Well, here goes… my first attempt at this. I'm putting up this one instead of one of my longer fics cause I don't quite have the nerve to put up one of my major projects…
Once again, this is H/D slash, so flamers, go away! (Yeah, I'm so intimidating, I know.) I have a couple more I might put up if I don't get scared away by bad reviews, including a strange one involving a pink aura surrounding Draco's pants. So… review, but don't flame. I'm sensitive.
@}-----
He was unsure of what woke him first: the sun streaming down from overhead, the fact that he was sleeping on a rough wooden floor, the pain of the splinters from said floor, or the fact that his lover from the night before had jostled him a fair bit while attempting to get his shirt back. It was probably the latter. Harry shyly watched the blond enigma from last night, and was somewhat confused until their eyes met. Volumes went unsaid, but Harry couldn't let him leave without some sort of closure. What he got was an awkward confirmation of everything he had known would happen.
"Are you just going to leave me here?"
"Can you even give me a good reason stay?"
"I thought we—"
"Don't, Harry. Just don't make it harder than it has to be for either of us."
After that final utterance, Draco Malfoy walked out of Harry Potter's life, leaving him sweaty, naked, and heartbroken in the Gryffindor Quidditch stands.
@}-----
Two years had passed since what Harry came to call "The Incident." Graduation was in thirty-eight days, and playing Quidditch for England was the best option that he faced at the moment. Although he knew that becoming an auror would be a great addition to the anti-Voldemort campaign, he realized that he would turn into a paranoid bastard within a few months. Of course, he could follow Hermione's advice and get "a sensible office job at the Ministry," but he sure as hell didn't want to spend the rest of his life behind a desk doing paperwork. Besides, the active Quidditch lifestyle would keep him occupied and wouldn't allow his mind to wander to certain past events that he tended to mope about.
He still watched Draco (the boy was forever Draco to him now) whenever he was close, more out of habit more than anything else. When one stares at a person for three years, it becomes a hard addiction to break. Addiction… Harry sighed. He had analyzed Draco's final words to him over and over until exactly sure what had been said anymore. Everything had seemed so bloody real and wonderful, and then he had just walked out like Harry was nothing but another toy to be used, broken, and thrown away. After all this time had passed, he had started to wonder if he had just dreamed the whole damned thing, but the immense heartache he still felt could never be the result of some sticky pubescent nighttime fantasy.
They had never verbally agreed to keep silent, mostly because the consequences of what would happen to either of them if anyone found out were all too clear. For once, the arrogant blond didn't need to emphasize what would happen if his father found out about Harry's latest stunt, and the panicked look on his face the morning after was a tragic verification of that. Of course, the blame would all be placed on Harry, even though Draco was the one who initiated the entire thing. Still, since secrecy was not really agreed upon, Harry had spilled everything to Hermione, thinking that she would give the best advice in a situation such as this.
Over the years, she claimed to have spotted Draco staring at her with "that look" in his eyes, but Harry was unable to catch his gazes. After awhile, he stopped trying altogether and even (sort of) attempted to see other people. Really, he thought to himself, what is the point of waiting for someone to come back if he was never really with you in the first place? Still, even with all the logic his mind threw at him, he knew he wasn't ready to move on from Draco. In fact, he wasn't sure if he would ever be ready.
@}-----
Most people would describe him as a cold, heartless, soulless, demonic, evil bastard. Most people would be right… mostly.
Whoever said that Malfoys didn't cry were obviously not members of said clan. Draco had seen his mother, father, grandfather, and countless other "soulless" Malfoys break down in tears on several occasions. His mother, of course, sobbed at the death of her own mother. His father had broken down after realizing that Voldemort was not the answer to the world's problems. His grandfather had showed his grief in tears at his son's funeral.
Draco Malfoy had cried himself to sleep almost every night for the past two years at the expense of Harry Potter. For some strange, unexplainable reason, he loved that damned boy, and had given him up for reasons that had proved themselves to be irrelevant.
Why had he cared so much about what his father thought? If he had just stood up to him and said, "I'm in love with Harry fucking Potter and you can't stop me from seeing him!" he would have found out that his father wouldn't have cared at all. In fact, he probably would have been happy for him. But no, Draco found all of that dandy information out a week too late. A week too late to keep Harry, and mere moments too late to save his dad.
Another tear fell, not leaving a mark on his already-damp pillowcase. For one night, he had everything he'd ever wanted right there in his arms.
A drunken, all-houses party on the Quidditch field had gotten out of hand, and Draco, being very inebriated, had decided to approach Harry, his longtime obsession/crush. Of course, Harry had been more than receptive, and after receiving countless bewildered and curious stares from their peers, the strange couple had parted quietly into the night. Eventually, they had ended up in the Gryffindor Quidditch stands. He remembered (vaguely) Harry saying something about having superior seeking skills, but instead of fighting with him, Draco kissed him soundly on the lips. Everything went downhill from there.
He couldn't actually remember most of what had happened that night, but it still counted as the best night of his entire life. The feeling that washed over him at waking up next to Harry (which was quickly replaced with that disgusting hangover nausea) still made him grin just thinking about it. Unfortunately, the next thought that crossed his mind was, "Dad's gonna kill me if he finds out!" He had hurriedly dressed and was trying to quietly sneak out when he saw Harry sitting up, knees drawn up to his bare chest, watching him with those damned pleading eyes.
Instantly, he went back into the act that he had kept up since first year, hating himself all the while for what he was saying. Even to his own ears, his hateful words sounded painfully genuine. The next few weeks were spent in a potion-induced slumber after the loss of Harry and then his father soon after. His father's death hurt him a great deal, but that pain was nothing compared to the sheer torment that he felt after walking out on Harry.
Before that night, he had assumed that what he felt was some cute little crush that would eventually disappear as quickly as it had come. Although he could barely remember what had happened between them, he knew that powerful chemistry was at work when they were together, and that it would take more than Voldemort or death to keep them apart. Even armed with this knowledge, he still left his amazing wonder-boy alone.
Some nights, he would roam the school grounds to ease his sorrow; that is, until he saw a moonlit figure disappear into the Gryffindor Quidditch stands. Since then, he had kept to his bed, drawing the curtains and casting a silencing charm to drown out the sound of his tears. He knew that Harry hadn't been able to let go of him, either, despite quick relationships with Seamus and (of all horrors) the Weasel. Draco had literally dozens of unsent letters to Harry, some long and detailing his love, others brief and asking for a quick meeting in whatever place he had thought convenient that night; yet, he just couldn't bring himself to go back and apologize to him. Despite the fact that Harry was everything he ever dreamed of having, and the plain truth that if he went back to him, he would be forgiven without question, Draco couldn't bring himself to do it… not yet.
@}-----
Playing Quidditch had proved to be a great choice for Harry, mainly because it left him completely free to do whatever he wished every other day (except match dates, which weren't that frequent). After leaving Hogwarts, his obsession with Draco hadn't relented at all. Wherever he went, his eyes constantly searched for that unmistakable head of white-blond hair. He had once followed someone down the streets of Hogsmeade, certain it was his mysterious blond fixation, only to find a set of too-blue eyes looking back at him in bewilderment. Since then, he'd carefully avoided confrontations, and vowed to himself not to approach anyone until he was sure of their true identity.
Today's free time was spent at his flat in London, and he was reluctantly tidying up his rather messy kitchen when he heard a knock on his door. Something about the knock surprised him—maybe it was the pattern, or the speed, or maybe even the hesitancy of it that made him stop what he was doing and stare at the door. He knew, somehow… he knew who was on the other side.
@}-----
Thirty seconds passed, then a minute. He knew Harry was in there, he could hear his damned muggle radio all the way out here. His hands had been sweating since the moment that he had made the decision to find Harry; now, as he looked down at them, he could see them shaking violently.
After waiting another minute, Draco decided that he knew when he wasn't wanted. Turning slowly around, he blinked back the inevitable, and warm tears began to trace their way down his face. Mechanically, he lowered one foot, then the other, roughly making his way down the steps in the building. Without warning, the sound that could only be an oil-hungry door slowly swinging open pierced the air, and Draco stopped in mid-stride, not daring to turn around.
"What—" Harry started, sounded nothing more than confused and broken-hearted.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted… no, needed to do this. Gods, even 'I'm sorry' doesn't cover the half of what I feel…"
@}-----
Harry let him ramble on for awhile, strangely enjoying his groveling. After about a minute, however, he was sick of this whole pathetic behavior and abruptly interrupted Draco's incoherent apologies. "Draco," he said sharply. The blond turned and looked at him, a pessimistic hope plainly visible in his eyes. Somehow, everything seemed so simple now.
Harry had never been very eloquent at moments like this, when everything depended on the perfect thing to say. With Draco Malfoy, the person that still haunted his dreams, standing directly in front of him, he should be completely tongue-tied and speechless. Instead, he knew the words that would let Draco come back, the ideal phrase that, when uttered, healed all the wounds created in the past.
"Don't make this harder than it has to be, Draco." With that, he moved forward and embraced his trembling form, erasing both of their miseries with one long, drawn out, slashy kiss.