Draco knew he was going to die the moment Harry came back from the third task at the triwizard tournament; bloody, shaking, terrified, and screaming. Draco knew this was his truth since then, and he’s had three whole years to come to terms with that fact.
He didn’t ever plan on falling in love with Harry Potter within those three years. He was so indescribably in love with that boy. He wanted him more than the world, and Draco knew that Harry wanted the world more than he wanted Draco.
Harry wanted the world over himself. Harry was born and raised to want the world over himself, and Draco couldn’t stop it. No matter how hard he fought, how hard he worked, he couldn’t stop it. He could only silently, desperately fall more, and more in love.
He should have said those words to Harry. He’s had so many opportunities, so many moments where it would’ve been right. So many moments where Harry had said those same words, yet assured Draco wouldn’t have to say them back. And Draco never did. Instead he gifted Harry a silver chain for his fifteenth birthday. Thin and elegant, enchanted to never break.
Enchanted in more ways than one.
Draco always hoped there would be a time where he could say it once they had won. Once they had won together. That foolishness brought him here, in front of the dark lord.
Crucio, after crucio. Spells that turned him inside and out, then put him back together again. Writhing, screaming on the floor. All he had to do was say it. Tell the man - the monster - above him where Harry was. It’s all he had to do.
He refused.
He never could say it to Harry, but he’d always be able to write it, even after death.
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Harry had survived. He’d survived, with his friends, with his teachers, with the world. Without Draco.
The blond had gone missing, no signs of him halfway through the war, no death eater daring to even utter his name. He was gone, and it tore Harry limb from limb. The months he cried about it, sobbed and screamed over him. Those were the months that aged him. Not the war, it was the grief that gave his eyes that hurt, that tiredness.
Only weeks after the search for Draco had been dismissed, and Draco was declared dead, Ron had asked Harry if he was alright, if he wanted to talk. Ron knew of him and Draco, of course he did. He never knew the extent though. Never knew how helplessly they needed one another. How they promised to live for the other.
Harry had responded, “If I loved him any less, I might be able to talk about him more.” And Ron had cried with him that day.
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Harry had turned Twenty. He had been getting better. His face wasn’t as pale as it was at the end of the war, he wasn’t as hurt, and wasn't as malnourished. He’d been doing better.
It wasn’t until the small silver chain that had been gifted to Harry in 5th year by Draco let off a faint humming green glow, Harry thought about Draco again. He grieved again, screamed again. His yells, his cries, his bouts of denial damning the world dying on his lips as black words and parchment appeared in front of him.
Draco’s neat handwriting, his elegant signature, the smell of his cologne and expensive parchment. It was all in front of Harry.
I Love You Most, Harry. I hope I’ve said it to you by now, and if I haven’t, know that it is my biggest regret.
-Draco
Harry couldn’t take it. The raw sound that escaped his throat - his soul - echoed on the empty walls of Grimalds place. Stripped of any control, heart aching with deep hurt. It left him voiceless for weeks.
It hurt more than ever because he knew Draco was gone. There was no chance of him merely missing because Harry would not have received this letter otherwise. A simple “I love you” from Draco would be so much more than enough, it would be Harry’s one desire, but Draco always wanted to give him more.
An “I love you too” would be returning Harry’s affections, and Draco was so adamant in how much more he cared for Harry than Harry cared for him.
It had to be an “I love you most,” it had to be something that clawed at Harry inside and out because it was true. Draco had loved him most. He always had, and now he wasn’t here for Harry to love him more.
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Harry received another on his Twenty-first. And his Twenty-second, and Twenty-third. By his thirties he stopped screaming. No sound of pain left him. No sign other than silent tears streaming down his face as he read the small notes, happy birthday to you’s, and idle things Draco talked about.
How Harry wished he could see Draco speak again. See and hear, though, seeing was always more fun to Harry. When Draco was excited he talked with his hands.
In every letter, Harry remembered something about Draco, the way his hair would frizz after quidditch, how his tea was always scalding and extra sweet. And with every year Harry forgot Draco slowly. He forgot how tall Draco was, the way he never looked Harry in the eyes when he was lying. The way he huffed when he was sad. The way he cried when he was angry.
Harry turned Seventy-Two when the last letter arrived.
Harry, this is my last. I’m sorry to go, I truly am. I hope you’ve grown old, I hope you lived the life you deserve. Remember, I loved you most.
-Yours forever, Draco.
His writing seemed rushed, and Harry could only imagine what happened after. He could only be filled with dread for something that had already happened.
Like the dead roots of a tree, it could have happened years ago, yet still block a road. Draco’s death still held that weight for Harry, Harry never grieved any less. He never hurt any less, he just learned how to love more. He learned to love Draco more with every year. Even as his memory deteriorates, even as he’s dying, down to his last breaths. He’s learned to love more than he’s hurt.
After all, He’s loved Draco Most.