Samsara's Curse (Drarry Slowburn)

DEATHWISH

A little while later, Harry brought the unfinished bowl of stew upstairs and knocked on Draco's door.

"What do you want?" the Slytherin spat venomously.

"Can I come in?" Harry asked against the door, hoping his voice carried to the other side.

There was a pause of consideration, until finally, Draco relented, "Do what you want, Potter."

Harry opened the door to find Draco sulking in his bed. He had changed out of the Muggle clothes Harry lent him and into his silk robe.

"You didn't finish your dinner. I charmed it so it wouldn't go cold," Harry said gently, placing the bowl on Draco's bedside table. "And . . . I got the sense that you were ashamed."

Draco's downcast eyes wavered, almost tempted to betray his pity party.

"We can't choose who we love," Harry said, ignoring the fact that Draco had rolled his eyes, "The sooner you accept that, the better off you'll be. Take my word for it."

"Why should I?" Draco asked stubbornly, sitting up but refusing to meet Harry's eyes.

"Because I went through the same thing not too long ago, with someone close to me."

Draco's expression softened. He lifted his head, despite how heavy it felt. He had to know. "Who?"

Harry blushed a little as he recalled the man's face, "You're going to laugh at me."

"If your answer is laughable, then yes," Draco admitted, swiveling to face Harry with the utmost air of indifference. "Spill."

With a nervous smile, Harry situated himself into an unoccupied spot on the vast bed. Draco let him, as he knew he'd either be in for a cackle or, at the very least, mild entertainment. "It was Rolf Scamander, Luna's husband."

Draco did not laugh.

"Nothing? Not even a snicker?" Harry pressed, not believing that Draco wouldn't jump at any opportunity to take the piss, especially if Harry was the butt of the joke.

"Well, I haven't met the bloke, so I can't make any judgements." Draco shrugged, thinking realistically, "Maybe he was fit."

"He was," Harry confirmed, nodding vigorously, "Tall, dark, and handsome."

Draco could feel himself lighten under the influence of Luna's Crumble Cookies. "Is that your type?" he asked, uninhibited by anxiety.

Harry shook his head, thinking deeply, "I don't really have a type, looks-wise. I'm usually just drawn to intelligence and drive. I don't mesh with people who aren't passionate about anything."

"I suppose that makes sense," Draco conceded, laying back down to look at the four-poster canopy. Above them reflected the night sky and its countless stars. It reminded Harry of the Great Hall's enchanted ceiling.

Harry lowered himself, as well, to gaze up at the twinkling constellations—only for a moment. His head lulled to the side at Draco, "You know . . . it's a little unfair for you to ask me about my type and not tell me yours."

Draco caught Harry's gaze, briefly. His eyes were piercing, searching, and ruthlessly enchanting. Draco hastily looked away, trying to focus on the stars above them.

"Pitiful Gryffindors," Draco spat bitterly. There was a sideways smirk on his face that Harry couldn't see. "I suppose that's my type."

Harry paused to think. A look of utter horror accumulated upon his face, "Like Neville?"

Exasperatedly, Draco sat up and rolled his eyes so hard that they would've fallen out of his skull, if they could. Neville wasn't pitiful—not anymore, at least. There was only one person, in Draco's mind, that fit that description.