The days from that point on felt dark.
It was as if a thundercloud had descended over Hogwarts. Everything felt colder, Harry couldn't remember the last time that he'd felt so hopeless.
Perhaps it had been when Sirius died.
He remembers how he'd felt then like it was only yesterday. How he'd been angry, so so angry, and he'd shouted and broke things and stormed around. How Dumbledore had told him he understood, and Harry had said he didn't, even though Harry couldn't possibly have known how much Dumbledore did understand, because Dumbledore never told him.
Dumbledore didn't tell him anything.
Dumbledore had been one of the few people Harry had always thought he'd be able to trust implicitly. Yet, when he was seventeen and on the run with the weight of the world on his shoulders, all he'd had from him was dead ends and a sense of betrayal that had flipped his sense of trust and loyalty so enormously Harry had stopped trusting almost anyone for years to come.
That time, back when Sirius had died, Harry had been angry.
He had been angry, and scared, and sad all at once, and some people tried to help.
Or maybe they didn't.
Really, in the end, Harry didn't know if anyone had at tried all.
People had offered him the bare minimum of their comfort, which they could give without mentally exerting themselves too greatly, in order to feel as if they were good, so the guilt didn't eat away at them.
People had said, 'Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry for your loss,' and Harry had nodded. Harry had smiled politely, and thanked them. Others had even given him flowers. Harry had thanked them too.
But really, in the end, not very many people had comforted Harry at all. Because Sirius had been a prisoner, and everyone had thought he was a murderer, and even though Harry had been so clearly going through something, everyone who didn't know was too absorbed in their own menial problems to even so much as bother with a 'You alright, Harry?', or a 'Want to talk about it, Harry?' or even a 'I hope you're okay, Harry.'
No. Not even once.
Harry didn't resent them for it. Not much.
Because really, in the end, Harry had only ever had himself.
People had told him his whole life that he wasn't alone, that he could trust them, that they wouldn't leave. But he was, and he couldn't, and they did. Every one of them.
This didn't mean Harry didn't love them, of course not. Harry loved many people. He loved so many people, and he loved them so fiercely he had willingly died for them, and he would do it again. But despite this, when Harry had spent those terrible months grieving, when he'd lock himself in the bathroom and sob and sob until he threw up just to feel something, those people hadn't been there.
And as much as he lied to himself that they had tried to be, they hadn't.
Hermione would check on him. Ron would ask him if he wanted to play a game, to take his mind off of it, you know? Sometimes even Ginny would ask if he fancied a fly, for a bit of fresh air.
But Harry didn't want that, not really. What he wanted was someone to talk to. He wanted someone he could tell, who would listen and hold him and stroke his hair and tell him everything would be okay, and that it would be over soon, who he could cry to without feeling embarrassed or ashamed or as if he wasn't being the unbreakable Saviour they all expected him to be.
He wanted someone who loved him, and who he loved in turn.
And really, really, in the end, isn't that what he'd wanted - all he'd wanted - his whole life?
Which was why when Voldemort had returned only days ago, and Draco had sat there with him on that cold floor in the chilly evening - when he'd definitely had better things he could be doing - Harry had clung to him like a drowning man clung to the shore.
And Draco had stayed.
They'd hidden away there, in that room. The same room that they'd nearly died in, the room that had held so many stories long forgotten. Harry wanted to be one of the things on the towering shelves, hidden away for nobody ever to see.
Draco had let him.
They'd stayed in the makeshift bedroom the room created for them, spending days just lying there on that bed, ignoring any of the outside world or the consequences of their actions, Draco just holding Harry, Harry clinging to him like a lifeline.
Sometimes they'd talk. Draco always let him start. Sometimes Harry would cry. Draco let him do that too.
Harry thought he'd probably startled Draco the first time he did. He'd sort of gone quiet for an hour or so after telling Draco what had happened, and then he'd asked if they could stay here instead of going back to the Common Rooms, and Draco had said yes. They'd just been about to climb onto the bed, because they were both tired, and sure it was at least midnight, and Harry had just started crying.
He never cried, and never in front of someone else. Apart from when Sirius died, but even then, his proper crying had been kept solely for behind closed doors. He couldn't let anyone else see him, because he was their hope, and if the hope seemed hopeless, was there even any hope at all?
But with Draco, it was different.
He didn't try to stop the tears coming, or make his sobbing soundless, or turn away or do anything else. He just started to cry, and Draco had looked up at him, alarmed, before walking over and embracing him in that way Harry had always dreamed about.
They'd laid down then, staying that way for what could've been hours, or days. Maybe even years. Harry wished that it had been, and that ivy would grow over them, keeping them wrapped like that forever - like some lost statue of lovers bound by fate.
Harry had hugged Ginny when they were together, and cuddled her and he'd even accidentally cuddled Ron once in the Common Room when they'd both fell asleep, but he'd never been held so gently as when Draco held him.
It was bizarre if he thought about it, the person who would treat him so carefully would be the same person he'd loathed throughout his formative years. It was funny how people could change, because when Harry blinked open his eyes and moved to look at Draco now, he couldn't possibly hate a single inch of him.
That was when Harry realised that actually, he loved Draco.
It was surprising, he supposed, but not like he would expect. He had always thought realisations of true love would be dramatic, a heart stopping moment and a confession which could turn seas.
But it wasn't like that.
It was actually a warm feeling in his chest, a feeling that spread throughout his whole body. It was like summer, when you were lying on the grass and you could hear people laughing but you didn't know where. The promise of happiness, of goodness of others.
And suddenly Harry understood why love lead people to write sonnets and ballads and songs, to cross oceans and fight wars, to stutter and fumble; because it felt wonderful, and even though Harry wasn't particularly poetic, it sort of made him want to try.
Draco was sleeping. The glow from the lamp on the bedside was painting his skin gold, his eyelashes were long and his face was very beautiful, but it didn't make him look feminine. He looked like a statue. Carved marble, intricately designed - or maybe a fairytale prince, something fantastical that didn't quite seem like it was meant for this world.
Harry tucked his head back into the crook of Draco's neck, feeling his heartbeat through his shirt. He felt very soppy, and a bit silly, and maybe sort of like he wanted to start laughing, but he didn't. Instead he exhaled slowly, letting his breath fan across the pale skin of Draco's throat. He wondered if it tickled.
He hoped Draco was having a nice dream, whatever he was dreaming about, and with that final thought, Harry fell asleep.
—-
Draco awoke to a warm body against his own.
His arms were wrapped securely around the person he lay with, and he had a face full of dark, unruly hair. He snapped his eyes open, yanking his arms from the other body. Draco had no idea who had thought it funny to sneak into his bed but there was obviously not enough room for the both of them, and he had half a mind to tell his unwanted companion to get off, because he hated physical touch, but then he looked down.
He was met with the frankly darling sight of a koala-cross-Harry-Potter, who was currently clinging to him with his arms and legs. Despite being very nearly the same height once they were eighteen, with only an inch or so's difference between them, at age fourteen Draco was almost five inches taller than Harry, and the height advantage was definitely noticeable now.
Draco grinned like an lovestruck idiot, feeling rather self righteous that Harry was so comfortable cuddling him, when he remembered the events of yesterday.
His stomach dropped, the Dark Lord was back.
He didn't even want to think about how he was back yet, he was still barely processing the fact it had happened. More than that, though, he was processing the terrible way Harry had reacted.
Harry had cried.
Draco had never seen Harry cry before. He'd never even heard of Harry crying, nobody saw Harry cry. Which, for someone who'd experienced the death of more loved ones than you could count on your hands, was fairly surprising.
Draco remembered the way the sight made him feel as if a dementor had entered the room. His heart shattered, and he wanted to hold Harry and make everything okay, to whisper consolations in his ears.
But Harry wasn't a child, so he probably didn't want that.
Instead, Draco had just been there for him. He took Harry into his arms and just let him cry.
Harry cried for a long time, so eventually Draco began to run his fingers through his hair, in a soothing gesture his mother used to use on him when he was younger. It had worked for Harry too, because shortly after they'd moved to lie down, he'd fallen fast asleep.
Draco was completely unprepared to see Harry's mask of strength and courage dismantle so easily before him. Harry always seemed so unsinkable, like titanium. The world had truly thrown everything it had at him, and he'd always bounced back. He was so strong. So brave. So unbreakable. To see him collapse felt as if someone had pulled the ground from beneath Draco's feet.
Draco could pretend like seeing Harry cry hadn't shaken him to his core. He could pretend like he didn't like Harry all that much, he could pretend like he didn't love him.
But really, none of that was true.
And Draco did love him.
He'd been deluding himself that he didn't for far too long, and trying to shove down something as violent and overwhelming as love was no easy feat.
Maybe it wasn't love, and Draco was getting ahead of himself. As it was, he'd never been in love before, he could have very well just started to really like Harry as a fleeting crush or even just a close friend, but Draco also wasn't stupid. Despite his inexperience, he knew what the feeling was.
He craved Harry, and he knew it was more than just surface-level attraction.
Sure, Harry was gorgeous, but it wasn't that which incited Draco's feelings. It was the way Harry treated him like a person. Harry had never been swayed by other's opinions, like in first year when he'd declined Draco's hand of friendship despite it being obvious that Draco was rich and smart and well-off. He'd always hated Draco, even when others loved him, but when things changed and others stopped loving Draco, Harry still saw him.
He saw him for the broken, scared, used boy he was. He helped him, even though Draco had pushed him away.
Draco may have been extremely clever, and funny and popular - he was talented at many things too, and fairly attractive if he did say so himself, but he wasn't so indescribably good in the way that Harry was.
Harry treated everyone as a person, and wore all his emotions on his sleeve. He was fiercely loyal, recklessly brave and unflinchingly kind. And fuck, Draco loved him - achingly so.
Even when he'd been a Death Eater, Harry treated him like a person.
A person worth saving. A person worth listening to.
A person worth loving.
Draco knew Harry loved him. It was written in everything he did, his small acts of kindness, the way he laughed at Draco's jokes sometimes even when they weren't really funny, the way he touched him. It was also made rather plain when Dumbledore himself had written it out for them, but Harry didn't love him in the way Draco wanted him to.
He knew that realistically he was lucky to even get Harry's love platonically: Harry was incredible, and even if you didn't know him the way Draco did, anyone could see that. But it didn't stop Draco from wanting. He wanted to hold Harry like this all the time, wanted to touch him, to kiss him and tell him everything he felt, to have Harry say it back.
He wanted to have a house together, or maybe a flat, with a dog and big windows. Or small windows, if Harry wanted that instead. He wanted to go on trips with him, to see things together, to experience the world as one. He wanted Harry to tell him everything about his life, even the bad bits, about his horrible muggle relatives and the time he spent on the run.
He wanted to map out Harry's body with his hands, memorise his skin, his taste. Everything.
But Harry didn't want that, so they wouldn't.
Draco had never known himself to be a selfless person, so giving up the possibility of the life he dreamed to have was rather a big deal for him. Perhaps it was because he was spending so much time with Harry, maybe his relentless martyrdom was rubbing off on Draco. Either way, it didn't matter. Draco would be selfless for Harry, and he wouldn't make things weird.
Instead, he'd have to sit tight and embrace the fact he'd fallen in love with Harry Potter.