by star of david
Harry/Draco
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters in this story; they were created by the genius, JKRowling. I do own the plot.
SUMMARY: "Come up to meet you, tell you I'm sorry." Draco Malfoy, in the light of Voldemort's return, seeks reconciliation from Harry Potter. Friendship - it's a start. A song fic to Coldplay's The Scientist.
"In the light of Lord Voldemort's return, we are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided."
Dumbledore's words rang in my ears. He was right, of course, and I knew it deep within me. The Dark Lord was definitely back. Father had said so in December -- he had shown me the Mark, told me that it was growing darker every day, signifying the Dark Lord's growing strength.
I looked across the Hall and scanned the crowd for your familiar face. It was harder to spot this year, with all the foreign students in the hall, mixed with the Hogwarts students. I finally found you. You had your head bent low over your plate. Your expression was unreadable from beneath the untidy, jet-black hair that was obscuring your face. Your green eyes, however, shone bright from beneath the dark strands. I caught the sorrow and mourning in them.
It's not your fault Diggory died, Harry, I wanted to tell you.
Dumbledore's speech ended, and there was a blur of people. Students were getting up to go back to their dormitories and pack up their trunks. You vanished instantly.
I had to find you. I ran up to the Owlery and found my owl. I quickly scribbled a note, tied it to his leg, and commanded him to find you and make you read the note.
I waited in the Owlery patiently. I needed to see you and talk to you.
About ten minutes later, you showed up.
"What's all this, Malfoy?" you asked lazily. The usual acid in your voice was gone, an obvious effect of the grief of Diggory's loss. "Why'd you make me come up here and meet you?"
"To tell you I'm sorry," I replied softly.
"Huh?"
"About Diggory," I clarified.
"Thanks," you replied. You seemed a bit skeptical still. I couldn't blame you.
"Harry," I began, stepping forward to close the distance between our bodies. The confusion etched in your face mounted. It was as if I had called you by someone else's name.
I wanted to tell you everything in my heart. How terribly sorry I was that you were going through the hell that you were. I wanted to congratulate you for winning the Tournament, and express my sympathy for the horrible tasks you had to do. I wanted to tell you that I missed playing Quidditch against you, missed seeing you fly around in search of the Snitch, missed seeing you do the thing you loved most. I wanted to tell you that you didn't know how lovely you are.
I wanted to tell you I love you.
And I wanted you to tell me you love me.
"What?" you asked.
"Let's go back to the start," I said. I held out my hand in front of me, and you looked at me quizzically.
"I told you, on the first train ride to Hogwarts, that you don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. And I offered my hand, but you refused it. Now I'm offering my hand again. Now I see that it was I who had gone making friends with the wrong sort. I need you to help me make friends with the right one."
I waited for an agonizing eternity before you took my hand in yours and shook it. Your skin felt lovely against mine, and for a brief second, illicit images of you and me together in bed flashed across my mind's eye. I quickly shook them away.
"Took you fourteen years to realize you were a prat, eh?" you laughed. You talked to me as if I hadn't been your enemy for the past three years.
"Well, nobody said it was easy," I replied.
I'd rather have you as my friend than as an enemy.