Chapter 7
Draco was absolutely furious with himself.
What had he been thinking? He wasn’t thinking, that was the problem. His breath came to him in ragged gasps long after he’d reached the bottom of the tower. He glanced up to make sure Harry wasn’t following him. Of course, Harry did nothing of the sort. It just proved to him that Harry had realised what happened and was disgusted with Draco.
How could he have been so stupid as to give in to temptation?
Draco wasn’t even drunk.
Slightly tipsy, yes. There had been just enough alcohol in his blood for him to lose that one ounce of self-control that held him back from jumping on Harry and doing whatever the hell he wanted with him.
But he was fully aware of what he was doing, of what he wanted, and Merlin did he want to kiss Harry. The impulse had been there for a longer time than Draco was willing to admit, but his feelings toward Harry which he had only begun to acknowledge around Sixth Year only grew more and more complicated the longer Draco knew him.
During Sixth Year, Draco thought he was going insane. What with the Dark Mark, and Voldemort, and his father, Draco was sure that the irrational urge to grab Harry by the front of his robes and smash their lips together was a result of fatigue and extreme stress.
When the feelings didn’t go away, rather intensifying, as time went on, Draco was sure there was something wrong with him. There had to be, for what other explanation could there be for the way he felt towards the one person he was supposed to despise more than anything else? Shame flooded him in every way possible. Yearning over a boy was one thing, but yearning over Harry Potter? He was sure that Voldemort would murder him if his father didn’t first.
When Harry disappeared during Seventh Year, Draco was secretly relieved. At last, he didn’t have to see him anymore. Hopefully this put an end to any sort of lingering emotions, but when Harry showed up at his house, his heart plummeted to his stomach, recognizing him before his head fully registered what was going on.
Instinctively, he lied.
He knew that if he got caught, he may end up tortured or killed or both. Even worse, Voldemort could make him watch while he cast crucio on his mother. But he couldn’t help it. Draco had to lie, because if he didn’t, Harry would die, maybe in front of his eyes, and every fiber of his being screamed that no matter what happened, Draco couldn’t bear to witness that.
Then there was that night. That horrible, horrible night. Draco remembered bits and pieces of it, and there were large chunks that were missing. Later he was told it was because there was a lot of trauma there. His brain chose to omit the things that would potentially harm him to remember.
But he remembered all of that encounter in the Room of Requirement. He remembered Crabbe and Goyle and their taunting. He remembered Harry standing opposite him, he remembered the sudden and sharp fear that coursed through him as Fiendfyre swallowed the entire room.
He’d never really told this to anyone, but up until that moment, Draco had firmly believed he wanted to die. The only reason he hung on was for his family. He knew he couldn’t die peacefully without bringing some kind of harm to his family until the war was over one way or another. He’d just been so tired, of the seemingly endless darkness, of his father’s expectation and Voldemort’s cruelty that he wished more than anything that he could put an end to it all.
But in the face of actual death, survival instincts kicked in and Draco found that he couldn’t let himself be buried in the depths of the Room of Requirement. He climbed as far away from the fire as possible but the heat was suffocating and Draco was convinced that it was no use.
He was about to accept his fate when out of the corner of his eye, he saw Harry on his broom, racing toward him with a look of determination on his face. Draco reached out his hand, almost in awe of the way Harry reached for him, grabbed his arm, and hauled him on the back of his broom. Draco realised a moment too late that one of his friends had been left around, and he tried to alert Harry of the fact, but the look Harry threw him as he told him it was no use shut him right up.
Draco owed Harry his life, and for a brief moment he allowed himself to hope that perhaps Harry didn’t hate him so much after all. Perhaps there was hope for them. But all of that came crashing down when Hagrid emerged from the woods with Harry’s limp body held in his arms. Draco’s world tore apart at the seams as he watched in disbelief. He felt absolutely numb, but then miraculously, Harry was alive.
He was alive.
But then followed something almost as cruel.
Draco was the Death Eater. He was public enemy number one, and although Harry’s testimony earned him a second chance to live the life he wanted, Draco was the foul Malfoy who sided with the Dark Lord in the war, while Harry was Harry Potter, the one that saved them all. Draco couldn’t dream of even breathing in Harry’s direction. The likes of him was supposed to keep his head down and live a quiet life.
Draco decided that he was fine with that. He was content knowing that Harry was alive, and that even if Draco could never stand at his side, he could watch from the sidelines as Harry lived his life as the hero that he was. Draco was even prepared to take the brunt of harassment without a word of complaint because above all, he knew he deserved it. He barely deserved to be alive, but by some miracle, he’d survived, while those more worthy of life passed away. Draco knew that if given the choice, Harry would take the choice to exchange Draco’s survival for any one of the people close to him, such as Fred Weasely or Remus Lupin, in a heartbeat. Draco felt guilty for the very fact that he opened his eyes in the morning, and he constantly swore to himself that he would never move on from the war for as long as he lived. He would continue to remind himself of all the horrors that he’d been a part of and live knowing that he wasn’t worthy of the chance he’d received.
But then Eighth Year began, and Harry did the worst possible thing he could have done.
He started to care about Draco.
Draco didn’t understand how the universe could be so cruel.
To have Harry just at arm’s length while being fully aware that Draco could never reach out and touch him was a new form of torture that he wasn’t used to at all.
Draco tried in vain to push Harry away. Harry wasn’t supposed to be concerned for Draco’s safety and health because that just didn’t make any sense.
But no matter how hard he tried, Harry reached out again and again until Draco’s attempts to distance himself grew increasingly half-hearted.
So there they were, in the astronomy tower, closer than they had ever been. Draco wasn’t drunk, he wasn’t anything close to it, as he’d always been able to hold his alcohol. He didn’t think Harry was all that drunk either.
He thought that Harry was fully conscious of himself and his decisions, so when he inched steadily closer, Draco leaned nearer too, his heart beating so hard that he was afraid it would jump right out of his chest. When their lips met, it wasn’t fireworks that Draco felt but an intense sense of relief like everything was finally right in his world. He could hardly believe what was happening, that Harry wanted him back after years of silent pining. When Harry called him ‘Draco’ for the first time since they’d known each other, Draco felt as though he would melt right then and there and had to rest his hand on Harry’s knee to steady himself.
But then they pulled back slightly and Draco caught sight of Harry’s eyes that were unfocused and definitely not sober.
Harry didn’t like Draco back, at least not in the way Draco liked Harry, because if that were the case, he would never have kissed him while drunk. This was much too important to Draco to waste on a drunken mistake. Draco wanted Harry, but not like this. He couldn’t have Harry like this.
So he ran.
He sprinted down the steps, holding back tears as he wondered how he could have been so utterly stupid.