Potter. Somehow, in this chaotic game we were both given the opposite of what we expected – a scrawny boy from a cupboard saved the world and the rich, pure boy destined for greatness… my own world crumbled at my polished shoes as the final chess piece toppled. They all look at him with gratitude; no matter the colour of their woollen scarfs. And what do I get? Worn out glances of hatred, of betrayal, of spite. I wanted to stand against the darkness, but it had already claimed me, its dark ink pulsing on my skin, and to turn my back on that would have been to turn my back on my family, and for my leaving they would have been punished. As much as I loathe the people I pay such close resemblance to, I could not have wished that upon them. That single act is what gives me the strength to carry on; that single act of selflessness. The one good thing about me that everyone twisted – everyone except my opposite. Everyone except Harry Potter.
On this frosty December's morning, cold breaths of clouds dance over my chapped lips, my emerald scarf tightly tied around my pale skin, almost as white as the crunchy snow beneath my boots. Snow floats to the ground smoothly, reaching the peaks of the tall stone towers long before it reaches the crisp layer on the ground. I march through the snow, scowling at the onlookers I am so accustomed to. I often hear them whisper about me as I stomp past.
He's a traitor, y'know, he was gonna kill Dumbledore.
He turned his back on us…
Scum like him shouldn't be allowed back into the school…
My return, was too, due to Potter and a soft conversation with Professor McGonagall, who explained to me in her grand, warmly lit office that: "Harry informed me of your situation. You are welcome to stay here, Draco, even at the holidays if you so wish. All I ask is that you do well here, with your subjects, and with yourself. You must learn who you are; otherwise you'll always be someone you're not. Do you understand?"
I told her I understood, though of course I didn't. I am myself, aren't I? And Potter, the very person who should hate me the most in the world gave me another chance? I realised that he understands what I had to do, I know he does, even though we haven't discussed it – the only time we ever discuss anything is under our breaths in potions – and that means he knows the real truth about me. He is the only one. That was when I started writing about him in the black leather journal hidden between pairs of socks in my trunk.
They told me that writing about how I feel would be a good thing. I realise that it's only little girls and those who can't remember what their names are who keep diaries but that's what I was told to do. I didn't ever want to – it's not like I need all my crazy scrawled down. But after that day I was accepted back, all because of someone who owes me nothing, but who I owe the world. The writing became more and more focused on him – my old enemy, who would never consider me as a friend. I grew bitter towards him again, towards everyone, but I enjoy the regularity of it all. At least, I think I do until I sit down at night with my quill and my emotions flood out with the flow of the ink. Very soon I had spilled more ink than blood over Harry Potter – The Boy Who Lived. The Boy Who Killed Me. But also the one who brought me back to life.
I stumble into the glow of the Great Hall, shaking snowflakes from my blonde head with a cold, shaky hand. I walk briskly to my usual seat between Crabbe and Goyle, slipping into the hard wooden bench. I know already that Harry isn't here, his usual seat abandoned, empty – creating an empty place in my heart.
I poke at my breakfast with a shiny fork, catching a glimpse of my reflection ever few seconds. I grimace at myself, and reach for my pumpkin juice, which I notice is slightly pinker than before when it swirls chaotically in my grip. I deduce that it must be due to the floating candles, always varying in their heights, casting shadows on what should be light, but always plunging me into the darkness. I hold the cool glass in my hand as I subtly glance back over at the empty space across from a seething Ginny Weasley. I can't help but grin as I turn back to the familiar shades of green and silver that surround me. I never liked her. I never understood why Harry does.
I take a sip of my juice just as Pansy Parkinson slides into the seat opposite me, and Crabbe and Goyle start chuckling under their breaths.
"What is it? Spit it out." I furrow my eyebrows together in confusion at their red faces and childish snorts.
"I'm surprised the pair of you aren't pigs with snorts like those," I snap, "It wouldn't take you long to get used to rolling around in the mud everyday. That's just a couple of days more than normal. And-"
I stop dead in my tracks, because sitting across from me is possibly the most beautiful person I've ever seen. I wonder how I've never seen it before, her slim face, her dark hair, and the spark in her eyes. I always found her annoying; she was too fascinated with me. But, here she is, Pansy Parkinson, with the littlest of snow on her head, frost whispering through her hair, looking absolutely-
Wait.
Realisation hits me like a bolt of lightning, the electricity surging through my veins. She's not beautiful, and she never has been. Not compared to Harry Potter.
"Goyle," I say, my voice firm, pushing the pink-tinted juice away from me, "Later today, you and Crabbe are going to tell me the purpose of that potion."
I stand up, leaving my breakfast uneaten, amused at the surprise across their faces.
"Oh, Crabbe," I say, a smirk across my face, "Is it snow or dandruff in your hair? I really can't tell. Or, maybe, whatever it is, it came out of Goyle."
Their jaws drop and I sneer at them before thundering out of the magnificent wooden doors of the Great Hall, and into the cold, winding corridors.
I turn my back on the doors, rage fuelling my steps, but also a deep, sinking sense of loneliness. All I can think of is my opposite, with his emerald eyes shining under his glasses, his pure black hair, and the scar on his forehead. It took me this long to realise just how beautiful he is, inside and out. And how he will never see me the same way, not with my hatred filled veins and the malice that twinkles in my steely blue eyes. Harry Potter saved me, even when I tried to destroy him.
My steps echo on the stones, and I run shaking hands through my light hair. I descend the wide steps to the dungeons three at a time, my cloak billowing, chasing me down the stairs and into the green tinted light. I need to get to the dorms, I need to write it down, everything I can about Harry Potter, every detail I can remember, and every word he's ever said to me, kind or not.
I storm through the empty common room and into the male dormitory, frantically falling to my knees at the shiny black suitcase beside my bed, shoving the green bed curtains away from me. I throw open the case, wrenching open the buckles, plunging my hands into the piles of clothes, rummaging roughly through the socks, tossing any pairs I see twice out on to the cold floor, until, until, my hands hit the bottom. The flat, hard bottom of the suitcase. It's not here. It's not here.
I jump to my feet, swearing and kicking the case furiously. The things I have scratched into that black book, a mixture of ink and tears, if anyone has it, my father will be hearing about what's inside. And, oh, that can never happen.
I turn around, my boots squeaking on the floor to see a set of snowy footprints. A new set? They definitely aren't mine…
Harry.
I chase after the steps, arms out, just in case I crash into him under that cloak. The very same cloak I draped over him and his broken nose in our sixth year. It seems like a lifetime ago.
My heavy steps begin to quicken into a run as I follow the footsteps out of the dismal dungeon and into the main building, around sharp corners and dark corridors, the white colour of each footstep fading a little more each time, until, eventually, they stop. After, steep, crumbling flights of stairs I stand cautiously outside the boys' restroom. The very same one where Harry clutched my crimson shirt and screamed.
I reach out to the creaky door and shove it open, shutting it closed behind me as quickly as I can. He's in here. He has to be.
"Potter?" I call out, my voice no longer my own. There's no reply. The colours of the tiles in the bathroom fluctuate with the dancing candlelight, from grey to black and back again, with underlying tones of red beside one certain grubby sink. I step in to the middle of the room, at the five closed stalls facing me.
"Harry?" I hear my voice crack with anticipation.
No reply. Except, except, I can hear him. I can hear him sobbing quietly, as if muffled by a closed fist.
I approach the stall furthest to the left; my feet light against the tiles, and carefully push open the door, reaching out slowly into the air to feel myself grab a handful of silk. I pull it away with a flick of my wrist and Harry Potter materialises in front of me, sitting curled up on the closed toilet seat, his skinny knees under his chin, tears streaming like a storm from his eyes, the cloud misting up his circular glasses, each raindrop splashing onto the open pages of my mind. His jet black hair is dishevelled, as if he's been running, but he is not out of breath. If anything, he isn't breathing at all as he looks up at me and the shimmering robe in my fist, his green eyes full of panic, but a smile threatening to break out across his face, the corner of his mouth twitching. A pink hue begins to buzz frantically at the corners of my vision, and the truth hits me like a stunning spell, my legs threatening their collapse. Flashes of Pansy Parkinson fill my vision and shatter, her temporary beauty contorting back into what she really is. It was a love potion, and it should have worked on Parkinson, but she was not the first person I saw. Because, everywhere I go, I see Harry Potter. I loved him already; I just needed to see it.
"Malfoy," his voice is a tearful croak, "I- I- I heard about this book and I just had to find it, just to see if… I'm sorry."
He closes the journal gently, running trembling fingers over the dark leather.
"What did you need to see?" I ask.
He looks away from my gaze, fixing his eyes on the floor, "I- I wanted to know if I was in it."
"And?" I say, unable to stop myself from reaching out to him and raising his chin again with a gentle hand, just so his eyes and mine are connected, before dropping my arm weakly back down to my side, "Are you in it?"
He nods, slowly, wiping tears from behind his glasses with the cuff of his white shirt, "Yes… In between the passages about the cruelty of your family."
I scowl; it is my turn to look away.
"Malfoy," Potter's voice is soft, "After all you've done for them, and all you've sacrificed your father treats you so poorly?"
"Please," I tell him, "Don't call me by that surname, not anymore. I want no part in that twisted family."
Harry's eyebrows furrow together.
"They're sick," I sigh, "And selfish, and cruel. We call ourselves pure but our souls are so filthy. I don't want any part in that, not anymore."
Harry stands up, placing his feet lightly on the floor and carefully dropping the diary on the lid of the toilet. I quickly become aware of how close he is to me, his green eyes ablaze in the grey scenery.
"You know what I read about myself, though?" he asks me, his voice a low whisper.
"What?"
"Nice things," he pauses, "Beautiful things, even. And although it doesn't quite admit so, I'd say you like me."
The words tumble out of his mouth, but there is no fear in his expression, like a true Gryffindor.
"I'd say that you like me," he repeats, "The person who tore you apart."
I shake my head, "No, Harry, you put me back together."
His lips crash into mine, and a million questions bubble to the surface of my mind – about me, about him, about Ginny Weasley, but I push them back for later, dropping the invisibility cloak and throwing my arms around him. This moment, this is all that matters. It is all that will ever matter.
His glasses press up against my face, the rims of his glasses digging into my skin, one of his hands running through my hair, the other wrapped tightly around my waist. My scarred hands shake as I run them up and down his smooth back, but I just need him to be closer, so I kiss him harder, and harder.
He shoves me against the wall, the impact jolting up my spine, his face closer to mine than I ever thought possible, and my nose disappearing into his cheek. There's a cold hand under my shirt, past my loosened tie, resting on my erratic heartbeat. I exhale, and feel my heart slow down, protected by his hand, finally safe. I know from this moment, every beat of my black heart will be for Harry Potter.
He wrenches his mouth free, his chest rising and falling heavily, resting his forehead on mine. I breathe, I breathe in a dizzying mixture of Harry and the air, my head reeling, but my smile set. He lifts his head, staring into my eyes, peering directly into my soul with skewed glasses and glowing eyes. A memory rises in me, of his broken nose, and my smile widens as I recite my words to him and his blushing cheeks.
"Nice face, Potter."
Except this time I mean it.
Written by everythings-a-bit-of-a-blur
As requested by retarded-shinigami on tumblr