It ended in the courtroom. It was the last time I saw him. He looked just like a boy; his frame was smaller than any of the others brought in and his leg bounced nervously as he waited for his sentence. His head was bowed, platinum blonde hair hiding his silver gaze from the rest of the room. He was wearing a plain white shirt, so casual from his normal wear, and his trousers were worn at the knees, dirty. Like the rest of his family, he had been taken swiftly after the war and held in custody till it was time for a proper hearing. And now here he was, shackled to the wooden chair by magical bonds, his mark displayed as black as night. Then the head councilman began to speak and I could see just a fraction of the Slytherin's lip begin to quiver.
"Given our newly enacted Post-War legislation on prior Death Eaters, we have no choice but to go through with it. Regardless of his age at the time of his crimes, he will be tried as an adult and sentenced to life in Azkaban-"
"WAIT," I shouted, without even thinking. This couldn't happen. Yes, I may have not been fond of him before, but I never wanted him imprisoned or anything. He was just a teenager, just like me. He had his whole life ahead of him.
"Mr. Potter, if you wish to express your concern please do so after the trial. This is highly uncalled for," the man huffed at his podium. He was about to strike his gavel when I interrupted him again.
"No! What's uncalled for is putting a kid in that awful place! He had no choice but to become one of them. He would have been killed otherwise. Can't you all see that?!" At this point I'm standing in my seat, and I have the attention of the whole Wizengamot. I continue, "He could have turned me in at one point, Voldemort could have killed me right then and there. His wand helped me defeat Voldemort in the end. Without Draco Malfoy we'd all be dead!"
There's several people gasping in shock, either from my use of Voldemort's name or the blunt truth to my statement. I have not once told the rest of the world how I killed Voldemort, so the news could shock anyone, I suppose. The audience is muttering in excitement now, shifting restlessly in their seats to get a better look at the young man seated in the center of the courtroom. I look at him as well, and it is at this moment he moves his head up. His eyes meet mine instinctually, no hesitation, as if he's known all along I was here, and exactly where I was seated in this crowded courtroom. And perhaps he does know, because we've had plenty of practice from the years we glanced at each other across the Great Hall. We could find each other in a sea of thousands. There would be no mistaking that hair, those silver eyes, that sharp chin.
"Quiet! Quiet!" Shouts the Chief Warlock, his voice now booming from the effects of a Sonorous. A hush falls around the room and I stare at him critically. I watch carefully as he speaks again, "Be that as it may, Mr. Potter—we have no choice. His fate has been decided. Life in Azkaban."
He bangs the gavel as I launch myself across the room, pushing through two rows of people. "NO!" I shout, running to Malfoy. And when I get close enough, I see his face clearly. Malfoy's lip is quivering, more pronounced now, and tears are streaming down his face. He's not looking at anyone but me, and my heart has sunk deep into my navel and I'm feeling sick. The room is spinning.
I hear his voice cry out, "Potter!" I'm a foot away from him, and I can vaguely sense someone trying to pull me back. My sheer force of will is holding me in place. I reach for him and in that instant he is forcefully apparated out of the courtroom.
The minute he disappears, I can't remember what happens next. The lights dim, my magic is swelling in rage and wordlessly I remember knocking back several people as I storm out of the room. There may have been a few windows that shattered as I walked past them, but I don't know. My thoughts were on him and him alone.
It's been 10 years since his trial, and 9 years since Draco Malfoy was pronounced dead. Apparently he died in Azkaban from not eating, or so the Prophet has led everyone to believe. When the article first came out, I truly was wrecked and even withdrew from Ginny for over a month trying to get over it all. She couldn't understand why I was so bothered by him dying when I lost so many others that were closer to me. But then again, she wouldn't understand. No one really had the connection to him like I did. He saved my life, and I his. That day in the courtroom I felt like I failed him. I was supposed to be the hero, the "Chosen One" as many liked to call me. And I couldn't even save him—not that time anyway.
I try not to dwell on him and most days I get on just fine. But certainly there are other days that are harder on me. It's not like I don't mourn the loss of others. My heart aches just like the rest over Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Fred, Dumbledore—the list goes on. But for some reason when I think of Malfoy my chest seizes up and I have a hard time trying to catch my breath for a moment or two.
Then there are the times where I think I see him in a crowd of people. Hermione says it's entirely normal to hallucinate when one has post traumatic stress. And perhaps that is what's going on. I honestly haven't taken the time to really think much on my mental condition. Instead of getting my mind checked out, I delved into my budding career. The moment I could, I started Auror training. I wanted to have an influence in Magical Law Enforcement so that the shit that happened to Malfoy couldn't happen to others.
It was a couple years ago before I could finally overturn the barbaric law on Death Eaters. I was able to provide evidence to the Wizengamot that some followers were forced to take the Mark, either through torture or Imperius and a lot of them could not be accounted for their actions. That still didn't mean we weren't putting Death Eaters in prison, it just allowed every witch or wizard to have a fair trial for their actions regardless of the Mark on their skin. I like to think Draco would have been proud of what I had accomplished, and how I was able to change people's biases. That day we overturned the Death Eater legislation, I swear I saw him as I was leaving the courtroom. His silver eyes shone, his lips turned to a knowing smirk—almost smile. I couldn't help it and smiled back at him, and when I blinked he was gone.
He visits me somewhat frequently after that. I see him in my unconscious and conscious mind about equally. In my dreams, we are reliving our childhood, playing Quidditch, yelling at each other from across the Great Hall. And then there's the one dream that's rather alarming, where we are throwing punches and tackling each other—and then, well, we are not. He'll raise his hand as if to punch me across the face, but instead he grabs my hair and pulls me in, roughly. His grey eyes lock onto mine and the look he gives me is fire. I know what he wants, and the scary part is I know what I want too. He will lean in, his lips barely touching mine, his lips tender and deliciously innocent yet sinful at the same time. And he'll tilt his sharp jaw, open his mouth wider to deepen our kiss—and I'll wake up. I'm always breathing heavy, tangled up in the sheets and painfully hard.
I take a cold shower after that dream. But after the 4th repeat I succumb and touch myself feverishly under the blankets. I come fast, hard, and I lay there in a dazed heap for a moment. If it takes me long to recover from my post-orgasmic bliss it's simply because I haven't had it in awhile. It is not because of the intense thoughts that led up to my climax, definitely not.
I decide to try dating again, simply for the fact that this can't be healthy.
Ginny and I fell out years prior, and her reason for breaking it off was that I seemed "distant" and couldn't provide the attention she desired. Honestly, with all the criminals I had to track down on a daily basis, this shouldn't have came as a surprise to her, but oh well. From there, I really didn't get too involved with anyone else. When I felt inclined, I would pick someone up—man or woman, it didn't really matter. But I certainly had a type, particularly if they had blonde hair or a snarky attitude. In retrospect, I probably should have realized it sooner.
"You're obsessed, mate," Ron shouts over the loud music, leaning in to me at the bar. We've just solved a case that had been an ongoing investigation for almost 6 months now, and we're out here celebrating. I roll my eyes at his words, because he's been saying this for over a decade now and things aren't going to change just like that.
I bring my gaze back to the man across the room that's caught my attention. Yes, he is remarkably familiar. His hair is light (probably bleached) and he's wearing Posh clothes—if only he could turn around so I could see his face.
Ron groans next to me and starts to get up. "Seriously, Harry, I didn't come here so you could pick up Draco Malfoy #34. I'm gonna go home if all you're going to do is this!" He chugs the last of his pint and slams it on the countertop. The noise jolts me out of my reverie.
"Wait, don't go," I say, bringing my gaze back to my friend. I grab his arm and pull him back down on his barstool. He sighs, crossing his arms in defiance and I add, "And I'm not obsessed! Look, let's have a good time, all right?"
"No, Harry. I just know you. I know you are dying to look back over there and see if that guy is still there. And I know the moment I leave you'll try to hook up with him. So let's skip all that and just do what you do." He's standing up again and grabbing his cloak that was draped across the back of the seat. He swings it around his shoulders and adds, "Just promise me something, ok? Tell me you've really considered Hermione's advice on seeing a Mind Healer."
"I'm not crazy, Ron."
"Right...of course not," he sighs, turning away from me and leaves shortly after.
My eyes find the man a minute later. He's heading for the bathroom down the hall, but not before he throws a wink my way. Not even a second goes by before I'm following after him, and the instant I open the bathroom door he's on me. His lips are harsh and chapped, but he tastes deliciously of fruity drinks and smells of expensive leather. "Mmm you are so fucking hot," he moans into my mouth. He's got an accent...he's American. Then upon closer inspection of his hair I can see darker roots—so bleached it is. Somehow, I can't help but feel the disappointment amidst all of it.
"Let's get in the stall," he suggests into my ear. Someone has just walked into the loo, and I let him pull me along. The American locks our door and is back on me, fumbling with my belt as he sucks furiously at my neck. Despite my earlier assessment, the man is still a fine kisser and perhaps we will go home together tonight after all.
He's quick with his hands and is starting to stroke me with one. I'm turning into a panting mess and it is at this moment he moves his other hand to my neck. He starts to apply pressure, to choke me. I go still, instantly on alert. I have only a few seconds to decide my next course of action.
The first thought that went through my mind was this man could very well be a muggle. Ron and I went to a muggle bar, so any sort of magic I could perform in this moment would be going against several different laws. The second thought I realized was that I had tucked my wand into my ankle holster and given my current position I couldn't really reach it without trying to struggle out of his grip. Then, the third thought I had was this guy could just be pretty kinky. It's not like I haven't heard about the pleasures of asphyxiation. This was just not something I particularly wanted to do with a stranger in a bathroom stall.
And as my mind was trying to figure what to do, his grip tightened both on my cock and neck. I grunted helplessly, the blood rushing to my head. Just when I couldn't take anymore, I heard a crash and the American had let go. My vision had gone dark, but the light was gradually coming back to me and I saw the man lying face down on the bathroom floor and he was knocked out. A taller man in a black long overcoat was over him, handcuffing his hands behind his back. He had long brown hair, tied into a ponytail, and his focus was entirely on the man on the floor.
He worked quickly and without a word, binding the man. Then with barely any effort at all he lifted the guy and pulled him roughly to his feet. The man turned away from me, as if making his way out. Before he could leave though I called after him, "Wait...um, sir."
The man turned, his cloak furling. His face held no expression as he looked at me, waiting for me to say the next word. I asked him the first thing that came to mind, "Where are you taking him?"
"None of your concern," grunted out the man, his head shaking slightly. That movement alone allowed a shimmer to catch my eye from under the lights in the bathroom. I'd seen that effect so many times, there could be no mistaking for what it was.
"You're...you're a wizard," I said quietly. His brown eyes widened at the accusation, but then he quickly schooled his features to remain neutral. Something just wasn't right here. "You're...wearing a glamour," I concluded.
"Nonsense," he waved me off. I could tell he was trying to make it to the door. I stepped in front of him, and he huffed in irritation.
"Who are you?" I demand, eying him critically. I cross my arms across my chest and try to take up as much space in the small bathroom as I can, effectively blocking his exit.
He's glaring at me now, his brown eyes darkening to practically black. I can feel his anger building, his magic almost suffocating. The light flickers above us, and on instinct I hold out my hand, preparing to use what limited wandless magic I can in this moment. There's no mistaking that I would have felt a little bit better if I had the time to bend down and retrieve my wand from my ankle.
"Move," he growls. His voice is so threatening that even the most entry level Auror would have cowered. But I'm a far cry from that. I'm Harry bloody Potter, for Merlin's sake. I've faced death more times than I'm even aware and a weird man in a black cloak isn't going to scare me away. Despite his efforts, I stand my ground, not moving an inch.
Scowling, his nostrils flare and he's breathing in slowly, raggedly. He closes his eyes for a minute, and I know I'm testing his patience. But somehow I feel it is important I know the man behind the disguise. After all he did save me from the choking American. And where's he taking that guy anyway? Is he going to kill him and dispose of the body? And why does it matter so much in the first place? Shouldn't I be helping him take the man into custody instead of hindering him? The guy did practically kill me.
And well, he would have also given me one of the best orgasms of my life too.
Which was cut short due to said scary man now glaring daggers my way. I return the glare with as much malice as I can and that seems to trigger him into further action.
He doesn't even lift his fingers-doesn't even mutter the spell. I feel the rage spilling out from him and the next second I'm pinned against the wall of the bathroom. Magical chains are conjured out of nowhere and hook around my wrists. I try to push away from the wall, only to find my feet stuck to the grimy tiles of the bathroom floor.
Jerking my head up, my mouth falls open in shock of its own accord. I have never felt magic of this magnitude with so little effort—I'm stunned speechless. He turns away from me, snorting over his shoulder and returns his attention to the unconscious man. He hauls the man over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and faces me again. "You'll be released after I make it to the apparation point around back."
The man is making his way to the door. I have to stop him, I have to know...everything. But my voice can only manage certain fragments, as I'm still very much in shock. "Who...what? Where...?"
Highly amused, he chuckles. And at this point he does stop at the door and gives me a once over. His brown eyes rake over my whole being and I feel jolted through all of my nerves. My heart rate accelerates as I feel his magic wash over me. He's checking me out—both with those intense eyes and a wordless spell I've felt one too many times by nurses at St. Mungo's. He's making sure I'm ok—for whatever reason, I'm not sure.
Those brown eyes make a trail from my eyes, neck, chest, and finally stop at my crotch with no shame. It's at this moment I'm very well aware that I haven't even zipped myself up. To make matters worse, the longer the man stares, the harder my cock begins to grow. I feel like all he'd have to do would be to look at me the right way, and I'd be a trembling mess within a second. That thought alone makes me throb painfully, and I bite back a moan from my lips.
The moment's interrupted as a knock is heard on the other side of the bathroom door. Apparently the man had wandlessly locked the room throughout all this too, and his eyes move off my body and towards the noise. He groans in irritation and then waves a finger my way—I feel my pants begin to zip up and carefully tuck myself away.
"Can't have that, now can we?" He asks, highly amused. "Don't want all of London seeing what Potter's packing."
I feel my cheeks flame and know the blush upon my face has reached the tips of my ears. He's looking at his handiwork at my trousers, checking to make sure I'm fully concealed and, well, it's torture. I don't know why this man is having such an effect on me, but perhaps it's due to the situation he found me in. Or maybe the intensely powerful magic he has me under. Or maybe it's a little bit of both. Either way, his eyes feel like they are killing me and I want him to stop staring at my erection or do something about it!
Smirking, he finally lifts his eyes to meet mine. His hand is on the door and I see the glimmer around his features fade for a moment. His brown eyes turn lighter—much lighter. I feel my heart stammer, because there's no mistaking this. I've seen those eyes more times than I'm even aware, and the color may be a dull grey. But Draco's eyes are anything but dull.
"Wait!" I call back, just as he wrenches open the door free. If he hears my call, he chooses to ignore it and instead dashes out of the room with the American in tow. True to his words, I'm free from his bonds moments later. But I'm not free from the thoughts he's now left me with.
And as I lay in bed that night, I know it had to have been him. My heart didn't want to consider any other reality in which Draco Malfoy truly was dead. He couldn't be dead. I would not accept that—even if I saw his body myself.