Last Dance
~•~
"Mr. Malfoy, you should go home, sir. Catch some sleep."
One, two, three – his heartbeat was thrumming in his veins like tiny, tinkling pieces of bronze. Harry, eyes glittering green, lips spit-slick red, was spinning round and round and round on the Minister's Ball, held tight in Draco's arms.
One, two, three – Harry was on the ground within seconds. Each hateful punch was meant for him, the Death Eater who'd dared touch Harry Potter's skin, his wild, untameable hair. His heart. Harry took them all, those unforgiving punches to face, gut and groin. And he took the spell that was meant to crack Draco's skull.
One, two, three – the nights at Harry's side were long. Draco sometimes reached for the sleeping man in the hospital bed. But he wouldn't touch him. Not when these bruised eyelids, this swollen face, the deep gash zig-zagging across Harry's head were his fault. For he should have known. Some nameless wizard could be gay, a Malfoy even could be fucking men. But not Harry Potter. They should have never danced like this. They should have never loved like this.
"Just another hour, Healer. I'll be gone before the family arrives."
~•~
Author's Notes: This drabble scenario is shamelessly stolen from the season 1 finale of Queer as Folk.