Draco/Blaise: He might be one of those boys / That's all pretty and vain
From the very first night in the Slytherin common room, Draco knew he and Zabini weren't going to get along.
Zabini seemed to think everyone in the world existed to do his bidding, but clearly he was wrong. Everyone existed to do Draco's bidding, thank you very much. Besides, Zabini lacked Draco's lateral thinking and enterprising spirit; he just sat back and waited for good things to come to him. Draco, fortunately, was not so misguided.
When Draco was picked as Slytherin Seeker in second year, Zabini scowled for weeks. Draco suspected it was the reason he never joined the other Slytherin supporters in the stands.
When Draco was picked as prefect the summer before fifth year, Zabini sent him a congratulatory letter. When Draco opened the envelope, he ended up with a face full of wartcap powder. That took weeks to heal.
Draco retaliated by sending him chocolates that were laced with Laxative Liquid.
In September, Zabini cornered him on the train, his wand digging painfully into Draco's neck, his hard cock digging into Draco's thigh, and that was, well, that.
He might be one of those boys that's all pretty and vain, but he's Draco's pretty boy.
Harry/Draco: I love you / I hate you / I can't get around you / I breathe you / I taste you / I can't live without you / I just can't take anymore / This life of solitude / I guess that I'm out the door / And now I'm done with you
Potter stops moving; he glares at Draco in that way people usually reserve for errant pets. "If you'd stop talking for a second."
Draco laughs; he came ten minutes ago. It's inconsequential that Potter hasn't yet. Draco likes this, likes that Potter only has control when Draco is flushed and panting, when Draco wants. When Draco stops wanting, he stops caring -- it's really that simple.
He bites his lip; not quite hard enough to draw blood but hard enough to hurt. It has to be like this; he's not allowed to care. If he does, Potter will walk, like he did the night Draco broke down, the night he said something incredibly stupid to Potter, something he refuses to think about.
He doesn't even remember how they got here, in fact -- the events of the past four years are a kaleidoscope. If Draco so much as shakes his head, the glass pieces rearrange themselves in a new pattern, a new trail of fabrications, half-truths and empty spaces.
Sometimes Potter doesn't call for weeks, and Draco stares into a dark corner of his bedroom, wondering if there has ever been a time when things were different. When Potter finally shows up, it's always like the first time -- angry, sharp words, all about Snape and death and parents.
And then he's slammed against a wall again, and he smiles inside just a little. If this is the only way he can have him, so be it.
Draco/Harry: No promises
"Can't we just -- you know. Just fuck. No promises."
You look up at him and you realise you hate him. You hate the way his eyes look without the glasses, like he's trying to focus on your face but not quite succeeding. You hate his hands with their traced-letter scars and their hangnails. Most of all, you hate the expression on his face, like he's sure of your answer already.
"Fuck off," you say quietly, and jerk your head in the direction of the door.
"You heard me." Your voice is low now, and your eyes are narrowed, so much that you can't see him.
You watch him go with a slight twinge of regret, one you know will grow into a dull ache by morning. Maybe by next week it'll spill over your knuckles, slippery and warm, because you'll still think about him as you toss yourself off.
There can be no compromise for you. You want everything or nothing at all.
Harry/Draco: I'll be your best kept secret / And your biggest mistake.
Harry doesn't want to tell anyone about Malfoy.
How could he? After everything that's happened, there's no way he can talk about it. It wasn't something he ever intended and he doesn't know why it's happening, he's not ready to explain. Ron and Hermione have each other; Harry has no one and it's only fair.
And so he meets Malfoy in secret, always at the same time, always in the same place, always under his Invisibility Cloak. Malfoy brings very little information, but Harry doesn't think Malfoy's information can help him, anyway. He's much more interested in what's beneath Malfoy's clothes.
One day, Malfoy is not there and there's a cold dread in Harry's chest. He's terrified -- that Malfoy has been captured, or worse, that he's gone of his own accord. There is movement behind him then, and he whirls around, wand at the ready.
It's Malfoy, and Harry's relief knows no bounds -- he didn't leave, didn't, won't, can't, mine. Malfoy bites his lip and Harry steps closer -- is that a bruise on Malfoy's cheek? Their embrace is fierce, hot, tighter than it should be--
The first thing Harry sees is Malfoy's body. They killed him, they found him and killed him, what a fucking waste. Harry blinks at the broken boy at his feet, then at the smirking one next to him. In his head, Hermione pipes up. Hair is dead cells anyway, and all Polyjuice needs is--
Not-Malfoy laughs in a cold, high-pitched voice, and then there is a burst of green light.
Harry/Draco: I can't take it / What am I waiting for? / I'm still breaking / I miss you even more / And I can't fake it / The way I could be for / I hate you but I love you / I can't stop thinking of you
It's funny how life works sometimes.
You might wish for something and believe it's what you truly desire. Then if your wish comes true, you might find that you didn't really want it, didn't really mean it, didn't think things through.
They buried Draco Malfoy together with his parents in the family plot behind Malfoy Manor. The manor itself passed to Tonks as the only surviving relative. Tonks is always happy to see Harry, and he visits often.
He visits Draco's grave and thinks about those bitter night watches when he would stand inside the little alley next to Borgin and Burke's. It would rain and it would snow, but Harry always waited, watched the street outside, listened for familiar footsteps. Draco was always late.
Draco would tell Harry what the Death Eaters were up to, until eventually the conversation would turn to breathless whispering and frantic touches. The only words never spoken were perhaps the ones that should have been, but there's hindsight for you.
For many months, Draco's was the only warmth Harry knew. Then one night he wasn't there, and a part of Harry is still cold.
A knocking sound grows more and more insistent and Harry sits up in his bed, but it's only the apple tree's branches crashing against the window in the bitter wind outside. A thought crystallises and drops down to Harry's heart -- he's wished for Draco's death so idly, so casually when they were boys. And now...
Now Draco is dead and Harry is alone and there are no stars in the sky outside.
He knows it's not his fault but if he could go back and change things, he would never have wished for this.
Harry/Draco: Take me back to Paradise City where the grass is green and the girls are pretty.
"Los Angeles? Is that in Brazil? You can forget it, Potter, I'm not going to Brazil."
"It's not in Brazil. It's in America."
"I don't see the significant difference."
"I promised that you could pick our vacation spot! I did not promise that I would let you drag me halfway across the world to commune with the spirits, or whatever it is those Americans like to do in their spare time."
"You know, for someone who prides himself on being educated, you sure don't know a whole lot about the rest of the world."
"I don't care about the rest of the world. I'm not Granger."
"Would you at least look at the brochure?"
"Okay, so I'll just stare at these boys playing beach volleyball and leave you alone, then."
"Boys? Give me that."
"And you lied to me! These people look they're having fun, they're not communing with spirits or anything."
"I never said they--"
"Where did you say this place was?"
"Well, then, it's settled. That's where we're going. Honestly, Potter, why do I have to do everything myself?"