Author's Note: Draco's POV.

Chapter 18

Dear Mother,
How are you? I'm back at Hogwarts and am doing well. I hope that you are all right. I miss you a lot.

Draco shook his head angrily and crumpled the parchment, throwing it on the ground with exasperation—there were already several little crumpled balls of parchment surrounding his desk. Of course, Draco had been trying for hours to write something worthy of note, but he really didn't know what to say... It felt silly writing to someone who would never receive the letter; silly, because spouting off about his mundane worries didn't make him feel any closer to his mother than he already did. In fact, it made him feel like a fool. Draco glared at his ink-ridden fingertips—normally, he would have made an effort to keep them pristine, but he was in no mood to be proper... The irony was, Mother would have frowned upon his untidiness. The door to the dorm flew open then and Draco immediately clenched his fists lest it be Blaise, who would never let him live it down if he saw his inky fingers... But it was just Potter, clomping around the room with his snow-covered Quidditch boots, appearing to be searching for something. Draco sighed irritably.

"Potter, you're getting the floor all wet," Draco complained, glowering at the other boy's feet. "I'm wearing socks."

Potter grinned sheepishly before toeing off the boots. "Sorry," he apologised. "I was going to go out for a quick practise, but I can't find my gear..." He peered over at Draco's desk and made a noise of understanding. "Still trying to write to your mother?"

Draco made a face at all of the crumpled balls littering the area around him. "Yes," he grumbled. "Honestly, this is incorrigible. Everything I write sounds like absolute rubbish." He glared at Potter like it was his fault.

Potter just chuckled and leaned over his shoulder. "Let me see," he remarked. Draco pointed towards the floor and Potter picked up one of his attempts and unfolded it. After he was finished reading, Potter dropped it and sighed. "Honestly, Malfoy, it doesn't matter whether or not it's well written or witty. It's only important that it comes from here—" he put a finger on Draco's forehead. "And here—" he placed it on Draco's chest now. "It really doesn't have to be deep or significant. It could be about anything. Talk about your day, your thoughts, your fears... as long as it's from you. That I'm sure your mother would have loved to read."

Draco sighed and glanced down at his parchment again. "Fine, I'll try one more time," he muttered. "I think that Weasley has your gear, by the way. I saw him take it from your trunk last week-end."

Potter shook his head and started towards the door. "I'll go wrestle it from him," he said. "And then perhaps I'll go put on a show for the Slytherins downstairs. You know, Nott told me that I had a nice arse on my way here, and the rest of them agreed. I think that they're starting to take to me."

"Oh, fantastic," Draco remarked pleasantly. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind as I fucking castrate each and every one of them."

Potter winked at him, laughing as he left the room, and Draco grinned despite himself. He was actually quite relieved that more and more of the Slytherins were warming up to Potter; in fact, many of them had become good friends with the boy. But Draco was sure none of them would have any qualms about beating up the poor sap if Potter fucked up somehow and started amping up the Potter-ness. It was common knowledge that Slytherins were not genuine and sweet like Potter—well, at least, most weren't. Draco grabbed his quill and a new parchment. He had to stop thinking and just write.

Dear Mother,

Two days ago I got the highest score in the class on my Arithmancy exam—higher than Hermione Granger's, who, by the way, is still a wreck about it. I wrote the event down in the book you gave me three Christmases ago, because I thought it was rather funny, and it really was. You should have seen her face. I also managed not to hex anyone in the past week... A record for me, as you know. Except, well, yesterday I told Potter that I would hex him if he mentioned me not hexing anyone—so naturally he did and I had to hex him for it. But honestly, I had warned him, so I don't really count it as much of anything. He's got a burn mark on his bum though. Also funny, I should write it in the book.

Anyway. I know that if you were to actually read this, you wouldn't care much about any of that. I wouldn't even be writing if Potter hadn't made me do it. Mental, I know—it doesn't make sense, why should I listen to a prat that I've gone on and on about hating for the past eight years of my life? For some reason, it isn't that simple. In fact, it isn't simple at all. I fell for him. I mean, wow, Mother, if you could just see the way that he looks at me... It sounds insane, but I really haven't been this happy in so long. I think you would like him. I suppose you would have to, though, because he's your new son-in-law! I joke, I joke... but I am of age now, Mother—gods, it's been a while since I've seen you. Anyway, the 'marriage' is simply a school project Uncle Sev assigned us this year. He's the teacher for Marriage Sex and Family, can you believe it? You would laugh if you could see his face most days.

So. I miss you. I miss you so much and I know that this is probably a good idea, no; it's a fantastic idea, really... But I'm starting to hate it because it's making me more upset, it's making me think about these things that I've tried to repress within myself over this past year. The war is over. I've fought for what I believed in, I was invaluable help for the Light side, and he's gone now. You-Know-Who is gone. And I hope to Merlin, if you're still out there, that you're proud of me for it. It's all I've ever wanted... I've regretted not telling you how much you mean to me more when I had the chance—you know that I'm not very good with expressing emotions. I'm working on it, I swear.

Anyway, I've got to go. Potter will be back any minute; he's taking me to Hogsmeade this afternoon. Honestly, I've only just settled back into the Slytherin dorm and he wants to go out again... That reminds me, I've been living in the Gryffindor dorm every other week because of this Marriage project! It's not quite as awful as it would seem—although yes, there are moments where I just absolutely feel the need to rip out my own hair. Anyway, the reason why we have to switch dorms all the time is because Potter and I have a little baby girl—I mean, she's a doll, but she means a lot to us. Her name is Rebecca. I know you would love her.

Potter is probably storming his way up here as I write, so I really must go now. Honestly, Potter is always moving about and giving me a headache—especially when he's been out playing in the snow with his Gryffindors. Unfortunately for me, it happens rather often. Potter is really annoying. But... I suppose that I wouldn't change him even if I had the chance to. I love him just the way he is.

Draco stopped writing and his quill froze in his hand—he blinked rapidly and stared at the words he'd just written. Where had that come from? He quickly scratched out the last line.

I'll write later, I promise.

Love,

Draco

He folded the parchment carefully now and beckoned for his most trusted owl. "Take this to Mother's room," he murmured quietly, tying the letter to the owl's leg. "Make sure it doesn't go anywhere else." The owl let Draco finish and flew out the door—it had to fly through the castle to reach a window, since there were none in the Slytherin dungeons, but Draco had trained it specially himself to do so. He was confident in the owl's abilities.

Draco sat back now, thinking of what he'd accidentally written about Potter—of course, he'd been so caught up writing whatever came to his mind, pouring out his feelings without restraint, that he hadn't even realised he'd written a majority of the letter about Potter. But... did that really mean that Draco loved him? They'd only been together for a few weeks, Draco still didn't like public affection, and they hadn't gone, well, all the way yet. But as he thought of it, his heart swelled; Draco pictured Potter's face morph into a grin whilst Draco teased him, when it was all scrunched up trying to concentrate in class, when it was stuffed with food at mealtimes, that faint flush that appeared on it after he'd been outside in the cold too long, the peaceful expression when he slept... Potter's face was always a beacon of emotion. And well, even if Draco didn't explicitly love Potter just yet... he did love a lot of things about him. Without thinking, Draco pulled out another blank parchment and began writing again.

Potter,

I don't know why I am writing to you, but for some reason, I can't stop thinking and I need to let it out—stop grinning, I know you are. I'm not a mushy sap; I'm just sick of how everything constantly seems to revolve around you. I mean, you're not *that* special. Honestly.

So. You're not gone or anything, but sometimes I think that I should talk to you more about, well, most things. Things that make me uncomfortable. Yeah, I know you don't get uncomfortable easily and that I'm probably a big fat git for being so stupid, but I can't help it around you. I really just want you to know how I feel. Gods. I never used to be quite so sentimental before I started hanging around with you... I think you've changed me. Nice going, Potter—look what you've done. If it turns out to be permanent, I'll have to hex you again. With the ropes. And the blindfold.

Anyway, I want you to know but I also don't want you to know, because, well, I don't know. If you were to leave me knowing how I felt, I'd probably fly into a fit of self-deprecating rage and terror. But I suppose that you have the right to know... Prat. I'll be brief. I think that you're beautiful—inside and out, in every damn way. I think that you're smart, even though you don't realise it, and I reckon you could be smarter than all of us if you really tried. I think that you're the bravest person I have ever met; I think that you're the strongest person I will ever know. I think that you are a miracle come true. It's so surreal and I don't understand it, I don't think anyone does—you, least of all. I know that you believe that you're some kind of fuck-up, that you doubt whether or not you are a hero, but damn it, Potter, you are so thick! I mean, I have spent almost eight years begging for your attention and you didn't even realise it.

This has been far from brief, but now I can't stop. Let me tell you how incredible you are because you don't seem to know. Let me show you the way your eyes sparkle and your laugh jingles and how your smile could light up a nation. Let me remind you of how perfect you are to Rebecca. Because gods, one day, Potter... I hope that you have a baby girl. I hope that you will love her with all that you have. I mean it. She will be the luckiest daughter in the world.

Yeah. Well, there is not a chance in hell that I am giving this letter to you now, so I might as well confess a few other things—and yes, there are more. It's pathetic, I know. Anyway, remember when we first started sharing a bed? I don't know if you'd ever noticed, but sometimes I'd wake up in the middle of the night and hold your hand. I definitely wanted you to kiss me at our fake marriage ceremony. I'm actually rather fond of your messy bird's nest hair. I love it when you kiss me on the nose and I pretend to loathe it because I know that you'll just do it more. You shatter my heart into a million pieces.

I'll stop now, mainly because I know that you're probably going to arrive any second to force me to participate in some dull tripe down in Hogsmeade. Woe is me. I hope that you're happy that you're turning me into a bloody Gryffindor sap. Knowing you, you probably are.

Love,

DM

Draco folded the letter into a tiny square and placed it into his personal chest just as Potter barged into the room. Well, at least the prat's timing was impeccable—Draco glared at the other boy and the unnecessary noise that he was creating. Obviously, Potter had never heard of a thing called 'quietly'.

"Are you ready yet?" Potter asked, grabbing at Draco's arm and attempting to pull him out of his seat. Draco simply shoved him off.

"No, but you're the one who wanted me to write to my mother," Draco pointed out. He stood up on his own and strolled over to his dresser to find something more suitable to wear. It was fucking freezing outside, and Draco didn't want a repeat of Potter and the Boorish Quidditch Brigade. He picked out a jumper and inspected it carefully.

Potter sighed loudly. "Everyone's already gone down," he complained. "You're taking forever."

Draco shot him The Glare. "Maybe you should have stayed before, then."

"Maybe you should have gotten dressed before."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Maybe you should shut the fuck up," he muttered.

Potter pretended not to hear him. Instead, he loped over and helped Draco pull his jumper over his head before leaning in and giving Draco a quick kiss on the nose. Spiteful git. Draco chewed on his lip and pretended to scowl. What Potter didn't know couldn't make him happier.

"Now are you ready?" Potter asked impatiently.

Draco sighed. "Lead the way, arseface."

The pair walked out of the castle and towards Hogsmeade together—close enough to keep warm and each other's presence, but not close enough that they seemed like a couple. Of course, outside of Hogwarts, nobody knew that Draco and Potter were together... Obviously, there would be much more negative reaction out in the real world than there had been at school; Draco knew that most people wouldn't have even approved of a friendship between them. They were being brave simply by walking to town together.

"Nervous, Malfoy?" Potter asked, bumping into him with slight playfulness as he walked. His fingers brushed Draco's several times.

Draco shook his head. "No, not at all," he answered casually, trying to keep his cool even when his fingers made contact with Potter's for the third time. Damn it, Potter! Did he want Draco to tackle him right then and there?

"Good." Potter smiled. "Do you want to go anywhere before the Three Broomsticks, by the way? I promised Ron and Hermione that we'd meet them there, but we can postpone it if you really want to. I know extended amounts of time with my friends give you headaches."

Draco snorted. "Seriously?" he asked. "Why don't they just go snog at Madam Puddifoots and get it over with? I mean, really, it's bordering on pathetic."

Potter laughed and jostled Draco's shoulder. "So you don't mind if we head on over there now, then?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Whatever," he muttered. "I still think that Weasley and Granger are out of their minds."

Potter shook his head and led the way to the Three Broomsticks. Once they were inside, Draco became rather aware of the crowds and crowds of people around them. Well. It didn't seem like Draco was going to get any impromptu snogging for the time being—how disappointing. Some people were already staring at Draco and Potter as if they had each lost their minds by simply standing next to each other. Draco wanted to scowl at them. Honestly!

"Guys!" Weasley shouted, waving them over from a slightly secluded table in the back. "We're over here!"

Potter ran over and gave his two friends hello hugs while Draco stood and nodded at them. "Well, sit down, we've ordered a couple of Butterbeers already," Weasley said now, looking positively ecstatic as Granger threaded her arm through his when they were seated again. However, once Potter sat down too, Granger did the same with him. Draco wanted to roll his eyes. Gryffindors were so dense.

"Here are your four butterbeers," the waitress chirped, setting down their drinks cheerfully. Draco noticed that she was rather slim, blond, and busty for an ordinary pub employee. Perhaps she was temporary... "Anything else I can get for you? Food? Another round?" She seemed only interested in Potter's answer, though, as she was completely ignoring the rest of them.

Potter shook his head and smiled politely. "We've got everything we need," he said. "Thank you."

The waitress turned pink and giggled. "No thank you, Mr. Potter," she exclaimed. "For you, it's all on the house." Draco narrowed his eyes. Surely, Potter wouldn't let some dirty barmaid flirt with him like that. Would he?

Potter only grinned. "That's really nice of you."

The waitress giggled again and leaned in. "Are you sure that there isn't anything else I can get for you, Harry?" she purred.

Before Potter could answer, Draco put a hand in front of the waitress's face and forced her to take a step back. "He's already said that he's got everything he needs right here," Draco sneered, narrowing his eyes. "Yourself not included." At that, the waitress gave Draco a dirty look and left.

Potter burst out laughing. "What was that, Malfoy?"

Draco puffed up indignantly. "She was flirting with you!"

"You said that you weren't jealous anymore," Potter pointed out.

"Yeah," Draco said, gesturing at Granger. "Of her!"

Granger chuckled nervously. "Let's not get into that right now," she suggested. "No more fighting today."

"I'll drink to that!" Weasley exclaimed, lifting his Butterbeer and taking a generous gulp of it.

"Fine, we won't fight," Potter said, giving Draco a look across the table that said they would have to double the amount of bickering when they got back to the castle. Draco's defiance melted away and he couldn't help but give the other boy a tiny smile; Potter's hand was just barely touching Draco's on the tabletop. It was impossible to stay angry at him for long.

"Well, if it isn't Poncy Potter and his little girlfriend," a sneering voice announced loudly. "I bet that poor waitress had no idea Potter was actually a bonafide cocksucker."

Draco whipped around—Zacharias Smith was standing in front of their table with a couple of Fifth year brats and a smirk on his face. Draco narrowed his eyes and gave him a cool once-over. Really, it was almost ridiculous how Smith was trying to intimidate Draco and Potter; the two most influential figures at Hogwarts. Of course, the Hufflepuff had always been a bit of a tryhard in Draco's eyes—the only followers he could get were either daft or insane. Or both.

"Shove off, Smith," Weasley growled, already glaring daggers at the other blond boy. Draco silently praised him. It was common knowledge that Weasley disliked Smith anyway, but it was surprisingly pleasant to have the fiery redhead on his defence rather than the other way around. If Weasley was anything, he was absolutely frightening when angry.

Smith, however, was obviously quite used to Weasley's antagonism. "I simply came by to give my congratulations to the happy couple," Smith insisted. "Shame that Snape didn't have you bring your little pride and joy today... I think it would've been quite a laugh to watch you two lug that baby doll around everywhere."

Potter didn't look pleased, but he clearly wasn't going to take Smith's bait either. He sighed. "Can't you find someone else to torment today, Zacharias?" he asked dully. "We're a bit busy at the moment."

Smith smiled unkindly, and Draco wondered why on earth the boy had been sorted into Hufflepuff—he wasn't loyal, he wasn't pleasant... hell, he wasn't even timid enough to be one. Before now, the boy had been virtually nothing on Draco's radar. Smith blatantly ignored Potter's warning and turned to face Draco instead. "So, the imperturbable Draco Malfoy has finally found himself a boyfriend," he leered. "How sweet."

Draco inspected his nails. "Yeah, thanks," he drawled. He gestured at the shaky-looking bloke standing behind Smith. "How's yours, by the way?"

"I'm not a queer like you," Smith snapped, narrowing his eyes. "I've got some dignity."

"Oh, sure, it's real dignified how you've got an army of mice to back you up," Draco remarked sarcastically.

Smith snorted. "At least I'm not a family disgrace," he spat. "How do you think Daddy would react to the news? He'd be positively livid that his precious son is in love with the Boy-Who-Lived, eh? He's a damned hypocrite, though—I'm certain Lucius himself was quite the good little girlfriend to You-Know-Who."

Draco shrugged. He didn't care what Smith said; the stupid dolt wasn't going to get to him. "I don't give a flying fuck what you think," he said. "Nor do I my father."

"What about your mum, then?" Smith challenged. "She'd be so ashamed—a Malfoy, shacking up with another man! I reckon that's why she left. Probably revolted by the fact that her only son is damaged and bent."

Before he could stop it, Draco felt his face heat up with anger. He almost growled. "Don't you talk about my mum, Smith," he hissed.

"What are you going to do, Malfoy?" Smith asked. "Kiss me?"

Potter's hand appeared over Draco's. The Gryffindor was glaring at Smith so intensely he could have burned a hole through him. "Fuck off before I make you," Potter murmured, his voice controlled but dangerous.

Smith didn't listen to him. He towered menacingly over Draco. "What, can't even fight your own battles, Malfoy?" he taunted. "Of course, now that you have your own personal Potter, you don't have to."

Draco was aware that his voice had become pitchy and unreliable, but he couldn't back down now. Not when Smith was prodding at his every insecurity. "You're a piece of shit," he snarled.

"And you're useless Death Eater scum," Smith countered nastily. "I can't even comprehend how anybody could love you."

Draco felt a pang in his heart; his jaw clenched so tightly he could almost taste the tears that were fighting to fall. No—that was the final component... Smith had played at Draco's worst insecurity of all: his loneliness. "I'm warning you," he hissed, his voice finally betraying him and cracking a bit.

Smith sensed the weakness and went at it head on. "Poor, sad, Malfoy," he jeered. "Your father didn't love you; he used you as a tool to raise himself in the ranks of Death Eaters. Your mother didn't love you; she disappeared and left you to fend for yourself. And Potter doesn't love you, he only pities you—"

Potter rose from the table and shoved Smith to the floor. "I thought I told you to fuck off," he shouted.

The noise level in the pub dropped immediately. It was silent as Smith picked himself up off the floor and glared at Potter. "Stay out of this, Potter," he spat, his face splotched with slight mortification. "I'm just telling him the inevitable truth." Draco didn't move; his traitorous eyes were beginning to sting mercilessly. Fuck! Potter looked even more enraged.

"You fucking bastard, you make me sick," Potter screamed, pushing at Smith again until he stumbled backwards. "If I ever see you messing with him again, I will kill you—no, actually, if I even see you standing near him, breathing near him, I will fucking fuck you up so hard you'll wish you were dead!" Smith was cowering now, his eyes wide, and all of his 'followers' had fled the moment Potter had started yelling. Potter was positively red in the face with fury as he continued. "And for your information, you shit, Malfoy has friends who actually care about him, unlike you, who needs cronies so desperately that he picks them from the lowest, scummiest shithole in the school! Now get the fuck out of my sight before I decide to murder your sorry arse right here in front of all of these nice people!" Smith scrambled for the door now, tripping and falling over his own robes and pushing people out of his way to get out—nobody wanted to face the wrath of the man who had slaughtered the Darkest Wizard of All Time, and not even Smith was that brainless. "And hey, tosspot, I do fucking love him!" Potter shouted after Smith.

The room was eerily quiet again, save for a few frantic whispers in the crowd as Potter sat down. Draco was now aware of the tears spilling down his cheeks and he wiped them away angrily, furious with the situation—he hated that he had been humiliated in front of so many people, he hated that Smith had gotten to him so easily, and he hated that Weasley and Granger had seen him cry. But most of all, Draco hated that Potter had had to come to his rescue, yet again. Fuck it. Draco was so weak. Smith had been right.

Potter looked at Draco now. "Fuck, I'm sorry," he muttered under his breath. "I didn't mean to be so loud, he was just being such a prick to you—"

Draco turned away from him. "I was fine, Potter," he grumbled. "You didn't have to defend me."

Potter frowned. "He was out of line. I had to say something—"

"Leave it alone."

"No, he was wrong—"

"I said leave it alone, Potter."

"But I—"

"Damn it, Potter, I'm sick of this!" Draco exploded, pushing away from him. "Stop being so fucking heroic all of the time and leave it. I don't need anybody else feeling fucking sorry for me because some little fuckwad came in here and spouted off some stupid shit that nobody even cares about anyway!"

Potter tried to come closer again. "Malfoy, I just spilled my guts for you—"

"For me?" Draco's voice cracked as he shoved Potter again. "Or for you?"

"Were you even listening to what I said?" Potter asked, getting angry now as well.

Draco stood up. "I'm sorry," he snarled. "Not everything is about you, Potter!"

"Are you serious?"

"I don't need you, or anyone else to fight my battles for me," Draco yelled. "And I sure as hell don't need anyone to reassure me that I'm loved or cared about, because fucking damn it, I know what I am and I know what I've done and nobody has the right to fucking tell me otherwise!" Everybody was gaping at him now, including Potter. Draco shook his head and wiped his eyes again—he had to get away—from Potter, from everybody, before he truly snapped right there and then.

"Malfoy, I didn't mean to tell you how to do anything," Potter murmured.

Draco gritted his teeth. "Don't act like you know me so well, Potter. You don't."

"I know you better than most people do."

"Yeah, not anymore," said Draco sarcastically. "The whole fucking pub knows now, thanks to you."

Potter pursed his lips. "There is nothing wrong with wanting to feel loved by the people you love most," he insisted.

Draco felt anger bubble up again; he couldn't control it—Potter was in the line of fire and Draco needed to lash out. "I guess you would know that best of all, wouldn't you, Potter?" Draco spat. "Your parents—your loved ones—they're all dead! How are they supposed to love you now?"

The words resonated throughout the room with a sickening echo and Potter recoiled in an instant, staring at Draco in shock... His green eyes flashed disbelievingly, and right then, it seemed that Potter's entire being had deflated somehow. And then all of the sudden, Draco was brought back to earth again; he remembered just how miserable Potter had been that night they had discussed his parents. How broken he had been... And now Draco was pouring salt all over the wound after he said that he would never do it again. On purpose.

"Malfoy..." Granger whispered, horrified. Draco looked at her across the table and she was gawking at him; Weasley was also staring with the same expression. The entire aura of everyone and everything in the pub felt the same way to Draco—staggered and disappointed.

Draco looked back at Potter slowly. "That... That came out wrong," he murmured. "You know I'd never—"

Potter didn't wait for Draco to finish. Instead, he got up without a word and stalked straight out of the pub.

"Potter, please!" Draco shouted now, dashing after him outside—the chilly air stung his face, but he hardly recognised it. However, he was vaguely aware of the people slowing down to watch the unlikely pair, and he cursed the day he had ever thought he and Potter could remain subtle wherever they went. It was impossible. Potter didn't linger and Draco had to jog to keep up. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, just let me explain—"

Potter stopped abruptly and whirled around to face Draco. He didn't look shocked anymore, however, he did look rather angry and hurt. "How...dare... you?" he hissed, his voice low and scratchy. Draco stopped in his tracks and watched Potter's face contort as he spoke. "How fucking dare you ask me to let you explain after you didn't even listen to a word I said while I was defending you, after you defiled my trust by dragging my parents through the mud for the thousandth fucking time!"

Draco tried not to sound defiant. "I wouldn't have done it if you hadn't yelled at Smith for me," he muttered. "I just got so mad—I didn't want your help!"

"No! You never do!" Potter shouted. "You want someone to push you around and then take care of you when you get hurt, but you don't want to ask for it. You want someone to pick up your pieces and then forget about it all the next day." He shook his head with disgust. "You want a lackey, Malfoy. Not a boyfriend. Not even a friend."

Draco suddenly realised that there was more to it than what Potter was saying; he could hear it in his tone. He searched Potter's anguished face for a moment, trying to find the answer: but how could he? Potter was right, Draco didn't listen. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I... I didn't mean it."

"Of course you didn't." Potter snorted bitterly. "And you didn't mean it the first time you met me, or all of those years in school, or this year, or next year, or ever. You never do. I'm sick of it, to be honest."

Draco almost shrunk back at his ruthless tone. "Just tell me what I'm missing here—"

"I already told you!" Potter cried, his voice breaking a little before he shook his head and sighed deeply. "But hey, since you insist... you're missing all of the promises you didn't keep, words you didn't hear, someone who isn't you. Because Merlin forbid you listen to someone else for a change." He turned and started back towards the castle again.

Draco felt tears threatening to fall again. "Harry, it's not—"

"We're done, Malfoy."

Draco stopped and watched him go, suddenly aware that he had just called Potter "Harry"... And that Harry had confessed to everybody in that pub that he was in love with Draco.