Work Text:
You feel strange when you look at him, and your first, involuntary thought is 'beautiful'. It leaves you bewildered, wondering why you thought that and what possessed you to even yield to it as you do now? Why does it follow you around and stir your thoughts when you see him? Why is he so beautiful to you?
Perhaps it's because he saved your life. Because he's chosen, and heroic, and brave and good and pure- and everything you're not. He's everything you wish you could have been when it mattered most.
Instead, you cowered in the corner and cried. You used your wand on countless innocents and made them scream in agony, all because a madman threatened you. You cried alone because you couldn't fix a cupboard and you couldn't kill an old man and you couldn't do anything. And now you know how it feels to be shunned, and hated, the way you used to hate others.
You've lost yourself, you know. What you are, what you've become... it's wrong, it's what you've been forced into. But how can you find the strength to be more when no one will let you?
You wish you hadn’t returned. There is no place for you here anymore. All happiness and life has been sucked from the old building, and you fear that it shall never return. No one wants you here; all of your friends are dead, so who would sit with you at lunch?
But the worst part is the distaste in his green eyes when he sees you, the way his mouth curls down and his brow furrows and he turns away in disdain. The others, his friends, do the same, but none of them can touch you; you're used to it. They don’t respect you, don’t understand why you never fight back against the jeers. You don’t care what they think. But when he turns away... that's when pain lances through you and you collapse against the wall, gasping. You hate it, hate him.
Except you don't. You love him. You always have.
It's worse when he discovers you alone in the corridor, sobbing, just after you've been thrown to the ground and spat on by a nameless student. He just looks at you, doing nothing, his wand curled in his hand. There is no warmth in his eyes and yet, if you allow yourself to hope, you might even glimpse some hesitance. But still he does nothing. Just watches you as you stare up at him, face stained with tears and chest shuddering. You reach your hand towards him, not knowing why but praying that he'll take it and hold you in his arms- and he doesn't. He looks at the hand and turns away, striding out of sight.
You sob harder, endless tears streaming down your cheeks. You wrap your arms around yourself, almost as if it is another person, and you stay there until the moon is high in the sky.
When Christmas is nearing, which means bleakness and despair, you find yourself wondering why you decided to attend the party that is only for the seventh and eighth years. Wondering why you would put yourself through this when all you're doing is sitting in a corner alone, a drink between your hands, feet sadly tapping along to the beat of the song, while everyone else laughs and dances around you. You're nothing to them, and they don't care.
You hum quietly along to the songs as they play. You watch as everyone lets go, the first real joy to be seen all year, ever since that accursed last year. You drink your drink silently. You smile at Lovegood when she smiles at you. She's perhaps the only one who is kind to you anymore, although you're not entirely sure why, given the way she was imprisoned in your house not too long ago. Well, perhaps she can see that you were as much a prisoner as she was.
Still, she smiles and moves on. Dances with Longbottom, laughs with Weaslette, never sitting or speaking with you. You don't expect her to. She's far too pure for that.
The night drags on slowly, and you long to take yourself to bed and to fall into a slumber of nightmares and exhausted blankness, but you don't really feel like being alone tonight. You're always alone, and no one's actively trying to remove you from the party, so why would you give up your precious time of being around people peacefully? It's a miracle you're here to begin with, and you suspect it has something to do with Granger and Lovegood. For all Granger can't stand you, she would never pass up an opportunity for fairness. Even you, in your isolation, has heard of her S.P.E.W campaign.
He's here tonight. He doesn't look at you for the whole evening, instead dancing and drinking like the rest of them, and you're almost disappointed by how normal he seems. He's not supposed to be normal. He's supposed to be special, and brave and the saviour.
But he is special. So, so special. You can see it in the way his green eyes are alight and the way his body moves to the music, so awkward yet so uncaring, and the way he tosses his head back when he laughs. You want to make him laugh like that, want him to look at you the way he looks at those he loves, like you mean something to him.
He means everything to you.
He doesn't come over to you, even though you know he knows you're there. You wish that Pansy were here, or Blaise, or even Crabbe and Goyle. They'd make this fun. They'd talk to you.
As the night progresses, you feel the distant hope that someone might speak to you start to fade away, until all that is left is a cold sadness inside. It makes your heart hurt a little. Even as a child, you knew how it felt to be lonely, because you hadn't met your friends yet and you have no siblings, so it had always been terribly lonely when your parents had to go out without you. Except this time, instead of simply being alone, you are surrounded by people and this time, it's that no one wants to speak to you.
You leave at eleven, the party still going strong around you, and no one notices as you go. No one except him. As you go up the stairs alone, you hear footsteps behind you and you turn to see him standing there, his face seeming torn between distrust and curiosity.
"Why did you come tonight, Malfoy?" He asks, his dark hair wonderfully messy and framing his tanned faced, sweat lining his forehead. He looks beautiful.
You're not sure why you came, and you tell him so. He frowns. It seems he has no idea what to say.
"Malfoy, you... what's wrong with you?"
You're not certain what he means by this, because what can he possibly mean? He doesn't care about you. You tell him that you're doing the best you can, and this only makes his brow furrow even further, impressively so.
"Malfoy, stop." His voice is harsh. "Stop being so weird, and making me feel sorry for you. It won't work."
That stings more than it should; you're not doing anything, not being weird. You're not manipulating him into feeling sorry for you because above all else, the last thing you want is pity. You would prefer hatred over pity. Bristling, you ask him why he followed you up here.
He goes silent at that, and you can see him asking himself the same thing. There is a long pause between you, one you don't know whether to break, until he finally responds.
"I- I don't know. I- night, Malfoy." He is still frowning, looking disconcerted now, before he turns and returns to the party.
You watch him go, wishing he'd stayed.
After that, he seems to watch you more, as if he can't quite take his eyes off you, and can't quite discern you. You feel as if you're a mystery that he is trying to understand. You don't mind because at least someone is paying attention to you now.
He doesn't speak to you still, and doesn't defend you when his friends jeer at you, but his face pinches when they do, and he looks pained. You wish he'd speak up and save you the humiliation, but he rarely does, other than the few times he glares at whoever is speaking.
It's not enough.
But, the next time he discovers you in a corridor alone, tears slipping down your face and blood streaming from a cut on your lip, his face falls. He sees the way you cradle your throbbing left arm to your chest, after someone has wrenched it behind you forcefully, and he sees the bruise around your eye.
You don't reach out your hand again, because he won't take it, you know that.
Except this time, he appears saddened by your dishevelled appearance, and he bends down by your side. He takes his wand and murmurs some healing incantations under his breath.
He is so close to you, his expression so gentle and his magic so soothing on your beaten skin that something inside you warms and your heart begins to beat with what feels like hope. It's been so long since you've felt it, you can't quite recognise it. At this proximity, his eyes are flecked with streaks of brown around the pupil, and his hair is shot with lighter brown strands, seeming almost golden in the pale light. His skin is smooth and unblemished, which surprises you, because he's been through the war like you, so how is he so untainted?
You know that you have tiny scars across your face where the chandelier shattered, little shards of glass embedding themselves in your skin painfully. It had taken Mother hours to remove them all.
He has a scar as well. It defines him, just as the snake on your arms defines you.
"Who did this to you, Malfoy?" He whispers, almost sounding as if he cares.
You can't respond because you don't know, but you don't want to disappoint him, so you only look away. One of his hands takes your chin and guides your face towards him.
"Talk to me, Malfoy." His eyes are imploring.
This strikes you in the exact wrong way, because why should you talk to him, when he hasn't bothered to give you the time of day this year? He was the one who left you cold in the corridor, your hand outstretched and sobs racking your body, and he's the one who turns his nose up when he sees you, so why should you talk to him? You may love him, but that doesn't mean you can't think he's an idiot.
You respond angrily, tone hushed but powerful. You tell him that he can keep his self-righteous attitude and that he can give his pity to someone who needs it, because that's not you anymore. You rage at him, and only when you finish do you realise that he's smiling. His mouth is curved upwards, and there is something almost fond in his eyes. It doesn't dim when you demand what is quite so amusing.
"Nothing. I..." he trails off, still smiling. "I though I'd lost you, Malfoy. You've been acting weird and quiet, and it's... it's nice to see that you haven't lost your fire, is all."
You blink at him, quite thrown by his response. Your fire?
"I mean," he continues, sensing your confusion. "that you're not the same anymore, and I... I don't like it. I mean, I'm glad you're not calling people 'Mudblood' anymore and bullying me and the first years, but... you're not supposed to be so- subdued. It's just wrong."
There's a silence again, this time broken by you furiously getting to your feet, feeling angry beyond words at this stupid, stupid, beautiful idiot, who's now looking up at you with wide, bemused eyes. How the hell are you supposed to be anything but subdued, when you're treated so badly? Is it not enough for you to feel humiliated when you think of all the tripe you used to spout because your father said it was true? Is it not enough that you had to have your misconceptions thrown at you when the Dark Lord moved into your house? How the hell are you supposed to be normal when a megalomaniac threatens to murder your parents if you don't kill your Headmaster at age 16?
You've seen your professor being devoured by a snake, seen people mauled to death by Greyback and you've felt and inflicted the agony of the Cruciatus too many times to count. The stains in your house will never fade away, even when they're magically removed. You'll know they're there, know who died here and who was tortured there.
How dare he judge you for being subdued? When he's the one who doesn't stand up for you, who leaves you to be beaten up? Some Saviour he is.
In this moment, you hate him.
When you've finished, you're breathing hard, your cheeks flushed and your hands in fists by your sides. He's staring up at you, perfectly still, and his eyes roam over your face. He doesn't say a word but you know that you've made it through to him.
You continue. Of course you're subdued, because everyone treats you like the dirt on their shoes. But you're not dirty, you realise. It's not weakness to be unable to kill someone; it's not weakness to want to protect your family, and it's certainly a strength to not give your enemy in to the one you've sworn allegiance to. You've been judged and you've been tried, and now you can move on.
You were so stupid before. Living in terror your whole life, afraid to be different and to break the mould, that you took it out on others and you squashed yourself to be who you thought you had to be. Pureblood snob Draco Malfoy, the one who idolised his father and discriminated against non-Purebloods, as if that means anything, and who was friends with those who thought the same as him. The Draco Malfoy who hated himself for being gay, and who pretended to be everything he was not.
You don't want that anymore. You want to be Draco Malfoy, the one who lost everything and had the strength to rise again. Not the one who sits alone at parties, feeling sorry for himself, not the one who lets others hurt him because he thinks he deserves it. Maybe he deserved it before, but not now.
From now on, you can be you, and you will be amazing.
Your pulse is racing, as if you've run a marathon, your throat sore from shouting, and yet you've never felt better.
Before you, he swallows hard. You think he looks ashamed, guilty- in awe. Good, you think.
It feels exhilarating to truly speak your mind for the first time in at least two years. To be able to unleash all the pent-up myriad of emotions and thoughts and to just blurt them all out. You haven't felt so free in years, haven't felt this liberty to speak your mind and to be you.
You feel as if you've been living in the dark, unable to see, and now you catch a glimpse of a light, as if you're seeing yourself for the first time and you've accepted who you are.
It's this that makes you grin suddenly, an action you haven't been able to replicate for quite some time.
"Malfoy?" He asks, almost timidly.
You look down at him, and your smile widens. You tell him that his hair looks nice today and that you'll see him around. You feel only satisfaction when he gapes after you.
Things change very rapidly after that. Now, when they try to humiliate you and to hurt you, you don't let them; you smile carelessly and simply return to whatever it was you were doing. Their words can't hurt you anymore. Nothing can. You've been hurt, and that's okay. It's in the past.
They give up when they see that you don't care anymore. In fact, you think that some start to respect you for it. The teachers certainly do, because you see them giving you appraising looks when you're hard at work, and you hear how pleased they are for you when they remark on your improving grades. The eighth years begin to speak to you, though it takes you a while to trust what they have to say, and to reciprocate.
Talking to Lovegood is easy, because she's utterly barmy and a complete delight once you get to know her. Longbottom comes next, despite everything, and now you feel only respect for you man he has become. Next comes Weaslette, the cheeky little thing she is, and you love being able to gossip with her and you find it amusing when she picks out men for you to ogle. You think she's your best friend. She won't admit it, but she thinks the same.
The Golden Trio seem to watch their friends becoming your friends and realise that you must be different, because Granger approaches you in the library soon, and asks for you to be her partner in Transfigurations. She's rather hard to crack but you don't mind if she needs to take her time. You would, in her place. Once she's thawed, she's lovely. You even offer to help return her parent's memories to her, which makes her cry with happiness, and hug you so tight you think you might crack a rib. You give her a potion that can remove her 'Mudblood' scar if applied regularly, to which she cries yet again.
Granger is by no means one who cries often, but you manage to bring that side of her out. Apparently, nothing gets to her more than building new bridges and equality. Although, you do think she should have left S.P.E.W tucked away in the corners of her mind, because you know with a shadow of a doubt that it won't succeed. She doesn't understand that house elves enjoy serving their masters, if treated fairly, but you remain silent. Instead, you keep your opinion to yourself.
Weaslette says you've gone soft. She says you're a far cry from the boy you used to be, and thank Merlin for that. She'd have had to sic Hermione on you, if you were.
You laugh, but inside you remember the unexpected pain of her punch, and thank whatever god is listening that Granger likes you now.
Weasel comes next, though you're not as thrilled about that one, because it means that you won't win all your Chess games anymore. He's alright, you suppose. Remarkably mature now, in comparison to his younger years. War and grief does that to a person. Still, he's fine to be around, good to have on your side.
And then finally there is only him left.
You realise that through this tumultuous period of change and new beginnings, that you haven't even spared him a thought. This doesn't upset you as much as it would have at the start of the year.
He seems to want your attention though. You see him glancing at you surreptitiously, and then looking away when you notice. You see the way his eyes follow you across a room, and you see his reaction when you bite your lip and muss your hair on purpose. It's a good reaction.
Weaslette cackles when she sees what you're doing to him, and she gives your tips on how to torture him further.
It's hilarious, until it's boring. You only have two months left of school, and he still hasn't made a move, making you wonder whether he will. That won't be any good. You didn't turn yourself around just for him to watch from afar, as if you haven't taken over his friends and become the person you've always wanted to be.
Does he even realise how instrumental he was in your life? How by yelling at him, you realised who you were again?
This is what he meant by your 'fire', you realise.
Finally, it becomes too much, and his eyes are still roving over you hungrily, and you watch him back, waiting and hoping- until one day, you snap, and you pull him forwards during a party, your hands clutching his shirt collar, and you press your lips to his, as passionate as you dare-
- and he responds instantly, his hands smoothing down your back and into your hair, grasping it as if he's been waiting to do this for Merlin knows how long. He deepens the kiss, ignoring the catcalls around the room, his breath hot and heavy on your face, and you feel like you're dying in the best way possible, feel like this is where you were supposed to be, that this is what you've been missing.
He laughs against your mouth suddenly, and you feel it, see his eyes crinkle fondly, a gleam in his eyes when he takes you in, as if he can't get enough of you.
He is beautiful in your eyes.
"God, Malfoy, Draco..." He murmured, grinning like an idiot. "I've been wanting to do that all year. I never said anything, and you thought that I didn't like you, and then you blew up at me... and now you're you again, but the best you."
You smile at him.
"How could I not be?" You ask teasingly. "Now that I know what I want?"
He laughs, and leans in to kiss you again. You let him.