Chapter Text
Draco Malfoy is a clean-cut, straight-edge Slytherin. He wakes up on time, takes his daily ten-minute (no more, no less) showers, eats the same breakfast every single day, attends his classes and does his homework and reads his readings. There is no time for anything else: be it friendships, social gatherings, going to the looney-bin that is Hogsmeade, or ever even give a single thought to that ghastly thing called "love." Love? Bloody disgusting. His parents never fell in love. They were wed out of pure profit-building. And that is how it's going to be for Draco, too. An heir is necessary to continue the Malfoy bloodline, and that shall be so after acquiring a pureblood wife belonging to an honourable family.
Yes. The plan is set, and that is how it is going to be.
Oh fuck, is that Potter? Damn. Nice ass, Potter.
No. No. Fuck no. Reset. Refresh. Rewind. That didn't happen. I did not just compliment Potter's ass. I am a straight man, and I will marry a wife who—
"Hey."
Oh.
Oh.
"Hello," Draco replies back flatly, letting his disinterest in Harry's stupid face and this stupid conversation show.
"So, um.." Harry starts, unsure of himself, or something else, Draco doesn't know yet, "Hey, nice tie. I mean.. Um.."
"Uh, okay. Thank you," says Draco, his grey eyes piercing into Harry's green.
Harry looks at the ground, even more unsure of himself (probably) than before. He slowly turns his head back up, looking into Draco's eyes very subtly.
"I'm just gonna say it, Malfoy," he starts in one breath, "IhaveacrushonyousouhyeahthatiswhatIwantedtosayreally-"
"Wait, what?" Draco interrupts, "Come again? And, uh, slowly?"
Harry takes a deep breath. "I'm in love with— I MEAN— FUCK— fuck— what I meant to say was that.. I.." He continues after another short pause, "I have a crush on you, Dra— Malfoy."
The Slytherin blinks his eyes a few times, not speaking anything. He simply stares into Harry's soul eyes and lets his words sit in his ears gracefully. The Gryffindor (ironically) shudders at his plain, flat look and takes a step back.
Potter likes me.
Harry fucking the boy who fucking lived fucking Potter fucking likes me.
Draco leans back, letting the cold of the grey and mossy bricked wall press against his back. He pretends to think a little, then looks at Harry, then pretends to think again, then back at Harry, and this process continues for a hot minute until he finally stands back up and puts both his hands on the smaller boy's shoulders, as if to say, 'listen up, buddy. It is time to talk.'
"I appreciate the gesture, Potter," starts Draco, "but I believe a union of love between you and I would not be possible for, well, many bloody reasons. I, for one, am not gay—"
"But Pansy told me about those magazines in your closet—"
"I needed to be more educated about.. Things.. And I'm going to fucking kill Pansy. But, coming back to the point— I humbly decline your offer to marry you."
"I never made such an offer—"
"Nuh, uh, shh, shh," Draco puts his finger on Harry's lips and smiles a wonderful, beautiful, not real, smile, "I truly am flattered, Potter. You will find someone, though. Tarry a little. Tarry a little, indeed."
Harry doesn't look amused. No, he is not in the mood for jokes at all. He crosses his arms and looks at Draco challengingly, "Are you turning me down because you're not gay, or because you're simply not into me?"
Well, Potter. I am gay, and I am into you, and if you took a peek into my very gay porno magazines, you will find that you are my type of man.
"I am neither gay," Draco chuckles, "nor into you."
I want to hold you and touch you and make love to you and stargaze with you and watch every sunrise and every sunset with you.
Being an obsessive observer of you ever since I laid eyes upon you has done.. Things.. To me.
It has made me want to do things with you. To you. Over and over and over again.
Harry nods and fights back the tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. Perhaps, he felt like crying after being rejected.
Or, perhaps, he felt like crying because a small part of him knew that Draco wasn't being true to himself.
If one lies to oneself, one hardly fucking manages to successfully tell the truth to others. It's a facade. It's all a facade, isn't it? Draco Malfoy and his cockshit make-believe lies that he spews in confident whispers and unknowing laughs.
"Goodbye then, Draco Malfoy."
Please don't leave me.
"Goodbye, Potter."
Please don't fucking leave me.
And thus, they part ways.
Though, the question is, for how long?