, Draco doesn't mind Harry's company—in fact, he sort of likes it. It's a strange relationship, but they've become really good friends; Draco's there whenever Harry needs to rant, and Harry also gets whenever Draco wants him to simply shut up.
Their relationship works.
"Hey," Harry says, as they sit inside a crowded Starbucks. It's Harry's fault, really; he got Draco addicted to coffee and now Draco drags him out to Starbucks all the time—he needs someone to deal with the Muggle money.
"Hey," Draco says, looking across the table from him and taking a sip of his too-hot coffee. It stings his tongue, but he's not going to say anything.
"You want to get a flat together?"
Draco blinks. "What?"
Harry shrugs. "We could get a flat together in London. You need to move out of your parents' house one day."
"I could move out whenever I want," Draco says, holding his head up. "Besides, I thought you were living with Weaslette." Draco bites his tongue after mentioning Weaslette; he just really dislikes her. Maybe it was a jealousy thing—he doesn't want to share his friend with someone else.
"We broke up," Harry says quietly.
"What?" Draco sits up straighter. "When? Why didn't you tell me?"
"Last week. I was giving myself time to adjust—" He gives a shaky laugh. "I didn't, really."
"So you want to move into an apartment together even though you can afford one by yourself?" Draco asks, for clarification. He knows that a good friend would probably ask more about the break-up, but Draco doesn't really care; he's glad to drop her.
"I want to be like a normal young adult," Harry says, picking up his tea and laughing a little as he spots Draco staring pointedly at his hand—Draco's said it before: what kind of person orders tea in a Starbucks? "Normal young adults usually need a roommate."
"So I'd be taking the spot of your girlfriend?" he asks, smirking. Even as he says it, a flurry of butterflies flies around in his stomach. Why is this lame flirting, to his friend, making him nervous? A blush blooms across Harry's face, and the butterflies feel some satisfaction.
"No, I mean as friends," he sputters.
"As friends?" Draco repeats.
"As friends."
. . .
December 1998
. . .
Oh, Merlin. Draco can't stop staring.
He wants to, but he really can't. It's fine, though. He's allowed to appreciate another human being's body, right? Right?
Of course, he could also be in love with Harry, which is totally plausible, because Draco always fell in love too easily—he had a crush on fucking Blaise in fourth year. To be fair, everyone's had a crush on Blaise; he was a bad example.
Still, Draco's favorite activity is just to watch Harry play Wii Sports. It's such a weird thing, playing sports in a small box with pictures inside. Draco doesn't think he himself will ever get the hang of it, no matter how many times Harry tries to force him to play; he's content just watching Harry play as he studies for his school.
Fuck, he's in love.
Draco watches as Harry finishes the tennis game and he flops on the couch next to Draco, sweat beads on his face. Draco puts down his book on psychology. Of all the things Draco can study, for some reason he goes with psychology. Maybe, he reasons to himself, whenever he questions his decision, someday he could help someone. He's glad for the distraction of Harry, though; his brain's hurting from all of the terms.
He looks down at Harry's face with a slight appreciation. Merlin, it'd be so easy for Draco to just lean in and kiss him.
Which he'd never do, of course.
"How'd I do?" Harry asks, giving him a grin that makes Draco's heart do a little skip. He hates his heart, really.
"Mate, I don't know how the fuck 'tennis' works," Draco says. Harry covers his ears as Draco curses.
"Don't curse, I have innocent ears!" Harry protests. Draco rolls his eyes.
"Fuck them."
Harry gives a little chuckle, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. There's Draco's opportunity. He could just lean in and—
Merlin, he feels like a Gryffindor.
Maybe that's the consequence of living with a Gryffindor; getting more Gryffindor traits. Maybe that's why Draco leans forward and crashes their lips together.
He feels just bliss for three seconds before pulling away.
Harry's sitting there, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish.
"Oh, shit," Draco says, standing up. He doesn't know what to do. His brain is shutting down. "Holy shit," he says, stumbling towards the door. He grasps the handle and wrenches it open, apparating away as soon as he gets into the hallway.
. . .
He apparates to the first place he can think of—the Leaky Cauldron—and he nearly crashes right into someone.
"Sorry," the person says quickly, putting a hand on Draco's arm to stop from falling. Draco's vision focuses, and he sees a ginger with wire-rim glasses—a Weasley, probably, but not one he recognizes.
They're both standing there, staring at each other. Draco can tell that Weasley recognizes him, from the wary look he's getting.
"You know me," he deadpans to Weasley, not being able to take any more of the deafening silence.
"Yes," Weasley responds, a crack in his voice. Draco's now realising that he looks absolutely awful; his hair is a mess, his glasses are crooked, and he looks like he hasn't slept in weeks. Sniffing the air, Draco can also smell the alcohol.
"Are you okay?" he asks, feeling something tugging at his heart. He's definitely spending too much time with Harry; he feels bad for a Weasley?
At the question, Weasley's face starts to fall and Draco can see tears begin to form.
"No," he answers, shaking. Draco has no idea what to do.
"Er—what's wrong?" he asks.
"Fred," he says simply, still shaking, but not quite crying yet. Draco knows there's a Fred Weasley, from the massive Umbridge prank in his fifth year, but he doesn't understand why Fred would be making the Weasley in front of him shake like this.
"What about him?" Draco asks.
"He's—" Weasley makes a grasping motion in the air like he's trying to catch smoke and it hits Draco—Fred must be dead.
He feels sick.
"I'm sorry," he says, on instinct. His throat feels rough, like sandpaper. Weasley just takes a shaky breath. "Didn't he set fireworks on Umbridge?" Draco asks after a moment of silence. Weasley nods and makes a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh. "He wouldn't want you to be like this."
"What do you mean?"
"No offense, Weasley, but you're a mess right now." Weasley snorts at that, giving Draco a slight glare. "I didn't know Fred, really, but I know that he liked pranks. That was his thing, right?" Weasley nods and clutches a nearby chair, letting out another sob. "He liked spreading joy, in a way, then. He wouldn't want you to be so upset."
Draco doesn't know why he's saying all of this—he doesn't believe it himself, yet he feels the need to comfort Weasley.
Weasley looks down for a moment, before looking up, taking off his glasses, and wiping his eyes.
"Thanks, Malfoy," he says, standing up straighter. "I guess I just needed someone to tell me that."
"Draco," Draco corrects, holding out a hand. Weasley grasps it.
"Percy," he says, giving a small smile. Draco can still see the brokenness in Percy's eyes, but it seems to be lighter. "So, why are you here?" he asks.
Draco hesitates. What does he say? He can feel the energy go out of him like someone stole it out from under him.
"I got into a fight with someone." The words leave his mouth, and he realises that they're not true; there was no fight, just Draco panicking.
"With who?" Percy asks, his face showing genuine concern. Draco doesn't deserve that.
"Someone I love," he answers simply and at that moment he knows that it's true; he loves Harry.
He also knows that he's not loved back.
Percy gives him a once-over, then quirks an eyebrow. "So why are you here?" he asks, again.
"I already told you," Draco snaps.
"You should be talking to them. Making amends." Something shifts in Percy's face and Draco supposes it's from the war—he looks very old, very tired. "Trust me. I know from experience."
Draco bites the inside of his cheek. "And what if they don't forgive me? What if the fight isn't resolved?"
Percy shrugs. "Then are they worth you loving them?"
. . .
"So, you've returned." Harry's tone is dry and Draco's biting the inside of his cheek so hard that he can taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. He scolds himself internally; he shouldn't develop such a bad habit.
"Yeah," Draco whispers. He doesn't know what to say. Harry's sitting on the couch, his arm crossed.
"So?" he asks, turning his palms up.
"I'm sorry," Draco says. It's almost like an automatic response.
"For what?"
Draco looks down. He feels like a little child, forced to apologize. He is sorry, but he doesn't like saying it.
"For kissing you," Draco says, still looking at their floor. There's a weird stain there, and Draco has to suppress a smile at the memory of Harry making an entire dinner and promptly dropping it there. Draco had laughed at him, and thanked his clumsiness; Harry was an awful cook and Draco didn't want to have to eat his food out of pity. They could've completely erased it, of course, but Draco insisted on leaving it there, as a reminder of why, if they had dinner together, Draco should do the cooking.
Draco's heart hurts.
He looks back up at Harry, who looks confused, as if that wasn't the answer he expected.
"Why?" he asks.
"Because I know you don't like me like that and I just ruined our entire friendship and—"
"Hey," Harry says, cutting him off. "I don't care that you kissed me. I—" Harry hesitates and takes a deep breath. "I liked it," he says, biting his lips. Draco can't believe the words hitting his ears. Harry was fine with it? More than fine with it? "I just don't want you to leave," Harry says.
"I didn't know what to do," Draco says. He's back to biting the inside of his cheek. "I'm not good with feelings."
"You need to talk to me, Draco," Harry says, looking slightly hurt.
"You were fine with me kissing you?" Draco asks, searching Harry's face for any sign of him lying.
"Yes," Harry says, insistence in his voice. "I mean—" He cuts himself off, looking confused as if he didn't really know what to say.
"So, you'd go on a date with me?" Draco asks, looking down at his hands. They're shaking.
"On one condition," Harry says. Draco can hear him get up and walk over to him, and then he's looking in Harry's eyes, Harry's hand under his chin. "Talk to me. Don't just run away. Deal?"
Draco bites his lips. "That's all I'm good at," he says, letting out a nervous chuckle.
"We'll work on that. Deal?" Harry repeats.
"Deal."
. . .
Draco is feeling murderous today.
He doesn't really know how Harry managed to pull it off, but now they're standing in the backyard of the Weasel Home—the Burrow, Harry's told him. He feels like he might throw up. Right after he murders Harry for forcing him to come.
"Maybe we should go home," Draco suggest, pulling on Harry's hand. He loves holding Harry's hand. It just feels so. Damn. Right. Humans hands, he thinks, are meant to go two and two. "We can still make a Christmas dinner."
"Draco," Harry says, glancing at him. He pulls Draco's hand back. "You promised. Besides, you need to meet my family."
"I've met them," Draco says, pouting. "They don't think much of me." He only looks at his left arm for a second, but he knows that Harry spots the look.
"They haven't met you as my boyfriend. It'll be fine," Harry assures him. "Besides, it was in the past. They've probably forgotten all of that by now."
Draco almost laughs—how could they have forgotten when it was so fresh in Draco's mind? He knows that Harry's lying to make him feel better, but that doesn't mean he wants to be there.
Still, he lets Harry pull him into the house. He almost cries when he sees how many Weasleys there are. He can count over ten people in their small sitting room.
And they all hate him.
"Hi, everybody," Harry says, clearing his throat as they walk in. He lets go of Draco's hand and Draco notices the temperature drop. Draco recognises the mother as she gets up and engulfs Harry in a big hug. Draco opts to watch them instead of looking at the other Weasleys. "Hi, Mrs Weasley," he says, hugging her back. When they pull apart, Harry turns to Draco, giving him a smile. Draco swears that his heart melts. "This is Draco Malfoy," he says. "My boyfriend."
There's a silence from the Weasleys and Draco forces himself to face them. He immediately spots two blondes among the gingers. He's sure they aren't Weasleys, but they're still looking at him. One of them, looking utterly regal, is sitting next to a ginger with long hair and scars all over his face. He looks like the friendliest out of everyone there; the warmth on his face is still visible despite the scars. The other blonde has a mass of messy blond hair and is sitting next to Weaslette. The blond looks completely at peace with Draco being Harry's boyfriend, but Weaslette is giving Draco a dark glare that he can almost feel.
Draco recognizes Granger, sitting next to the Weasel. He also sees Percy, who seems to be avoiding Draco's gaze. Great, the only person here who might like him is avoiding him, furthering Draco's belief that none of them will like him. There's another ginger sitting in the corner, looking like he really doesn't want to be there. His eyes look slightly dark, he only has one ear, and he seems almost hollow. Draco realises that this must be Fred's twin; if Percy was that hurt by Fred's death, his twin must've been hurt at least that much.
There's also the two parents that Draco recognizes. His father loved to hate them.
The last person Draco sees is another ginger, with brutally short hair and huge scars over his entire body. Draco feels sick looking at them—they look too big to be curse scars, but what if someone on his side caused them?
There are five moments of silence—Draco can hear them. They pain him. When someone finally talks again, it's the mother Weasel.
"Well, welcome to the family, Draco," she says, and before Draco knows it, she's hugging him and everyone's talking again. He notes that she smells like—like home. He doesn't know how to describe it, but it's home. When she lets go of him, Draco turns to Harry, who's giving him a lopsided smile. Draco holds up a finger at him, like 'one second' and walks away. He feels suffocated.
Draco stumbles out of the room and finds the kitchen. It smells like the mother—like home—and maybe that where she got it from. Draco nearly laughs at the thought. He feels light-headed.
"I know, there's a lot of them," a voice says behind him. Draco whips around, ready to defend himself from Weaslette, or Weasel. He doesn't want to talk with them. The thought of having a conversation with one of them makes him slightly sick. Instead, he's facing the one with all the scars, with the short hair. "Charlie," he says warmly, sticking out a hand. Draco does nothing for a second, before realising that he should probably accept the hand.
"Draco," he says, giving it a firm shake. Charlie chuckles.
"I know. You were introduced." Draco blushes. He's making a great first impression. "You overwhelmed by all of them, I'm guessing?" Charlie asks. Draco nods. He is overwhelmed by the sheer amount of people here, but also from the fact that everyone in that room hates him. He can almost feel the hatred. He's not even sure that Harry doesn't hate him, most days.
"I get that," Charlie says. He walks over the sink, grabbing a cup and filling it up with water. He pauses for a moment before filling up a second and handing it to Draco. Draco takes it but makes no move to drink it. "Heck, I got so overwhelmed by them that I ran away to Romania."
"Romania?" Draco asks, cracking a smile for the first time since he and Harry arrived. His face feels stiff.
"Da, este un loc minunat," Charlie says, giving him a grin back. Draco has no idea what he's saying, but for some reason, it seems so funny—maybe it's just the tension dissipating. Either way, he laughs, loud and clear.
"What do you do in Romania?" Draco asks, and, as an afterthought, adds, "In English this time, please."
"I work with dragons," Charlie says, grinning. Draco looks over Charlie's scars again and he feels less happy than a moment earlier.
"Well, I'm planning to work at St Mungo's. The new mental health section. I'll probably know some great doctors if you want to get rid of those scars. I'm assuming those scars are the result of working with dragons?" he asks. Charlie doesn't seem to notice that the grin has disappeared from Draco's face; he grins more and makes a muscle.
"Yup. Working with dragons is a nasty task, but still fun—what's wrong?" he asks quickly, noticing Draco's face.
"I just thought—" Draco doesn't know how to say it. That he could have been responsible for them himself? "I thought maybe one of the Death Eaters had done them, which would make it my fault."
The sentence sits in the air, lingering there. Draco scratches his left arm. He wishes his tattoo would just disappear.
"Well," Charlie says, breaking the silence, "even if they were from the war, it's not like you caused them."
"No, it would've been my father, or his friends, or even my friends. Makes me feel loads better," Draco says, turning his back to Charlie.
"I wouldn't care. They're fine," Charlie says. When Draco doesn't respond, he walks around him, forcing himself to be in Draco's line of vision. "What are you doing?"
"What do you mean?" Draco asks, not turning around again, instead facing Charlie head-on. He's pretty sure Charlie would just move again if Draco turns.
"Firstly, you're feeling guilty for something you didn't do. Secondly, I'm trying to forgive you for something that isn't your fault and you're refusing to accept it. Do you not want friends?"
Draco inhales sharply. Doesn't Charlie understand that Malfoys and Weasleys did not mix? Period. Doesn't Charlie understand what he did?
Frustrated, Draco pushes up his sleeve, showing his Dark Mark.
"Don't you realise what I am?" he asks. He can feel something prickling at his eyes—tears, maybe—but he ignores it. "I could've given you those scars." When Charlie opens his mouth to argue, Draco holds up a hand. "I as good as killed your brother."
At this, Charlie says nothing. He just purses his lips, and Draco can see the pain in his eyes.
"Fred—You didn't kill my brother. A wall did," Charlie says, sounding final. "Even if you were part of the explosion, I still forgive you. I know you would never do anything on purpose."
Charlie makes Draco want to tear his own head off. Or laugh. Or both.
"You're such a Gryffindor," Draco says, giving a strained laugh.
"Sorry," Charlie says, giving him a small smile. "I just tell the truth how I see it."
"I never said it was a bad thing," Draco says. He is, after all, in love with a Gryffindor.
"Good. I'm glad you don't mind my Gryffindor-ness because guess what?" Charlie asks, giving a wide smirk.
"What?"
"We're friends, now. Okay?" Charlie sticks out a hand once again.
Draco rolls his eyes, but still grabs Charlie's hand. "Okay."
. . .
March 1999
. . .
Draco has found that he likes spending time at the Burrow. It's nice to have somewhere that he's actually welcomed.
Well, half of the Weasleys still hate him, but Percy's always okay to chat with Draco, and whenever Charlie's in England, they like to hang out. Draco's avoided Weasel himself, though. He's not ready to have that conversation yet.
The oldest Weasley, Bill, also tolerates Draco. He's not at the Burrow very much, having his own house and family, but whenever he's around he has never glared at Draco once.
The Weaslette, on the other hand, never stops glaring at him. She has a deep vendetta against Draco, and Draco hates her right back. He knows it's irrational, but what if Harry decides that Draco isn't to his liking anymore? What if he decides to go back to Weaslette?
His anxious side, though, ignores the fact that she's dating someone else—the Lovegood girl, who Draco hates seeing. He does not have a good past with her. Locking someone in your basement, even if you didn't do it yourself, as Harry would tell him, puts a damper on any relationship.
George, though, doesn't do anything. He doesn't even spare Draco any glares. He's usually at the Burrow, but he doesn't really talk to anyone. He just seems . . . empty.
"You were the one that punched me, right?" Draco asks, sitting down next to George at the kitchen table. He's been staring at his cup for the last hour, and Draco feels sorry for him. George just frowns, as if he didn't know what Draco was talking about, so Draco elaborates. "In my fifth year, your seventh. I was—" Draco frowns, too. "I was being quite rude. I deserved it. I'm sorry, by the way. I was a stupid teenager."
George nods, his frown loosening. "We all were," he whispers, so quiet that Draco almost misses it.
"Well, I'm sorry for that. You did hit me pretty well, though, so I think we're even," Draco notes. He sees a small, minuscule, smile appear on George's face, but it's almost immediately replaced by a frown as if he was betraying his dead brother by being happy.
Draco takes a deep breath and stands up to walk away. He's about to go outside, where he can see Harry playing Quidditch when someone grabs his wrist. He turns around to see Weaslette standing there, in all her ginger glory.
"How'd you do that?" she asks, her voice cracking. She looks so shocked that she even forgets to glare at Draco.
"What?" he asks, feeling a little bit nervous; he's seen her in battle. He doesn't want to get on the wrong side of her.
"You got George to smile," she whispers, motioning to her brother, who's still looking at his cup dejectedly, but Draco can tell that he's sitting a little straighter.
"I just talked to him," Draco says with a shrug, "about something that wasn't Fred."
Weaslette furrows her brows at him but drops his arm all the same.
. . .
November 1999
. . .
"So, how'd it happen?"
Draco almost chokes on his coffee as Granger sits down next to him.
"What?" he asks, swallowing too-hot coffee too quickly.
"How'd you and Harry get together?" she asks, squinting at him.
"I just asked him out and he said yes," Draco responds, maybe, possibly, bending the truth. He has no idea why Granger is asking him this all of a sudden, and he's not about to start telling his entire story to her, not when she has every damn right to hate him. "Why?" he asks, giving her a hard look.
She bites her lip, and instead of answering, tells him: "I remember our second year, you know."
"What?" Draco asks, furrowing his brows. He has no idea what she's talking about.
"You solved the whole basilisk thing and gave me the paper out of the book. And then Harry and Ron fought it themselves."
The memory pops up in Draco's head as she recalls it. He found out what was petrifying students in their second year because he was just so frustrated with his father not telling him what was going on. He then passed the information to Granger, hoping that Weasel and Harry would get it and stupidly save the day, Gryffindor-style. And it worked.
"I just wanted to help," Draco mutters. Hermione nods and smiles at him, teeth showing. He notices that they're not buck teeth, anymore.
She doesn't say anything more, but she doesn't move either, and Draco's fine with that. He supposes that he's going to need to tolerate her if he's dating Harry; they are best friends.
. . .
February 2000
. . .
"Your father's getting out of Azkaban next week."
Draco's world shatters with Harry's words. He was wearing a grin a moment ago, enjoying their dinner together, but it's wiped off his face now.
"I thought he had thirty years. It's been less than two," he says. He should feel happy at the news—it's his father!—but he feels scared.
"I was able to pull some strings at the Ministry, get him out now with probation," Harry says, poking his salad with his fork.
"Why?" Draco asks, furrowing his brows. He pushes his plate away from him; he's not feeling very hungry anymore.
"I thought you'd want to see your dad again," Harry says, looking up at Draco. "Besides, we've been dating for a while. I thought that I should meet your parents. Maybe we could have a dinner together next, oh I don't know, Monday?"
Draco stares at Harry as he does the math in his head.
"You want to have a Valentine's Day double date dinner with my parents?" Draco asks, giving Harry a nervous chuckle.
"Yeah, why not?" Harry asks. He gives Draco his 'I'm a cute puppy who's done no wrong, listen to me' look, but for once, Draco holds his ground. This is bigger than ordering pizza for dinner instead of eating healthy or seeing a Muggle movie Draco has no interest in. This is his parents.
"Because my parents are—well, I haven't even seen them much since the war, really. I haven't talked to my mum in a long time." As Draco says it, he realises that it's true; he's ignored his mother since he moved out of her house.
"No better time to start again," Harry reasons.
"They also still have pureblood prejudices. You're a half-blood," Draco argues. He would rather do anything than have dinner with his parents and Harry.
"I'm the Boy-Who-Lived. It doesn't matter if I'm a half-blood," Harry says, giving Draco a sideways smile. "Besides, Voldemort was a half-blood." Draco flinches at the name and fixes Harry with a dark glare. Still, he can't really think of another argument expect for he just doesn't want to, and he knows that it's a lame argument. "It's settled, then," Harry says when Draco says nothing more. He reaches over and pats Draco on the cheek. "Owl your mother!"
. . .
Harry pulls Draco's hand away from his arm—he's scratching his left arm again.
"It'll be fine," Harry says, cupping Draco's face in his hand. He gives him a quick kiss, which Draco can't bring himself to return. Instead, he looks Harry up and down.
"Your tie," he says, staring at it. It's slightly too much to the left, and if Draco can see it, his parents will definitely notice it.
"What?" Harry asks, looking down.
"It's crooked. Here." Draco reaches over and moves it so it's right down the middle—or, at least, he hopes it is.
"You didn't do anything," Harry says, still looking at it.
"Yes, I did," Draco snaps. He feels very on edge and he doesn't need Harry to look less than presentable in front of his parents. "And also—" Draco takes both of his hands and tries to smooth down Harry's hair, which is sticking up in all different directions. To his dismay, all the hairs just pop back up again. How could he think it was cute, once? His parents are going to hate Harry.
"It doesn't stay down," Harry says. "Also, it. Will. Be. Fine. Let's go in."
Draco turns to his parents front door and tries to take a deep breath—it's more shaky than deep, but it's still him breathing, at least.
He raises his fist, knocks, and holds his breath.
. . .
His mother is still beautiful. His father is still cold.
"Mother, Father," he says, nodding his head to each of them in turn. He expects a 'hello, Draco,' but his mother walks over and hugs him. The hug is stiff like she never hugged anyone. She never does hug anyone, but Draco still welcomes it.
He tries to ignore the fact that she smells nothing like home.
Draco clears his throat and turns to Harry as his mother lets go. This is it. He's about to tell his parents.
"This is Harry Potter," he starts, "my—" The word 'boyfriend' dies in his throat. He can't say it. He clears his throat again. "My b—" Nope, he's never going to be able to say it. He wants to die, right here.
"His boyfriend," Harry says, stepping forward and holding out a hand. Draco's parents don't do anything for a moment, but his mother makes eye contact with Draco, nods, and takes Harry's hand.
"Let's have dinner," she says, letting go of Harry's hand and smiling at the pair. There's hardly any warmth in it.
. . .
Draco's anxiety is through the roof.
He's not sure if he wants Harry to leave, or if he wants his parents to leave. Maybe both.
"Where's the restroom?" Harry says, suddenly, standing up. Draco looks up at him as his mother answers. "Thank you," he says, giving Draco's mother a smile. "I'll be right back." Draco's pretty sure that's directed at him, as reassurance, but he says it to everyone.
Draco watches him go and then turns to his parents. "So?" he asks, looking at them expectantly.
"You're dating a boy," his father notes, in a disapproving tone. "Who's a half-blood. Who's the Boy-Who-Lived." Draco tries to exhale, but his breath gets caught in his throat. He was right, his father is shooting down every point he thought he'd shoot down. He turns to his mother, numbness spreading through his fingers.
"Lucius," his mother says, warning in his voice.
"I'm only saying—" his father tries to say, but Draco interrupts him.
"How was your trip to Azkaban, Father?" he asks, making a fist under the table. He's pleased to see that his father is taken aback by the question. "It's nice that it was cut short, right? Because Harry made that possible."
He lets the statement sit in the air for a bit, looking down at his food and stabbing his chicken with a fork. The sight of it makes him feel sick. Maybe he'll become a vegetarian.
"I never said that I disapproved," his father says finally.
"Sure sounded like it," Draco points out. He puts down his fork; he's not going to be able to eat.
"You're my son, Draco. I support you in whatever you wish to do," he says, picking up his fork. "Besides, he's not a Weasley. I do cross the line there."
Draco thinks that maybe it's a joke, but he doesn't find it funny at all; the Weasleys are his friends. They're as much of Draco's family as his own father. Maybe even more so. Still, he doesn't want to push his father, so his swallows his anger and picks up his fork again.
. . .
May 2000
. . .
Draco walks into the waiting room at St Mungo's, still in his work clothes, looking for a mass of gingers. He only spots one, but he walks over anyway, seeing that it's Bill.
"Hi," he says, approaching him. He sees that it's Bill, pacing back and forth. He looks up and gives him a strained smile. His scars distort in a way that almost makes Draco want to laugh, if not for the pain etched onto Bill's face.
"Hi," he says. He gives Draco a half-smile, not quite reaching his eyes.
"Harry told me that your wife was having the baby," he says. He's not really too sure what to do, but Harry had owled Draco and told him to be there for Bill. "He's really sorry he can't come, but there was a raid—"
"Yeah, I heard," Bill says, taking a shaky breath. "Nobody knew the baby was supposed to come today. It's early."
Draco bites his lip, realising why Bill looks so nervous. "They've done this thousands of times," Draco reassures him. "It'll be fine."
Bill gives him one last look and then sits down, putting his head in his hands. "I hope so," he mutters.
Draco takes the seat next to him. Should he hug him, or . . . ? "It will," he insists. He hopes to believe it, himself.
. . .
October 2000
. . .
"Oh, Merlin," Harry says, facepalming before he walks out the door. "Do you want to come with?"
Draco looks Harry up and down. "What?" Harry's going to his godson's house; he usually visits once a week. Why would Draco want to come with?
"I just realised, Teddy's your cousin once removed, or something like that," Harry explains, waving his arms. "Don't you want to meet him?"
"Er—" Draco hasn't talked to his Aunt Andromeda since—well, since ever. She was disowned. Teddy's not really his cousin. He's just a distant relative, more like. Still. Some part of him wants to go, for some reason. Maybe he could find out more about his mother's childhood—she never talked about it. Stories are always fun. "Sure," Draco says, getting up to go put on shoes.
. . .
A blue-haired boy, about two years old, greets them, throwing himself onto Harry.
"Hawy!" he says, giving them a grin that reaches his eyes, making them crinkle.
"Hey, Teddy," Harry says, scooping him up. "You're getting so big," he notes.
"No, I'm not," Teddy says with a pout. Harry laughs a nice crisp laugh.
"Hey, Teddy, this is your cousin Draco," he says, walking over to where Draco's standing, but Draco's not looking at them. He's looking past them, at who he supposes is his aunt. It's startling how much she looks like his other aunt, but Draco knows that she's dead. Thankfully.
"Draco?" the woman—his Aunt Andromeda—says. "Cissy's son?"
Draco nods, stiffly. She takes three big steps towards him and hugs him. It reminds him more of Mrs Weasley's hugs, full and proper, almost like they were the sisters, not her and his mother.
"Welcome back," she says, her voice breaking.
If Draco could get his voice to work, he thinks it would break, too.
. . .
April 2001
. . .
"So."
Draco's sitting across from Harry at their small kitchen table and he feels content. They're not doing anything, just being together and Draco loves it.
"So?" he responds to Harry's statement.
"I was thinking," he says, and Draco can tell that he looks nervous about something.
"Must be hard to do it for the first time," Draco teases, a smirk on his lips. Harry rolls his eyes.
"Thanks. But I was thinking that—" Harry stands up and then gets down on one knee and pulling out something from his pocket and Draco realises what he's doing before he even says the words and the panic is rising in his throat and— "Will you marry me?"
Draco doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know how to respond. He knows that he should say yes, but he can't bring himself to form the words. There's panic in his stomach and his head and his throat and he wants to die at that moment.
He doesn't even know why.
"I—" Draco gets up, feeling stiff. "I can't—I don't—I need to go," he finally settles on, trying to walk out the door, but Harry blocks his way.
"What? No," Harry says, biting his lip. "You promised you would talk about your feelings, Draco," he points out. He's right, and Draco knows it. He wishes that he had never promised that in the first place.
"I can't," he says. How can he talk about his feelings when he's not sure about them himself? He has no idea why he's panicking, but he is.
"If you don't want to get married," Harry says, looking a little bit downhearted, "that's okay. We don't have to—"
"No, no, no," Draco says quickly, cutting him off. "I do, I think, I just don't know—" Draco has no idea how to put his thoughts into words. He instead leans forward and presses a long kiss to Harry's lips. "I'd love to," he says.
He can feel tears at the corner of his eyes and he realises that, with Harry, he doesn't have to panic. He can let his guard down. "I love you," he says. The words feel weird on his lips, but they feel so right directed to Harry. Draco now realises that he's never said those words to Harry. Harry's said them to him, but Draco can't remember him saying the words himself.
Harry smiles and takes the small ring box back out. He opens it and slips the ring on Draco's finger.
"I love you, too."
. . .
January 2003
. . .
Draco's fingers are shaking so much that he can't even tie his tie. Looking at his reflection in the mirror in front of him, he sees his very pale reflection staring back at him. Everyone always says how your wedding is the happiest day of your life. No one ever told Draco that it was the most stressful, too.
There's a knock on Draco's door, and it takes a second for him to unclog his throat and say "Come in."
Through his mirror, he can see Weasel standing there. No matter how much Harry tells him to call him Ron, Draco can never bring himself to think of him as Ron. He's always just Weasel. Old habits die hard.
"Congrats," Weasel says, raising his eyebrows. He looks like he means it, too.
"Thanks," Draco says quietly.
"I bet you're freaking out inside," he guesses. "I know I was." Weasel raises his left hand and Draco can see a golden ring glittering there.
"Right. I remember Harry got invited to your wedding," Draco recalls.
"You were invited, too," Weasel points out. Draco was invited, but he couldn't bring himself to go. It was probably just so Harry wouldn't hound after them.
"I'm sorry," Draco says, biting his lip. He looks down, not wanting to see Weasel's reaction. He's probably laughing, or at least smirking, at Draco apologising to him.
"For what?"
"For everything," Draco says. Is he really going to have to do this? "For everything at school."
Weasel laughs, hitting Draco like a fresh gust of air. "We were teenagers then. I don't care. Besides, you saved my life when we were at your house. We would've died if you didn't lie."
Draco bites his lip harder. He can feel blood hitting his tongue. "I didn't say 'no'. They could've still killed you."
"But you didn't say 'yes'," Weasel insists. "Besides, Harry's my best mate and Harry loves you. He usually knows what he's doing, even if I have no idea where he's going with his plans."
"Just because you're friends with Harry doesn't mean you have to be friends with me, Weasel," Draco says, rolling his eyes. Gryffindors.
"It's Ron. And Charlie was right—you are more stubborn than a Weasley. Well, get this, I forgive you. I really do. You're about to be my best mate's husband. We're going to be friends, Malfoy," he says, straightening up. Draco smirks.
"It's Draco," he corrects. "And fine. Thanks, I guess . . . Ron." Draco stands up to face him. He holds out a hand.
"No problem, Draco."
They shake.
. . .
Draco can hardly make his legs work, but as soon as he sees Harry waiting for him at the front, a stupid smile on his face, he wants to walk even faster.
He has a strong urge to cry, and he's not sure if it's out of joy or sadness. It must be because of joy—what is there to be sad about, anymore?
His mother is escorting him down the aisle, and for once, Draco can feel the warmth from her hitting him.
He passes Charlie, sitting at the back, a smirk on his face. He gives him a wink as he walks on. George, the hollow redhead, seems to have more color in his face than he did when Draco first met him. He gives Draco a small smile as he passes and Draco notices him sitting next to a Gryffindor in Draco's year—Finnigan, his name was? Bill also gives Draco a smile. He's sitting with his wife and their little girl, Victoire, whose eyes are twinkling. Ron gives him a wink, sitting with Granger. Hermione, Draco corrects himself internally. Even the Weaslette, sitting with the Lovegood girl, seems to have lessened her glare.
Draco reaches the front row, even closer to Harry, now. Mr and Mrs Weasley—or 'Mum and Dad', as Mrs Weasley insist he call them—are on his left, and his father is on his right, a small smile on his face.
Draco's mother pats his arm and goes to sit down, but Draco only half-notices it; he's staring at Harry. Have his eyes always been that green?
He can hardly focus on what the minister is saying, but at least he remembers to say "I do," when he's prompted.
And then, quickly as that, he's married.
To Harry.
He feels something new in his heart, that's almost painful, but not quite.
He thinks it's happiness. Pure happiness.
for:
library lovers [divergent - starting new; result; leaving home]
writing club [character appreciation - loyal; disney - jasmine; book club - nick andros - forgiving, friendship, distrust; showtime - dear old shiz; count your buttons - brave by sara bareilles, fred; liza's love - widow's kiss]
lent challenge [living life to the full]
play more cards [black jack - someone from the black family]
scavenger hunt [breaking up a canon pairing]
serpent day [zebra snake - library]
fairytale [mulan - pretending to be someone you're not; honor; falling in love]