Work Text:
You were about six when you first met the small boy with the cold grey eyes that weren’t really cold.
Draco had gone on a discovery stroll, exploring the depths of the small forest that was near his huge pompous Manor. He had followed the path until he ended up on the other side, finding a small looking house dipped in warm shades of copper.
It was so different from what he was used to, so small, so full of plants and flowers and wild growing grass. There were no perfectly trimmed bushes, no symmetric trees and no selected flowers. Instead, all he could see was long, high grass and huge bushes along with flowers in all colours and shapes, wildflowers and herbs and weed. He sneered; the mixed smell of this huge explosion of plants was simply overwhelming and uncomfortable. He didn’t like it at all.
Then he saw you, in midst of the sea of weed, dirt on your face and clothes, laughing and giggling. You were trying to root an especially nasty piece of weed and ended up toppling over; you were simply too small for these strong ones and finally it was your grandma who had gotten rid of the undesired plant.
Draco pulled a face as he didn’t like to be dirty. At his home, things always had to be clean and in order and he liked it that way. Yet, somehow there was something about your face that caused his veins to bubble with burning envy.
“Granny, there’s a boy looking at us!” your eyes met his in a direct gaze before you lifted your small fingers to point at the odd looking boy who was standing at the other side of your fence.
“_______, please, haven’t I taught you not to point at other people?” Draco stood there, paralyzed, still not able to avert his eyes even though he had been caught at spying on people.
“I am sorry Granny,” immediately your dirty finger was put down.
“Won’t you invite the young gentleman into our garden to make up for being rude?” you could see a smile on your grandma’s wrinkled face.
“Uh huh,” you hummed in agreement and stalked over to the small gate, trying not to stumble in these yellow boots that were slightly too big for you.
“Hi, do you want to join us?” you gave him a smile and Draco noticed that there was a teeth missing in your upper front row.
“I am not allowed to enter strange people’s estate,” he slowly answered, slightly irritated by the missing of your teeth.
“I am ________,” you held your hand out to greet him. His grey eyes stared down onto your dirty hands before he reluctantly took it.
“Draco Malfoy.”
“Now we’re not strangers anymore. Let’s go and play then!” you replied, eagerly, happy to have found someone your age to play with.
He had come to meet you the day after, dressed in another clean set of good looking clothes and perfectly brushed hair. You had looked at him, stunned by his cleanness before shaking it off with a small shrug.
You didn’t care that he had newer clothes than you, prettier hair and perfectly manicured nails with no soil under them; unlike yours. You didn’t care that he smelled like freshly washed blanket covers and a bit of disinfection. All you wanted was a friend to explore the small forest, someone to laugh and share your food with.
“Wanna help?” you had asked Draco when he once again came over while you were weeding the garden with Granny.
“I am not sure how it works,” he quietly answered.
“It’s easy. You grip the stem and PULL” demonstrating your instructions, you had tried to pull the weed but it just ripped and you once again landed on your butt. Draco snorted from his seat in the shadow protecting him from the sun.
“Might want to use the shovel,” he remarked as he left his chair, snatching the small shovel on the way over to the flower bed.
“I’ll show you how it’s done correctly,” he confidently exclaimed, even though he had never done it before. He couldn’t possibly continue watching your clumsy self trying to do this task.
That evening, his mother had gasped in horror when he came home, muddy looking and covered in dirt.
“What on earth were you doing all day, Draco?”
“Nothing,” he simply replied, choosing not to tell his mother that he was doing such an outrageous and common thing as weeding, “I fell.”
And she just gave him a skeptical look with raised eyebrows and thin lips, but in the end, she let his small lie slip, not asking for further details.
“Where are we going?”
“To my favorite hideout,” you pulled him close behind your back; careful minding that nobody was following you.
You led him through the forest, passing the similar looking trees, stepping over big roots and bigger holes until you finally came to see a huge willow, somewhere – possibly the center - deep into the forest.
“This is the Talking Willow,” you introduced with a small gesture.
“What a stupid name for a tree,” Draco mumbled under his breath. He was tired from all the walking and he just wanted to sit down.
“Sometimes, when everything is quiet, it talks to me; telling me tales of spirits,” you continued, ignoring his unimpressed comment, “let’s climb.”
“Why are you showing me this?” Not minding the rubbish you sometimes spoke, Draco posed his question.
“So we can have a meeting place next year,” you told him. He didn’t answer, his quizzical look was question enough.
“I am going back to my father tomorrow. He’ll drop me here for summer but when August is over, I have to go back because I have this thing called school,” you rolled your eyes, clearly not happy about it. Playschool was much more fun anyway.
“I see,” Draco couldn’t hide his disappointment.
“But I’ll definitely come back next summer! I promise,” you held up your pinky and he furrowed his brows in confusion.
“It’s a pinky promise,” you urged. The blonde laced his cold finger with yours.
“Until next summer,” you solemnly declared.
“Until next summer,” he confirmed.
Draco remembered being asked by his classmates about how he spent his summer holidays. It was astonishing, how easily the words slipped over his lips, how weird the weight of this one word felt on his tongue.
“I was spending them with a friend.”
His very first friend.
And it was finally summer again and Draco couldn’t suppress his anticipation as the days got longer and the flowers started to bloom. July was approaching and he couldn’t wait to see you again. It was surprising how he quickly had gotten tired of all these stiff, formal things that had used to be his daily life.
You were already there, sitting on top of a branch when he breathlessly entered the meadow, his eyes glistening in hope that you had not forgotten your promise. And his lips broke into a big smile when you gleefully waved from your throne.
It was as if you had never been apart, catching up with each other’s lives, complaining about teachers and despicable persons and doing all the things that you had done last year.
“You have to use the flowers with the long stems,” you reached over to pluck one of the countless daisies before handing them over to him.
“Okay. Like this?” his fingers copied the motions that you had done.
“Yup but pull them tighter when you’ve tied them,” you instructed, supervising his movements like your math teacher always did during tests.
He fumbled with the thin stem, careful not to break or rip it.
“You did it, Draco!” He gave you a proud smile at your praise and placed it on top of your untamable hair.
“It’s yours, why are you putting it on my head?”
“What am I supposed to do with this? This kind of thing is for girls,” he uttered, his tone slightly rude. But you leaned over to kiss his cheek.
“Thank you!”
And Draco astounded by the sudden burst of affection tried to hide the rose color on his cheeks.
“I look like a girl,” he whined when he stepped out of the small comfy house of your granny wearing one of your biggest blue colored overalls. You had turned eight this summer and Draco had come by to play once again.
“It’s ridiculous.”
“That’s because you’re wearing my clothes,” you spoke without any empathy. In fact, he looked so pretty in your clothes. You were jealous.
“Granny said you should wear this so your clothes won’t get stained when we’re squashing the fruit,” you told him. “It’ll be fun.”
“Sure,” he mumbled but wasn’t too enthusiastic. Again, he wasn’t used to do so much physical work. At home it was always the house elves which did the cooking. It was rare, almost down to never to see his mom cooking in the kitchen.
Here, it was always _________’s grandmother who cooked dinner and breakfast and lunch. She baked the delicious cakes and cookies that you had always brought to your shared secret hideout, eating them together with feet dangling off the branch while the leaves of the Talking Willow were whispering their song to the wind.
And now he was about to see how jam was made and he wondered whether it could be as tasty as the expensive jam that his father always imported from a far away country.
His mother had unsurely smiled when he brought a jar of his very first homemade jam to the big Malfoy Manor, proud but exhausted with sore arms.
“I don’t want you to meet up with that Muggle anymore,” she worried, not wanting her son to have to do physical work. Because of course, a mother would never let fresh scratches and blisters go unnoticed.
“But mother. She’s my friend,” Draco had persisted.
And she allowed him to go and visit you for the whole summer, not happy how her once so spoiled and meticulous son had turned into such a lout.
In a blink of an eye the days had become shorter and the air cooler. Leaves were turning golden, red and brown. Shades of copper and bronze accompanied with the smell of rusty ancient trees, covering the paths and turning them into crunchy trails, crackling under each of your steps.
At the end of the eighth summer of your life, the two of you lay next to each other in the swaying grass, looking up to the sky, talking about the shapes that the fluffy clouds took.
Draco had apparently never done that before and you had tilted your head in surprise before you just laid down to play the silly game with him.
“This one looks like a sheep.”
“It’s hideous.”
“It’s cute.”
“If you insist.”
You turned to look at his pretty face.
“What do you see, Draco?”
“A unicorn over there,” he rested his head on one of his arms and pointed in the air. Following his small, pale finger, you gazed over to the white cloud. White and fluffy like cotton candy.
“I wish unicorns were real,” you pouted, thoughts drifting off to somewhere far away.
“I’ve already seen one. They are beautiful,” he muttered.
Draco Malfoy was a weird young boy.
But you loved him, loved him like a brother.
You made another promise, yet again under the protective shadows of the Talking Willow; with only the swaying leaves as a witness.
Magic, something that had always existed in his life, had become something unbearable as he found himself being painfully reminded that you were a Muggle; that there were wicked things that he couldn’t show to you, moments he couldn’t share with you.
He had mastered the spells Lumos and Alohomora in this summer, at the age of nine. Draco had seen his father’s usually distant expression falter into a small smile, his chest swelling with pride as he had never witnessed it.
So the blonde made a promise; to always make his father proud, to be a picture perfect son. He was going to become an outstanding wizard, skilled and strong as his father was.
And he wanted to tell you, tell you how proud his usually strict father was and share the bliss with you just like you used to share your food with him.
Somehow he had completely forgotten, overlooked, ignored the fact that he wasn’t as normal as you were, caught up in the heat of a new, exciting experience, of being able to have such a kind of friendship filled with so much laughter and fun caused by ordinary things which weren’t ordinary at all.
He had gotten his new wand the other day and he knew that his mother was preparing everything for his leave to the secondary school which wasn’t due until the summer where he turned eleven.
“Happy belated birthday,” you had yelled after giving him a bone crushing hug. The blonde clumsily wrapped his left arm around your smaller body before sheepishly backing away.
It was almost the end of August and you hadn’t been able to see each other at all due to extra studies. While you had to stay for additional lessons in your hometown, Draco had been locked away with browned dusty books and private lessons with the best teachers to prepare him for Hogwarts.
So when Narcissa finally, finally let him have a free day, he decided to meet up with you.
“What’s this?”
“A present.”
“For me?”
“Yeah. Open it!” you demanded, bouncing up and down, visibly excited to see his reaction.
His fingers fumbled with the creased paper wrapping before it finally revealed a simple, dark leather bracelet with had a small but decent daisy dangling at the side.
“I’ve made it myself. Dad showed me how to make tin charms and I bought the leather with my pocket money,” you explained with a bright smile on your face. Grey eyes looked at you, glittering like silver coins in the late sun.
“Thank you,” your friend simply said.
You didn’t know how happy it made him. Him who had always gotten the most expensive gifts, things every child in his age would envy him for.
It was probably the first present that had made him so joyful from the depths of his soul.
It was still the same summer, the same spot, where he told you that he was going to study at a school far, far away. He saw the disappointment, the sadness in your eyes when he destroyed your hopes of attending the next school together. Unable to bear with your puppy eyes that filled with tears, he decided to tell, to show you his secret, hastily and naively, unaware of any consequences. He had been brooding over this all August while his eyes travelled to the windows, catching a glimpse of the swaying trees, as his thoughts wandered off to you.
It was Lucius Malfoy who had saved his foolish son from breaking the law.
The last thing you had seen of him was his small back and his hanging shoulders as his father, a tall, slender man with long blonde hair roughly dragged him off by his arm.
In your ears the word “Mudblood” ringed over and over like a stuck record. You didn’t know what it meant, yet you were sure that it was nothing good.
With bitterness in his heart he returned home, angry and hurt and just as disappointed as you. He had screamed and raged, pounded fist on his father’s chest and arms until the cries died down to hoarse, dry sobs.
But Lucius looked at his son and smiled. Forbidding Draco from meeting that rout, that wild Mudblood girl was yet another good decision. Narcissa had told him about the scratched knees, the dirty clothes and the small sunburns, her eyes full of concern.
His son was the only Malfoy heir and the Malfoys didn’t waste their time with common people. The ancient blood that was running through their veins through generations was proof for their noble origin and anyone and anything else that didn’t fit into that category was worthless.
You met him again - two years later - during the Sorting Ceremony when the old, revolting brown Sorting Hat had loudly declared that he was going to be in the House of Slytherin before the worn out leather had even touched his platinum blonde hair. Shock had widened your eyes and your already nervously heartbeat increased a little more.
It was your grandmother and your mother that had passed down the magic to you, as your father was a “Muggle”. He had continued to raise you after his own principles after your mother’s early death, in his grief forbidding your grandmother to speak about anything related to magic in order to be able to forget about your mom.
There were only yellow faded photographs and vague memories of the woman who had brought you into this world, whom you had just called “mother” with somewhat indifferent feelings. But she has done much more than just carrying you in her womb. She had left a small gift. A small gift that would change your life forever, indicated by a small parchment letter brought in by a beautiful, tame owl.
Your grandma had brought you to a street named “Diagon Alley” where wizards of all sizes and ages and origins were walking around, trying to finish their errands and shopping. It was exciting, yet overwhelming; to find out that you were a witch and that you were going to attend a school named “Hogwarts”.
With your mouth gaping wide open, Granny took you to buy parchment papers and so many pretty quills and books with the strangest titles and robes so long - they were reaching your ankles. But the most exciting thing was probably entering the “Magical Menagerie” where she let you choose a cat as a present.
And when you came home in the evening and sat on your warm bed with the soft ball of fur in your lap, you yearned for Draco’s presence, wishing for him to be here so you could tell him about the newest developments. Wishing he would comfort you with his quiet presence because it was new after all, and unknown things were always scary.
But he wasn’t here and he wasn’t going to come because he was stupid and because you weren’t allowed to meet up, weren’t allowed to spend more time.
You wondered how he was doing, whether he was still the best in his class, whether he still liked the cream filled puff pastries that Grandma had taught you to make.
You fell asleep with your heart so heavy and tabby cat’s warm weight on top, clutching your wand; terribly missing your old friend.
But two years could change a lot and you were more than disappointed to find out that there was nothing left of the innocent boy you used to spend your summers with. He was gone, long gone like the Hogwarts Express that left the train station.
When it was your turn to be sorted, it was the hardest task to pretend not to see him, not to notice his odd looks and glares when he recognized the girl he had spent so much time with.
You were sorted into Hufflepuff, a house with the colors of sunflowers and an animal of the forest as their representative. And inevitably, your eyes locked with the boy with the light blonde hair and cold grey eyes. There was such arrogance in his smirk, such contempt and hate in these eyes that you had once loved so much. And his stares hurt and left invisible stinging bruises, lasting and burning like freshly branded.
Maybe, maybe, that was how he had always been.
You didn’t know why you were his favorite toy, his favorite victim. And he played with you like a cat did with its prey.
“Look who’s walking,” Pansy hissed, “the Mudblood.”
So it began again, the pestering and provoking jibes. You had ignored them, gulped down the venomous anger and occasionally even the tears. You wouldn’t give someone pathetic as him the chance to destroy your best traits. However it wasn’t only that. It was your hope that made you refrain from saying anything. Hoping that deep down he was still the same after all.
Nevertheless, calm water can also rage like a storm, quake and shake until a tsunami is born.
You could hear sniggers behind you when you came from the greenhouse after tending some of the Dittanies. Professor Sprout had bestowed you with the honorable task of taking care of these greens due to your advanced knowledge of herbs and plants.
And you secretly thanked your grandma for passing down all these useful information, wrapped up in small songs and rhymes for when you had been little.
“Her clothes are just as filthy as the blood that runs in her veins,” Draco continued with a smug smirk. “I tell you, she used to be like a pig. Always getting dirty like she is now. She hasn’t changed a bit, that scum.”
“Back then, I remember that you had no problems with that, Malfoy. But I had forgotten, that everything was acted and faked, because that’s all you can do,” you shot back. He closed his mouth, flabbergasted by your quick-wittedness.
“And you lot,” your eyes wandered over his retinues, guards, fans, it was all the same. “You got nothing to do than following this stupid git like some brainless dog?”
And you stalked off, leaving them with mouths wide open. They had not expected you to defend yourself.
Draco sat in the Slytherin common room, strangely quiet and scarcely away from the center of attention. In his hands he held a worn out leather bracelet with a faded, now no more shiny charm dangling.
He tilted his head and furrowed his brows, in his head your words played on repeat like a stuck record player that hovered over the same spot of the vinyl disk.
He had worn it, his first present, had worn it until the leather stiffened and the strings threatened to tear apart. Only then he had decided to take it off, only so he could shut it away as one of his treasures instead of throwing it away. It was hideous and old and dirty, nothing he was used to wearing. Nothing he’d like to wear.
Yet here it was, in his hands and he was unable to discard it.
Why though?
The first year ended with Harry saving the Philosopher’s Stone, preventing Professor Quirrel - or more like He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named - from being replenished.
You had come to visit him in the Hospital Wing to show your gratitude; because it had been him, who had saved you from Draco’s bullying for several times. And even though there was no need - you were indeed capable of defending yourself - it was still a kind gesture that you highly appreciated.
And so your grandmother sent some of her best pastries and cakes with a silvery owl which arrived during breakfast time, carrying a concerningly large package.
You watched the majestic animal leave the Great Hall, after sharing some of your toast and tea and putting a few Sickles and Knuts into the small bag attached to its leg.
It wasn’t difficult to become friends with him. After all food was one of the best methods to bond.
“I am supposed to tutor you,” his ice cold voice cut through the air and you looked up from your scribbled notes.
A sigh escaped your lips as you recognized Draco who strutted into the classroom. Due to your low performance in Potions, Professor Snape had sentenced you to take extra classes with another student, with his favorite student. You furrowed your brows when he smoothly walked up to you, his face expressionless as ever.
“Let’s get it over with then,” you mumbled and rearranged your already neatly organized tools and some of the ingredients. You didn’t really know how to act around the guy who used to be your best friend. Yet, the guy standing in front of you was a boy with heavily styled hair, even more expensive clothes and this despicable scornful smile. Like you were some lower being.
“I didn’t think you were that bad,” he commented, mockery in his voice, as he watched you work on the Swelling Solution. You didn’t have any problems in your first year; still without any particular reason, you found it hard to follow the instructions this year.
“You’ve crushed the mixture too hard and the grains are too small. They dissolved too quickly before it can spread through the whole potion,” Draco criticized, sounding unimpressed.
You took a deep breath, trying to maintain your composure. Somehow it was rather difficult to work properly under his watch. It were his eyes that stared at you, pierced and bored like a nail hit into soft wood.
“Try again,” he performed the same spell that Snape always did to clear out your cauldron.
You sighed in vain and began to gather the ingredients again.
2 scoops of dried nettles
3 puffer-fish eyes
His surprisingly warm hand wrapped around yours when you began to crush the mix in the mortar.
“You use too much force,” his grip tightened around the one with the pestle, stopping you from continuing your action.
“Do it like this,” he began guiding your movement, unexpectedly gentle, soft, almost careful.
You looked up to catch a glimpse of his face, to catch a glimpse of the way he furrowed his brows and scrunched his nose in concentration. Catching on that you weren’t focused at all, he met your stare and you immediately averted your eyes, ashamed, like a child that had been caught stealing sweets.
“You’re good at this.”
“At what?”
“Teaching. You had always been,” you quietly added as he awkwardly released your hands and you found yourself confused for the loss of his warmth. He didn’t answer; in fact he had never been the guy who talked too much. But you saw the bewilderment in his face, registered how his hard features softened and his eyes lit at your praise.
And for a moment you were several years back in your past and it was the old Draco, your Draco that was with you in this very classroom.
“The Slytherin heir,” they had whispered in the hallways whenever Harry walked down the plastered floor with Hermione, Ron. The news of him being a Parselmouth had spread like wildfire through the school and the wildest rumors and theories were developed and passed behind covered mouths.
Harry, perhaps already used to people talking behind his back, turned a deaf ear to their judging remarks and their odd stares.
You admired his strong will, his determination as he bravely went to save Ginny Weasley. He, together with Ron and Professor Lockheart. He had been only twelve, yet he didn’t bat an eyelash when he jumped down the black hole that led to the Chamber of Secrets.
And your bond strengthened when you worked with Professor Sprout, gave your best to raise healthy Mandrakes so their healing powers would save victims of the Basilisk.
You caught his eyes again in his third year, when Sirius Black’s face was plastered all over the news, at every corner, at every shop. A distorted face full of madness and horror, stuck in the shadows of his past as he stared at you with an almost sinister glint in his eyes. There was this eerie cold everywhere, Dementors were lurking on the grounds of Hogwarts while the students were trying their hardest to go on with their education, to ignore that there was a murderer freely walking around.
The blonde had looked over to you and his sassy remark got stuck right in his throat, only a blubbered choke managed to escape his lips. He was embarrassed for letting you see sides of him that he had concealed and shut away under a lid of a box. It was long forgotten, securely sealed away, yet it just took your mere presence to let them all out.
Draco managed to pull it off, hiding his embarrassment behind an even meaner facade. No words were lost about the fact that it were your eyes that took his breath away, that made him wonder whether they had always been in such a splendid colour.
From that day on, he caught himself subconsciously staring at you. Suddenly these rare lessons that the Slytherins shared with the Hufflepuffs were all he was looking forward to; became the sole thing that he felt anticipation for.
He was in his third year and it was the time where they were allowed to visit Hogsmeade. The young Malfoy didn’t find it that interesting; after all he had everything he needed and if there was something else that he desired, his mother would make sure that he was able to get it, in the finest and best quality that he deserved as a Malfoy.
But a change of scenery wasn’t that bad, he thought as he walked along the plastered street in his expensive but warm shoes. He face pressed into his green scarf and pulled the thick cloak with the Slytherin crest a little closer. It was for Crabbe and Goyle’s broader body that he was shielded from most of the cool wind and dirty leaves.
They had walked past the Honeydukes, a comfortable but old looking shop which sold every possible kind of sweet food. Huge cream puffs, colorful cupcakes and delicious looking éclairs were displayed in the showcase and Draco rolled his eyes when his two friends were practically glued to the glass window like some dogs.
He sighed and allowed them to enter; couldn’t stand their stupid expressions with such gluttony. It was simply ridiculous. In the end, he reluctantly entered as well to save himself from freezing to death in the autumn breeze.
The pleasant smell of freshly baked bread and sticky sweetness wafted towards him and he suddenly felt tempted to purchase one of these éclairs that he had just seen.
He grimaced after taking the first bite, felt disappointment and gall on his lips. It wasn’t as good as the ones he used to eat, the ones that he used to eat in a warm kitchen in a small house. It was too dry for his refined tongue and the blonde handed it to Goyle who delightedly devoured the pastry within seconds. Draco sneered disgusted.
He kissed you in your fourth year, just as clumsy as Longbottom was in Potions. It had been after the Yule Ball, which you had attended with Harry Potter, the boy who had that lightning scar; the boy who had lived. The boy who had had everything that Draco lacked
Teeth crashed against each other, giving a soft clunk and you had slightly stiffened, not expecting this move at all.
Anthracite and marble eyes on fire; mixed hitched breaths and shaky fingers threading in your hairdo, disheveling your soft hair. Strangely you didn’t push him away, simply weren’t able to, simply didn’t want to.
He couldn’t stand to see you with him - with atrocious Saint-Potter; had watched you, grim faced and lips thin as Potter swirled you around on the dance floor in your flowy dress. Saw how you threw your head back and laughed, a clear bubbly laugh like water; and he ignored Pansy’s whines and complaints, begging for his undivided attention.
It didn’t suit you at all, that dress. It was too short, too cheap because it showed too much skin. Didn’t you think at all? How many eyes had been on you ever since you had stepped into the Great Hall, arms linked with Potter? His stomach twisted and he could taste the acid on his lips, hear the whispered venom of demons he didn’t know existed.
So Draco lured you away from Potter, trapped and captured you like the Emperor did with the nightingale.
He was a Malfoy, a proud Slytherin. And Slytherins by all means got whatever they wanted.
In an instant he was gone, leaving you with breathless with weak knees and a phial full of confusion, anger and joy. Then you smiled and traced the contours of your lips; feeling, reminiscing the pressure of his soft thin ones against yours.
It was the days after the Yule Ball that taught you that people could kiss without feeling any love. That love, in fact, was a dream, an illusion, a place to escape.
Harry had put his arm protectively around you when you had to see how they walked down the Great Hall, hands clutched tightly with vicious grins and devious smirks. You didn’t know how to feel or what to feel about Malfoy’s crime. He had stolen your first kiss, robbed you of the reverie that young girls so innocently held in their heart. Little did you know that it was his first as well.
Your eyes met in a direct glance over the long tables and it was like the kiss had never happened. There was no recognition, no remorse, no shame.
Just empty grey eyes.
He fumbled with the green stems, threading and knotting until they connected, forming a circle.
“You’re really good at this”, Pansy’s high voice rang in his ears from above. He was resting his head on her lap, like he always did.
“I suppose so,” he murmured, his thoughts far away; at a happier place.
He rolled the thin stems between his fingers, thinking about things that he shouldn’t waste a thought on. But even when he closed his eyes, it was your beautiful face and rosy lips that popped up in his mind.
Even when he hurried through the hallway, it was your presence that followed him and even when he kissed Pansy, when Pansy kissed him, he couldn’t help but compare their kiss with the way your lips had felt against his. A feeling that he had etched into his mind like the unfading mark that would sign his death sentence only two years later.
He-who-must-not-be-named was back and for that knowledge, it took Cedric’s death and Harry’s blood.
Everything was uncertain and parent’s started considering withdrawing their precious little children, started to believe the nonsense that was reported in the Daily Prophet. Eyes were closed upon the truth; refusing to see, to believe the cruel reality.
At the age of fifteen you chose your first side, hinting and foreshadowing your later position in the war.
Dumbledore’s Army.
A uniting rebellion, planned and held in secret behind a wall without a door and in a room whose existence only few knew of. You weren’t bad, mastering most of the spells about the same time as Hermione did. It was probably because she also was your practicing partner and she had never had difficulties with correcting and teaching you.
Harry kissed you in the Room of Requirement beneath mistletoes after you had successfully disarmed Fred with the spell Expelliarmus.
“I can make you happy,” he had whispered, well aware of the fact that your eyes were still following Draco whenever he was walking with Pansy.
And even though you loved Harry, loved him so much, he didn’t conjure any butterflies or rapid heart beating or sweaty fingers. Instead it gave you fuzzy warmth and enveloping comfort and once again it gave the evidence that he wasn’t the boy who would make you as happy as Draco did with just a small smile.
Your voice turned apologetic and Harry just knew, just understood that this thing between you was only the love that existed as siblings.
The blonde’s iron grip had left marks on your wrists when he dragged you into Umbridge’s office - you would find out days later. He wore a winning smirk, roughly strengthening his grasp.
The whole Inquisitorial Squad was present, each one chaining up one of your friends. Neville, Luna, Ginny, Ron, Hermione and Harry; all struggling to free themselves.
Your headmaster’s face broke into a disgusting triumphant smile, as she proceeded to interrogate Harry, asking him who he was looking for, asking him about Dumbledore’s whereabouts.
With your wand confiscated there was nothing you could do and as the hearing went on, the panic and adrenaline swelled in your veins; your heavy heart beat pulsed in your ears.
That was when Hermione cracked and started crying. Your hearts sunk when the first words spilled and gathered into a confession, a lightly made up lie to lure that hateful woman. They disappeared out of the office.
Harry, slightly confused, trying his best not to seem as if he had no single clue of what his best friend was talking about.
Hermione, still with tears running down her delicate face, voice shrill and broken as she continued talking on Umbridge’s sweet persuasion, coating thick with honey and venom.
Your eyes met Ginny’s and the two of you shared a long meaningful look, passing on more information than you thought was even possible. There was a small tilt of her head - almost invisible, almost non-existent – to the place where your wand stuck. You understood immediately and turned to face Draco, whose grip had unconsciously loosened when you gave him a small shy look.
For a moment he seemed strangely distracted, enticed, just right before Ginny released her infamous Bat Bogey Hex.
Draco had been granted the honor to carry on the work that his father had left undone, uncompleted. Lord Voldemort had bestowed him with an important task, a duty of utmost importance. And the blonde knew that he was going to succeed, that he was the one who would take all the glory, all the honor, all the respect. He was the heir of the Malfoy family, sixteen, almost coming of age, almost an adult; and he was going to prove everyone what he was capable of.
Katie Bell was attacked by the necklace and all the suspicions were on him. Draco realized, realized that it was much more difficult than he had imagined it to be. But patience was the key and he wasn’t going to fail like all the other pathetic excuses of a Death Eater.
But as the year progressed and his despair increased, the dreadful realization hit him like a slap in his face.
It wasn’t possible to kill Albus Dumbledore, not at this pace.
But he couldn’t withdraw without paying a price; the highest price. He was a puppet on strings, a marionette, another figure in the game. Used and abused for the sake of winning, only to be sacrificed and thrown away when not needed.
No, Draco didn’t want to die. And he continued, forcing himself to never look back.
He dropped out of Quidditch, unable to bear more responsibility, unable to devote more time into the sport. Because every free minute counted and Draco used the time when the school was empty to carry out several tasks of his plan.
Not much later, his pointless relationship with Pansy ended as well. He had other things to focus on than his whiny girlfriend. The safety of his family for an instant was top priority now that his father was locked away in Azkaban.
There were nights where he woke up with a painfully hammering heart and fear pulsing in his veins, his nightmare so clear and real before his eyes, he thought it was the truth. He heard the continuous screams and sobs of his mother, his poor mother. And he became obsessed with his task, frantically trying to carry out the duty he had been cursed with, the duty that didn’t bring him the glory that he had imagined. Instead it only leaded to panic, desperation and worry.
It was only the small leather band that had the power to sober him up when his mind was still clouded, still bothered by snake-like whispers and orders. When the clasp broke, he fixed it with threads, not standing the fact of not being able to wear it, the only thing that was able to numb his worries for a short amount of time.
He had undeniably lost a lot of weight, no wonder when he kept skipping meals. You had seen his seat empty for several times. The lack of sleep left their traces on his face, with dark shadows below his eyes.
You didn’t say anything; instead you just looked at him with sorrowful eyes, registering his hollow cheeks and high cheekbones that stuck out more, now that he had lost weight. And Draco suddenly felt so bare, so vulnerable and unconsciously he averted his look, not able to meet your piercing glance. He suppressed a flinch when you took his bony hands, kissed the bruises that were scattered in scarlet petals on his porcelain skin, an injury he had inflicted himself when his fist met the wall, then the mirror.
You pulled him into a comforting embrace – it proved be rather difficult to do so, as he had grown much taller than you - and his hands clutched your small back, clinging on you for the support that he never got. The young Malfoy didn’t know why, couldn’t figure out why he dropped his façade in front of you. He cried that day, soaking your shirt with his tears and drowning his sobs against your skin, all, while you were stroking his broad back and kissing his soft blonde hair.
Draco refused to realize, hated to admit that you were safer in Potter’s arms rather than his own. That you were well protected, well shielded and taken care of, standing beside the boy who he despised the most, who he wanted to tear apart for getting everything that he wanted so much.
He was a devil disguised as an angel, destined to fall, destined to fail and just like in your fourth year, he committed another crime, collecting another sin, as he trapped you in his arms and tainted you for a sweet desperate kiss. Because he was greedy and selfish and his heart was so unchangeably lost.
There was sheer fear in his eyes, raw emotion and fiery desire all mixed in these quicksilver colored orbs.
He guided you to an undiscovered place, his warm large hand gently pulling on yours as you slipped into the large room with only a four-poster bed in the center. And your covers and protective shields fell, silently and softly and most of all, willingly.
You noticed the contradictions in his movements, didn’t miss the reluctance, the unsure desperation in his looks. Yet there were his burning stares, reckless passion and endless hunger, like a wolf staring at his prey.
“Draco,” you whispered when he took a moment to carve your features into his mind. His hand was placed on your cheek and you closed your eyes, putting your considerably smaller hand on top of his, leaning into his touch. You had become so beautiful. He traced the outlines of your full lips that could change into a breathtaking smile, let his eyes travel to your defined collarbones and pale skin that were inviting him to place his mark, were tempting him to leave his prints all over.
Until your scents mixed, until you couldn’t tell apart where you began and he ended.
He wondered why you were so defenseless in his presence when it was him who insulted and humiliated you in public. He wondered whether he deserved your unconditional trust, your visible favour even though he had nothing but flaws. He had left the only flawless side in the forest long ago and here, with you, was another Draco, a merciless and cruel young boy with suffocating weight on his shoulders and Damocles’ sword tailing, following every single of his steps.
“________,” he murmured with painful affection and forlorn longing. Opening your mesmerizing eyes, you leaned up to place a kiss on his fine lips and the last bits of his reason crumbled as his shaking fingertips travelled over your bare skin, as he caressed you like you were his biggest treasure, like the beautiful fragile porcelain figure in his mom’s room.
He made love to you like it was the last time he’d see you, in the four walls of a room that you never found again.
Because if it wasn’t you, it was pointless.
He woke up to your sad eyes; with grief so heavy it drained all the breath out of him. And you leaned in to steal another kiss, not wanting to face the agonizing, heartbreaking truth.
Draco’s smile didn’t reach his silver grey eyes and you furrowed your brows, grasping his hand and once again placing butterfly kisses on these pale slender fingers. He stiffened and made attempts to pull his wrist back when you gently bended it.
He was scared, scared of what to come, feared your contempt, your hate as a punishment for all he had done. He wasn’t stupid. But he was foolish enough to believe that you might have been able to accept what he was, what he was chosen to do, what he was forced to do.
With twilight kissing your face and your skin, illuminating your eyes in a complete different magnificent colour, you lips curled and your brows furrowed once again, showing so much care, empathy and understanding.
Draco closed his eyes, despondent, unable to bear your troubled look; because he knew what was about to come.
“You can still stop.”
“I can’t,” his voice sounded hoarse, almost nonexistent.
“There’s always a way. We’ll make it work,” you shifted and then your warmth was gone. Draco opened his eyes and sat up, his eyes following every single of your moves as you began to dress yourself again.
“I can’t. He’ll kill her and me. And all of us. But you can help-“he broke off.
“I can’t,” there was a pause when you realized that you had just used the same reply as him.
“It’s Potter, right?” Fury and burning jealousy in the words that he spat out like the Bogey flavoured Beans of Bertie Botts.
“No. It’s Dumbledore’s Army,” you sounded hollow, as he too realized that when the war that was waiting at the step of the door started, you would be on different sides, you’d be fighting against each other. Because you had chosen; chosen Potter’s side.
Your mind and heart were at chaos, contradicting thoughts and loud voices swirling around; like the pixies in the classroom in your second year that you helped to catch after a fiasco of a lesson with Professor Lockheart.
You turned back to Draco who was still sitting on the bed. A forlorn young boy with sunken cheeks and greyish skin, death has brushed its mark on his arm, imprinted forever, and imprisoning him forever.
There was no way you could accept this, could accept him being sentenced to living hell; because the only way out was You-know-who’s destruction and you would give anything to help, to save this lovely boy that had always had your heart.
Harry, Hermione and Ron didn’t return to Hogwarts for the last year. After all that has happened, nobody blamed their absence.
There were nights where you sat in the Hufflepuff common room, staring out of the windows, watching the shadows of trees swaying to the wind’s song, picturing your three friends somewhere out there, finishing what Dumbledore has left for them.
And clutching your heart, you wished them to be well, wished them all of the world’s luck.
Because Hogwarts had become hell and Snape had gone even colder than he had ever been.
He left most of the duties to the Carrows, the sickest pair of Death Eaters, low excuses of teachers. Punishment after punishment. Humiliation after humiliation. Eye for an eye, teeth for a teeth.
It was nothing but grotesque cruelty that showed on their wide sinister smiles and grins whenever they forced their pupils to use the Cruciatus curses on first years, on other students with detention. Muggle studies was filled with hate tirades and degradation of Muggles.
But you had Neville and Luna and Ginny. People everyone might have thought as plain, as dull, as useless or even mad. But they were the strongest, the most rebellious ones.
Together, you broke into Snape’s office, attempting to steal the sword of Godric Gryffindor that was supposed to be in Harry’s possession.
Weeks of detentions followed after that, even worse than Umbridge’s punishments.
They were tiring and exhausting, meaning to destroy your resolves, to break your will and to make you theirs, their lifeless, brainless marionette. It was hard not to give up, to keep looking forward while your second home was destroyed around you. The peaceful beliefs were slowly crumbling as they planted venomous diseases in your heads, replacing everything that you had previously learned.
But you bit your lip and clenched your jaw, bearing with the suffering even though it seemed hopeless, seemed like you were spending eternity in the Tartarus
For Harry. For Draco. For the world.
You had urged your grandmother to hide with your father, and after giving you a long stern look, your gran had agreed, had casted a small spell on your father so he would go with her without hesitation. She had hugged you with so much pride on her face when you insisted on staying at Hogwarts.
“Your mom would be proud too.”
Ginny, who had left for Easter, never returned; her family was open for the hunt and they had to disappear from the surface for what they were doing was too dangerous.
But you knew that she was at a better, safer place, enveloped by countless pairs of strong arms. The wonderful Weasleys, each one of a kind, each one braver than any other person that you knew. You rooted for all her brothers, as each one was a member of the Order.
With Luna already gone around Christmas, simply dragged away from her house, captured in front of her father’s eyes and punished for his bold statements on The Quibbler, there were only two left, Neville and you. But you kept going, you told yourself like a mantra, like a song on repeat.
Mocking graffiti and uniting paroles and secret messages through your old coins that you wore in the pockets of your robes.
It was springtime when they attacked Neville, blackmailing him by threatening his grandma, his only relative. And you admired his deep resolve still then, a trait that he had inherited from Harry.
Alecto Carrow - the most disgusting teacher ever - used the Imperio Curse on you the day they lead Neville away, who was struggling and fighting with all his might. He knew that he wasn’t going to be spared this time, was well aware that beating and torture wouldn’t suffice.
“Mudblood” it gleamed read on your arm while the wound still burned and your palms and fingers remained sweaty from having to grip your quill so hard.
They took him away and you were alone, the only brick in the wall of resistance.
Draco noticed the cuts on your arms and face. Gashes you almost wore with pride, like soldiers wore their battle wounds; like he wore his prefect badge.
But he couldn’t quite understand why you never gave up, what the reason for your endless fighting was.
The day Longbottom was caught, Draco snuck into the Hufflepuff room after persuading Moaning Myrtle to check whether you were there.
It was rather late and the cosy room was empty with only you sitting on a chair, your legs pulled tight towards your body.
He had silently sat down next to you, not daring to speak up as you acknowledged his presence with a small side glance.
Things were distanced and cold between you. You’ve been polite, almost too polite and it pained him to have such a strained relationship after being so close.
“Neville’s gone. You don’t have to keep doing that,” he muttered as he gently pulled your arm so he could tend the cuts that you were forced to engrave yourself.
There was going to be a scar, he reckoned, because you hadn’t tended it yourself with Dittanies even though you were the best in Herbology.
“No, now that he is gone too. There’s even more reason to continue,” you answered, staring at his hands that were carefully dripping some of the liquid on your arm.
“It’s foolish and useless. Please stop putting yourself in such danger.”
For the first time you let your eyes lock with his grey ones. He was even thinner, seemed to look even more exhausted and the fear and stress etched themselves into his aristocratic and pointed features, like a needle scraping patterns in wax.
Your emotionless expression softened for a moment and he believed to see your affection, your love before your jaw clenched again and your eyes steeled. Despite of that, you seemed scared, too. He could see it in your eyes.
“I will never give up.”
Even though you didn’t address him, he felt like you were directing your words at him and only at him. Draco kept looking at you, still holding your arm in his hands, and he just thought how much you’ve grown, how you’ve left your fearful bubbly self behind. You had bravely stepped forward while he walked backwards.
He was a coward.
He had pulled you behind a corner, shielded you with his larger and taller body when the Carrows went looking for you after you had placed dung bombs into their office and released some of the first years that were locked up in the dungeons.
“Draco,” you whispered against his back.
“Shh,” he roughly hushed you, pressing you even more against the wall where he hid you in the shadows.
The two of you listened for more noises but all you could hear were distant yells and screams, probably from the floors below you.
Draco took your hand and pulled you with him, almost running through the countless, almost identical corridors. You stumbled behind him and looked at his broad back, all dressed in black.
“Go,” he ordered you, while looking around.
“Think about Neville, call for Neville’s hiding place in your thoughts,” he urged you on, his grey eyes still flickering to all the places, wary of any noises that implied on your followers’ whereabouts.
“But they took Neville away,” you argued bemused and reluctant.
“No, I saw him disappearing in the Room of Requirement. Go,” he bellowed and released your hand and ushered you towards the next corridor. You hesitated once again.
“What about you?”
“I will be fine. Now. Go.”
As more time passed, most of the students of Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff had arrived in the Room of Requirement where you had found Neville camping with a single hammock after being saved by Draco. The room was now filled with chatters and voices and colourful banners of their houses hanging at the walls where the students camped together.
Together, the two of you had settled off to get people in and out of Hogwarts, using the passage that led to the Hog’s Head, carrying food and more supplies that everyone required.
At evenings, you would sit next to him, both of you leaning against each other, tired but filled with so much fighting spirit. You exchanged small, short messages with Ginny and were more than happy to hear that Luna had been freed by Ron, Hermione and Harry.
So they were still alive and that thought alone gave you much more strength.
They came in May, looking worn out and dirty, but very much alive and the whole room roared with cheers and laughter as the Chosen One and his friends followed in after Neville.
You had run into them, wrapping your arms around Hermione and Ron and Harry, laughing and crying as you hugged them.
Soon Luna and Ginny arrived along with the twins, there was even more joy as you saw all these familiar faces, brimming with hope and solidarity, determined and ready to fight.
Harry couldn’t tell them what he was searching for but things happened incredibly fast and without a real plan, everyone set off, forming groups, dividing tasks. He had seen Lord Voldemort coming for the school, coming to take him as well.
After Snape’s disappearance, Professor McGonagall had taken command over the school. Most of the Order Members and former students were strategically placed at the entrances, casting Shield Charms and Protective Spells. They formed the third line of defence.
The evacuation through the secret passage in the Room of Requirement had begun. Countless of frightened and confused students had been woken and pulled out of their beds. Head girls and Head boys, Prefects and members of the Orders were calmly yelling orders as they led countless groups of pupils out of Hogwarts and into safety, away from the war that was about to begin.
Professor McGonagall had used the Ultimate Protection spells, reviving countless of massive stone statues whose purposes you had thought were only for decoration. Those were to be the first and second defence lines.
Professor Sprout had gone with Neville, taking out the nastiest plants. Mandrakes, Devil’s Snares and Tentaculas. Harry had disappeared again and so did Ron and Hermione who were on the way to the Chamber of Secrets for unknown reasons.
Then chaos broke out when the Death Eaters came.
Destructions, screams and sparks of red and green everywhere.
Disarming Spells, Stunning Spells, Killing Curses.
There where people flying around, being stunned. Or on both sides they just fell, fell into an endless slumber.
Draco had intended to catch Potter, to catch him and the stupid diadem, one last weak attempt to cease the humiliation; to save his family and himself from Voldemort’s hate and gain his favour, his forgiveness.
Together with Crabbe and Goyle, he entered the now transformed Room of Requirement, following Potter and his friends. The large hall that was filled with junk was so familiar; after all it had just been a year where he practically lived in this room, desperately trying to repair the Vanishing Cabinet.
But Crabbe lost control, like the ministry had lost control over the Dementors.
The fire was blazing; the hot air was burning his skin and draining the air out of his lungs. He heaved the stunned, stiff Goyle with him, doing his best to escape the singing, destructive inferno that spread so quickly through the whole room.
At last, Potter had grabbed his hand, pulling him up the broom while Weasley and Granger took Goyle. Crabbe, he thought, was lost, swallowed by the Curse he had casted himself.
They lied on with their faces on the cold stone floor. Heavily panting, dirty and sweaty and still shocked by the aftermath of what had just happened.
The trio left him there, continuing on whatever they had to do. But he heard Potter whisper,” For ________” before he hurried off to where the Battle was still raging on, several floors below.
He turned, still trying to catch his breath, still trying to calm his nerves and with his eyes directed to the high ceiling, remembering the feeling of the slight pressure on his lips, the day he had hid you in the Room of Requirement. You had gone back and kissed him, cruelly left him with a promise and a fast beating heart.
His point of view cracked into a thousand shards. Things that he had been taught ever since he was a small child, when he was still clutching his mother’s fingers. Old opinions and fixed conservative mindset of Pure-Bloods roughly ripped and painfully torn apart.
The Draco Malfoy that got up after that was never going to be the same.
Harry Potter was dead.
You saw his lifeless, slumped body carried by Hagrid and your heart sunk and coiled into a big ball of sadness. Strangely, you couldn’t cry. Too big was the loss. Too grave was the shock. Mr. Weasley held Ginny back as she screamed, tears streaming down her pale cheeks before she buried it in his chest, sobbing quietly.
Everyone around you wore the imprints of pain, war and death. The exhaustion showed in their faces but never in their eyes. Yet, when they discovered the body in the half giant’s arms, the light seemed to diminish, their fighting spirit to crumble.
But even when the symbol of hope, the symbol of rebellion, the only person who had the power to kill Lord, was dead, Neville still didn’t seem to give up.
He was the first to show his loathe, first to charge at Voldemort. Courage swelling his heart and adrenaline pumping through his veins.
There he stood, facing the most powerful wizard with his head held high and his pride still intact.
The ugly creature in front of him cackled and his followers joined him, carefully, silently after he disarmed Neville, your valiant friend.
But he was mocked for his act, mocked by Bellatrix Lestrange, who was laughing shrilly, like a maniac. The woman who tortured his parents beyond sanity.
The Sorting Hat burning on his head, Neville was unable to move and you were lunging forward, fighting through the crowd to save him.
But before you reached him, chaos broke out as Neville suddenly pulled the sword of Gryffindor out of the ragged, old hat. With one strong blow, the snake laid in front of them, unmoving, its head several metres away from a heavy breathing Neville.
There was uproar and once again, they fought. Shield Charms were casted once again, Killing Curses blocked and you could hear Hagrid’s voice roaring for Harry’s corpse that had disappeared.
Bellatrix Lestrange fell, killed by Mrs. Weasley while she was defending her daughter.
And not much longer, it was Lord Voldemort himself who fell. In the end he was defeated without feeling shame or guilt, without showing remorse for any of his countless crimes. You could see the pity in Harry’s eyes when he disarmed him, taking the Elder Wand, as he was the true master of the most powerful, the most invincible weapon ever created.
Their two spells clashed against each other, joined into a huge firework until the power ceased, until one of the two casters fell.
For a moment there was complete silence in the room. You could hear Harry’s ragged breathing, see his sweat running down at the side of his face, spreading the dirt in his face. As he stared at the spot that had been Voldemort, in shock, in horror, still not grasping the situation.
The present people, your people broke into relieved cries and ragged laughter. Comforting hugs and knowing smiles. Knowing that all was going to be well, all was going to be better from now on.
There was a lot to do, a lot to rebuild as you stood in the ruins of what used to be your school.
People sat together, huddled in small blankets, leaning against each other, the fatigue hollowing their faces. Some held warm cups in their hand; others were simply staring into blank space.
Madam Pomfrey was tending the hurt along with other helpers and McGonagall was talking to some of the teachers and Kingsley probably discussing the future matters of the school.
The Weasleys sat together, Ginny leaning against her mother. Your eyes landed on George who sat next to them with a small smile on his face. But he seemed so forlorn without his brother and you knew that he was trying to put a strong facade. You played with the thought of joining them but discarded the idea, not wanting to disturb their family moment, the moment when they were finally allowed to grieve for their loss, the loss of their ray of sunshine; Fred Weasley.
You were the first his eyes searched for, the first person he wanted to see all safe and sound, when he entered the Great Hall where all the people of all houses sat together. United, consolidated to a strong, unique army.
He had caught a glimpse of you earlier, before once again the fight broke out; when Potter, seemingly still alive jumped up from his place at Lord Voldemort’s feet.
Still, he was so worried that you weren’t lucky this time; that some other Death Eaters had taken you away from him.
However he was unable to find you in all the chaos, in all the fighting, in all the killing. His parents had come, yelling for him before his mother enveloped him in big hug, her face wet with tears of relief.
Draco left his parents behind; his father had his arm around his mother, both looking worn out and not high mighty at all. The longer he searched, the more his panic rose, the anxiety taking a hold of him in a merciless firm grip with its claws, never releasing him.
Until he finally spotted you, walking alone through the crowds, with empty eyes and a blank expression.
His heart squeezed and he wondered whether it was normal for love to hurt like this. His first love.
His feet moved on their own, bringing him closer towards you. It was like he was being put under the Imperius Curse.
The blonde called your name, softly, quietly but enough for you to hear it.
You looked up, and somehow, something felt right, like a puzzle piece that found its place, like these complicated doors that locked themselves, clicking when the metal pieces where pushed to their own positions.
You had believed that it was the aftermath of the long fighting, that you felt so numb, so senseless. You felt neither cold nor warm; didn’t feel your wounds and gashes hurt or burn at all. Madame Pomfrey had stopped you once, inspecting your damages. If you had a choice, you would have simply declined her offer to tend your injuries. She held you back and you were only allowed to move on after she was done with her work.
It was as if you were put into a big bubble. Everything seemed so unreal. The people, your surroundings, the ruins and the dust that was floating through the air like glitter rain.
But it was him that you lacked, him that you were unconsciously searching for.
He was safe and alive, standing in front of you with a fearful expression.
And when he pulled you into a bone crushing hug, a hug that told you more than he ever could in words, you nuzzled your face in the crook of his neck, grasped his dirty shirt.
He smelled like a fresh heavy rain, thunderstorm and lightning with a hint of smoke and charcoal.
Draco’s arms disappeared from your back, only to grab your face and press a sloppy desperate kiss on your lips, full of relieved sighs and groans.
Then he released you, to take a look at your beautiful face, even though there scratches and smeared blood and mud on your skin. A genuine smile formed on his lips.
And you let out a throaty gasp before the tears and gawky laughter spilled, until he clumsily wiped them away with a small smile, so full of suffering affection.
“I am home.”