Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot. The characters, settings etc all belong to JK Rowling.
A/N: This is a slash fic, Harry and Draco slash. If you find this offensive, then don't read. To everyone else, enjoy reading and please review!
Title: Too Late For Regrets
Summary: Harry realises that the war left too many casualties. He tries to make amends - and falls in love along the way. HPDM slash.
Harry couldn't help but feel a smile spreading across his face as he looked around him. Hermione sat to his left, and at the moment she was laughing at something Ron had said. To his right, Luna was in deep conversation with Ginny (he thought he heard something about snarflaggus - "if you listen carefully, you can hear them singing," Luna was saying to a rather sceptical-looking Ginny). Neville and Seamus were on a challenge to see who could drink the most Butterbeer in a minute; it looked like Seamus was winning.
Almost the whole student population was making merry at Hogsmeade. Though the war had ended at least two months ago, life hadn't yet quite returned to normal and proper schedule hadn't quite been put in place yet. It was too soon to go back to the way things were. People were still reliving their recent memories – even Hermione was more interested in having a proper celebration instead of fretting over missing a few Potions or Transfigurations study sessions. The war had taught them far more than any classroom could, after all.
Harry took another swig of Butterbeer as he surveyed the rest of the Three Broomsticks. Students from all houses were mingling, gathering together at tables and sharing drinks as they recounted their memories of the war. There were loud clanking of glasses as people cheered to Voldemort's death, and there were pockets of quiet spaces where others sat in silence, remembering the dead. He personally preferred the cheerful atmosphere at his table.
His gaze stopped at a single person at the far end of the bar, almost unnoticeable except for the unmistakeable white-blond hair. Draco Malfoy. Sitting alone, nursing a tall mug. Probably not Butterbeer, thought Harry.
He wasn't surprised at the other boy's solitude. After the war, few Slytherins remained alive. Of those who had survived, most were prosecuted accordingly for their war crimes. The Malfoys were spared the harshest punishments – Harry himself testified to their help and they were let go with only a few of their riches confiscated. It was nothing devastating; the Malfoys still had more than enough gold to ensure a comfortable lifestyle. It was something else under the surface that bothered Draco, thought Harry. He mulled over the sight of Malfoy for a few moments, before abruptly standing up. "I'm going to talk to Malfoy," he announced to no one in particular. Not that anyone noticed, he realised as he strode purposefully toward the blond boy – his friends were all preoccupied with their own chatter and didn't seem to even realise he had left.
Draco didn't acknowledge Harry's presence as he slid onto the stool next to him. Harry mulled over the sight of the blond, suddenly unsure of what to say. "I'll have one of whatever he's having," he said instead to the barman, who nodded and poured a deep amber liquid into a mug before setting it in front of him. Harry took a swig and choked; it most definitely was not Butterbeer. Draco snorted. "You sip, not chug," he murmured, demonstrating. Harry watched as the blond raised his mug to his lips, took a sip – a rather long one, thought Harry – licked his lips and set the mug down. And then those silvery blue eyes were upon him. "What are you doing here?" It was a simple question. Straightforward, to the point, lacking of any insult or emotion. Harry frowned.
"Drinking," he replied, averting his gaze as he tried to replicate Draco's sip-and-lick routine. The liquid burned his mouth and left a warm trail as it went down his throat, surprising him with a sweet aftertaste that lingered pleasantly. An enticing aroma seemed to envelope him from within. "Vanilla?" he asked, taking another sip.
Draco nodded wearily. "My mother's favourite." He took another deep, long sip, emptying his mug. He sighed, signalling for a refill. "You haven't answered my question."
"You're alone." It wasn't an answer as much as it was a question, but he didn't know what else to say. Harry tried stalling for time by taking another sip. The alcohol was strong – he felt slightly lightheaded, and in front of him, Draco's features were starting to go fuzzy around the edges. "You can join us, if you like." The words were out before he could stop himself. He turned almost frantically toward his friends, already regretting his invitation.
Draco laughed softly, shaking his head. "Congratulations, Potter. I do believe you hold the record for the quickest drunk I know."
Harry shook his head – his thoughts were jumbled up and he was losing clarity. "How many have you had?" he asked, pointing to Draco's mug.
The blond held up five fingers. "My fifth," he shrugged, taking an elegant sip.
Harry simply nodded. "How's your mother?"
Draco raised his eyebrows, considering Harry carefully. "She's coping," he replied curtly. "And father has joined the Ministry. I suppose you already know that."
Harry nodded again. "Look, Malfoy – I don't know how to say this, but I…well, thank you," he muttered, opting for another sip of alcohol over looking at the blond.
If Draco was surprised, he hid it well. "What for?" he asked.
Harry frowned – there was that lack of emotion again. "You fought with us."
Draco sipped thoughtfully, and the silence that surrounded them thickened with unspoken thoughts and memories. "I fought for my mother," he finally replied. "And my mother fought for me. We didn't fight for anyone else." He drained his fifth mug and abruptly stood up. "I do believe your celebration is waiting, Potter." He turned to leave, but Harry was gripping his arm, pulling him back.
"Wait," Harry gasped, surprised at his own disappointment in the blond's emptiness. "Malfoy, join us. Please." He stared at the blond, waiting for a reply that he already knew.
Draco's features rearranged themselves on his face in a way that Harry couldn't quite fathom – it was something in between a smile and a frown. He looks like he's about to cry, thought Harry suddenly. He let go of his grip on Draco's arm abruptly and looked down, feeling uncomfortable. He wasn't even sure why he was even talking to Malfoy, let alone inviting him to join his friends – who would probably be polite, but not very welcome. When he looked up, however, the blond was staring at him with a mixture of resentment and tiredness.
"Goodnight, hero," was all Draco muttered before he left, disappearing almost instantly out a side door he never knew existed and blending into the night.
Harry stared after him a moment, then finished the rest of his vanilla cocktail in one long gulp. It burned, but for some reason, it comforted him. When he rejoined his friends, they were oblivious to his absence – with the exception of Luna, who cocked her head to her side with a questioning look which he carefully ignored.
And when he drifted off to sleep later that night, he was chasing Draco in the Forbidden Forest at night, managing to lose the silvery blond hair just before he heard tortured screams.