Fic that I still haven't naamed. Original poster: haribobbin
Hari’s mad epic fic part 5. I will think of a name for it soon, I promise.
Summary: [I’m rubbish at summaries, but have been told it would be useful, so I got my friend to write one. Here it is.] Fanfiction full of lovely things, things like Dark Lords, slashy smut, confused feelings, angst and misery, adorable toffs, subverted expectations and beautiful boys falling in and out and in and out of love (and each other) [HARR. I was rather proud of that]. When it turns out that Draco Malfoy isn't quite the facist bastard everyone thought he was, but really just a lonely boy with a troubled past and a taste for the finer things in life, the one person he can fully trust and be honest with is the one person that he is seeking to destroy. But when neither Harry nor Draco can deny their feelings for one another, the war that splits their world in two will tear them apart...
Warnings: Slash, and, you know, angst, misery... as above; I unfortunately don’t own the characters; x-posted.
PART FIVE: And so it was, that on the first sunny day of the summer term, I was so busy obsessing about work , and essay, and the exams, that I walked right into him.
“Look where you’re going…” he snarled, I think before he realised it was me. I stared at him, open-mouthed.
Here, in the middle of the deserted Hogwarts grounds, sun shining through his fair hair, was Draco Malfoy. Right here. He was standing opposite me, only a foot away, looking rather bored, as if he had better things to do. We were alone together. And I had nothing to say.
He turned around to continue on his way.
“Wait!”
He turned back to face me, looking exasperated, as if this was some extreme effort. “What is it now, Potter?” He was trying to sound cruel and deprecating, as usual, but this time didn’t sound as harsh as I think he’d meant to.
“I love you,” I said simply. I turned and walked away from him, back up to the castle. The last thing I saw was him standing very still, his expression of boredom having quickly evaporated.
“Harry?” I heard him calling behind me, sounding very different, any act he was playing forgotten completely. I kept on walking, and when I didn’t reply, he called again, louder, even though now there were other students coming outside onto the grounds.
“Harry, wait!” he sounded a little hysterical, and it was very difficult for me not to turn round, but I kept going, walking away from him.
The next time I saw him was in a charms lesson. He had almost regained his normal state of composure and slight boredom. He didn’t speak to me at all, but during the class he dropped his quill, and when he got up I saw a neatly-folded not sticking out from under my shoe.
“Wednesday, two o’clock, Forbidden Forest,” it read, and then, underneath, in that same tiny handwriting, “wear those jeans.”
And suddenly any worries about work, or essays, or exams, were forgotten completely.
Those tight jeans Hermione had advised me to buy so long ago had sat in the bottom of my trunk under my bed until that Wednesday lunchtime. I was very excited, and incredibly nervous. I didn’t really know what he wanted to see me for, anyway. I could be getting my hopes up for nothing… It was cloudy, that Wednesday, and windy too, so you could hear the wind rustling through the leaves. I was early, but when I arrived, Malfoy was already there. He looked sort of… messier than usual, slightly flustered and not at all as calm as he normally was. His shirt was ruffled, his tie was loose, and his hair was all messed up from, and I could see him doing it now, running his hand through his hair, which he seemed to do compulsively when he was nervous. He caught sight of me and I smiled hesitantly. He didn’t smile back.
I came towards him.
“About b-before…” he stammered, and then he came to a halt, and just looked at me, occasionally opening his mouth, and then closing it again shortly afterwards. It was very odd, seeing him like this. It wasn’t just that he was nervous – it was that he was letting it show. It was the first time I’d ever seen him so blatantly not in control.
“I… I just… I mean… I like you… but…” The words hung in the air. He couldn’t have said anything much worse. I wasn’t very surprised, I wasn’t shocked, but the fact that he said it out loud made it feel a bit like someone had punched me in the stomach.
“I… I’m not… n-not sure if I really…” His voice got quieter and quieter until it just petered out. I didn’t feel… angry, quite… I didn’t feel like I had any energy at all. I just felt sick, and empty. I looked down at my feet.
“Don’t do that,” he said quickly.
“What?”
“Don’t…” he stepped towards me and brought his hands up to my face. “…Don’t look so fucking… sad…” He laughed nervously, but I could see his eyes were watery, and I could feel his breathing getting even faster.
I hadn’t seen him in so long… I should probably be happy that he even wanted to meet up, content, finally, with the thing I’d wanted so much for so long. But I wasn’t. I couldn’t stop myself from thinking, over and over again: he doesn’t love me. Even though I sort of knew that already, I thought it didn’t matter to me that much, before. We both still liked being together, and I thought I didn’t really care… but now here he was, right in front of my, fair hair and delicate hands and all, and I just felt very empty. He didn’t love me.
His eyes flickered around anxiously as he watched me, trying to tell what I was thinking. His hands, which were still holding my head, still pulling us closed together, were trembling. He began to stroke my cheek, and then slowly, and ever so gently, ran his hand downwards, across my lips, down my neck and my chest.
And then he kissed me – not on the lips, like he normally did, not down my neck, but all over, covering me in these tiny, gentle kisses. He started with my fingers, and my hands, then went around my wrists and up the pale skin on the inside of my arm. He kissed my toes, and legs, and hips, unwrapping me as he went, pulling off my clothes very carefully, then my chest, and ribs, and back, and shoulder blades, speeding up as he went, but still as gently as ever. By the time he reached my neck, there was a sort of urgency to it. Although it was lovely, although it was still delicious, there was a not of desperation to it all, and when he had kissed my neck, and my ears and my hair, he drew back so I could see his face. I could almost have cried.
It wasn’t just that he looked sad – it isn’t the right word. Saying he was sad made it sound as if it were temporary, as if it were solvable. It’s the expression that he almost always seems to be wearing when I see him now – maybe now he looks a little more world-weary, but they’re basically the same. It isn’t that he looks particularly miserable, particularly wretched, but he seems to have… accepted it, somehow. Accepted that this is the way he feels, now, so that he doesn’t even try to feel any better. It’s the sort of sadness that’s never complained about, never admitted to. If you ask him how he is, he will always say “fine,” and smile unconvincingly. At best, he is still distinctly not happy, and at worst… well, I don’t see him at his very worst. I don’t think he comes out, or speaks to anyone, at his worst. And when I do see him, I can see in his face that look of constant, inescapable sadness. No matter now tired of it he may be, he can’t change it, can’t fix it.
He looks depressed, he looks sort of… Tragic. And now, it’s common, it’s just how he looks. But that’s now. Then, on that Wednesday afternoon, some time not long after two o’clock, it was the first time I’d seen it, really. The first time I saw him looking tragic – and God, how I wanted to fix it. I couldn’t bear to see him looking like… that, I just wanted to hug him and hold him and forget about anything else, to nuzzle into his neck and have my arms around him and make him better.
But I didn’t, I couldn’t, I realised then that I probably never would. We stood opposite each other, in silence. I just kissed him, and turned around. And I never did hold him in quite the way I wanted to. He left afterwards without a word. I came back the next Wednesday, not really expecting him to come. But he did come, and we fell back into that Wednesday cycle. Even though it was nowhere near as happy and carefree as before, it was still there, and I loved it, I needed it… I became dependent on it.