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The first time Draco wanted to tell Potter exactly how he felt, it was just before the Welcome Feast. After his extension of friendship was rejected. And then the words blurred into this blob of harsh words and sneers, of guilt and hatred.
The second time Draco wanted to tell Potter exactly how he felt, they had just arranged this silent agreement that Potter would join Draco for tea after the pretense of stalking him. He had so much more to be worried about, yet here he was. Bumping knees with Potter, watching his lips quirking at Draco insulting his atrocious hair, warming from Potter’s little gasp when Draco’s knees went forward a little and touched the inside of Potter’s thigh. The words vanished and morphed into much simpler sentences like ‘Fucking hell’ and ‘Right there, Potter’.
The third time Draco wanted to tell Potter exactly how he felt, his throat clogged up with a silent scream when he saw Potter’s familiar nest of a hair as he rolled out of Hagrid’s arms. Those green eyes bright, alert, alive. Harry was alive, Draco kept reminding himself as he threw curses and hexes.
When all was done, Draco hurriedly ran toward the lanky boy in the middle of the battlefield, toward the boy who rejected everything that he was yet gave him everything he ever needed and wanted, toward Harry--his Harry.
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
Harry waited, but Draco couldn’t help this innate gravity that made him catch Harry’s lips with his own, licking the sweat and grime from them. Tasting him. Loving him.
Yes, that was what he wanted to say!
“You said you wanted to tell me something?” Harry prompted, breathing raggedly when they pulled apart.
Draco rolled his eyes at him, “The words can wait, so shut the fuck up and kiss me, Harry.”
Harry’s eyes went wide at the use of his first name, and then something in them burned at understanding what Draco meant. What he really wanted to say.
“I love you too, you prick.”