Draco Malfoy dropped dead fifteen years ago. That was that; there’s not much else to say about it. Well, he did not just drop dead; he’d been slain by a rather violent curse and died in a pool of his own blood. Red, shredded, and crying. Harry was there when he’d died, and that is why he’d not yet gotten over it. It sounds awfully ridiculous, Harry knew, because he’d seen many of his dear friends die that day, but nothing quite left a stain as conspicuous as the death of Draco Malfoy. But they had not been lovers.
Harry’d been sitting before the hearth for a while now, thinking about it and watching the great oak log burn itself away. The heat of the fire paid special attention to his face. Fifteen years ago. A lot had happened since then, and Harry was undoubtedly happy, but there was something irksome that had been threatening to take over him at any moment. It was almost a secret, like an affair, but Draco and Harry had not been lovers. For ten years, he’d been happily married to Ginny, and for seven years, he’d been a proud father of two children. His career proved advantageous, and his home had been tastefully furnished and practical for his growing family. Despite all of this, nearly every day, he’d wonder: What if Draco Malfoy had lived? And this very question was eating him alive; it pervaded his entire being; it waited in the pit of his stomach, coursed through his veins, and took over his soul completely.
Yes, Draco Malfoy had loved him, but they had not been lovers. He’d remembered the panicked confession he’d received from Draco in the crumbling halls that day.
“Harry, I love you! With all that I am, I love you,” he’d said in what sounded like a fit of desperation—maybe he’d known he’d die and could not bear the idea of Harry’s not knowing. “I’d been very unjust to you, but know this: I’d have given you the world and more if my hands hadn’t been tied. But I was a coward; you know that I am; that is my character. You must understand that I have been absurdly devoted to you and only you.”
Harry’d remembered what he’d felt upon hearing the confession. The boy before him wore an extraordinary expression of deadly passion and spoke as if he’d waited his entire life to utter those very words. Harry’s heart nearly stopped. There’s nothing quite like hearing a fervent confession from a pretty face, and Harry had never gotten over it. If tragedy were to materialize as a man, it would have shown itself as Draco Malfoy at that moment. The love was real, it was genuine, and it was confessed almost as a protest against their situation. But they had not been lovers, so it remains a tragedy.
Harry was silenced and immediately quit the corridors they were in. Besides, Harry wasn’t obligated to respond—that is, if he were physically able to. Nonetheless, confession had left such a profound impression on him; it erupted within him a sort of relief—an epiphany, if you will.
Then Draco Malfoy was dead. This was after Voldemort had been reduced to a pathetic pile of ashes. In a fit of rage and overcome with great chagrin, a Death Eater had taken it upon himself to slaughter the Malfoy heir.
Harry saw it happen.
Draco had found Harry in the crowds, and upon seeing him, those seraphic gray eyes looked as if he’d arrived at the gates of the Elysian Fields, and Harry had felt that the boy had never looked more lovely than he did then. But they had not been lovers, so they did not run to each other.
The curse hit Draco in the back. It happened so quickly that Harry could hardly remember what it looked like as it escaped the wand of the bitter man. There’s something odd about the eyes of a boy who knows he’s been robbed of life. Draco had looked shocked in an innocent way, as if someone had merely told him a particularly interesting piece of gossip. But his eyes had been on Harry, and Harry could see clearly the moment Draco had realized he’d be dead in the next ten minutes.
Harry rushed over to Draco as he crumbled onto the rubbled ground. His clothes were slashed open, and blood poured out of him in thick, crimson rivers. Harry’d cradled him in his arms and stared at him, unsure of what to say. He’d thought back to Draco’s confession and was even tempted to speak of his own affections toward him. But they were not lovers, so Harry didn’t dare.
Then Draco began to cry.
It wasn’t uncommon for one to cry before one’s death. It was said that many times it was shock, or maybe the panic of reaching such a wretched realization. But the way Draco cried hadn’t been of that nature. He’d looked up at Harry with wide eyes and began to sob as if he’d never, ever wanted anything more than to be with him. It was as if Draco felt the only place for his dead body was in Harry’s arms.
Of course, he’d coughed and begun to choke on his own blood. That was when he’d begun to panic. Draco began to hyperventilate, which prompted more bloody chokes. Harry hadn’t uttered a word, but he silently wiped away the blood from his chin and lips with his hands. Harry wondered if he ought to have kissed his lips then, you know, to give Draco one last chance at happiness before he was gone. But they had not been lovers, so it wasn’t at all necessary.
Draco died rather quickly. Maybe it was three minutes after choking on his own blood. But the last thing he’d said was, ‘Harry, I-‘ and then he’d died. And right before he’d uttered his last words, his tearful eyes glanced nervously at Harry’s lips. Draco had wanted to be kissed.
Harry obliged and placed his quivering lips on Draco’s. They were cold and tasted of blood, but Harry could feel the boy’s life that had been there just moments before. In that kiss, there’d been tremendous sorrow and bereft. Harry could hardly contain the pain, whose hand gripped his soul and shook it wildly. But they had not been lovers, so this pain shouldn’t have lasted fifteen years.
Yes, they had not been lovers. But they should have been.
Harry should have kissed Draco before he’d been rid of his last breath; he should have told him of his own affections for him and told him that he’d been nursing a heart that, for Draco, was full of pure love. And it had been much too late to realize this the moment he’d kissed Draco and cradled his lifeless body, the body that housed a tremendous devotion for Harry.
“Harry, you’re home early!” Ginny’s voice pulled Harry from his reminiscing. The weight of Draco’s body disappeared from Harry’s arms and the spectacular sensation of Draco’s lips left his own.
Upon seeing him, Ginny’s eyes lit up with pure bliss. Harry found her exceptionally beautiful, for her blue eyes looked gray in the darkened corridors of their house.
But they had not been lovers, and they never will be.
THE END