Work Text:
Who are you? Do you know?
Draco does. He has always known.
Draco is a Malfoy, is son and heir. He is intelligent, ambitious, and proud. It’s in his blood, pure and blue.
Draco knows his duty.
Under Harry’s hands, he is someone else. Harry’s fingers discover his features, he grips his fathers hair and kisses his grandfathers nose, cups the jaw that marked the family for generations.
In a mirror, all Draco ever sees is a gallery of ancestry. In Harry’s adoration, he doesn’t see at all.
Draco doesn’t see, dances in his blindness. He clings to Harry, claims his kisses and his time and claims everything, gluttonous and impetuous, giddy. Draco is lost, lost with Harry and more lost without him.
When Harry touches him, Draco forgets who he is. Harry’s, only Harry’s.
It’s enough. What else could you need but love?
But Harry can’t touch him all the time, and life makes demands of us all.
Father’s hand is heavy on his shoulder, asking Draco to look, to make his choice.
“It’s Potter,” he confirms. Father glows with pride.
Harry yells in betrayal, yells as he is sacrificed. Draco stands tall as he watches; pain is to be born quietly, as is tradition.
This is who he is, who he has always been.
Draco Malfoy, pleasure to meet you.