Credit to: obviously_sherlocked_Anya
From Archive of Our Own
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There was always too much to say about Harry Potter. A marvel. A legend. The Chosen One. Incomparable. Invaluable. The most astonishing wizard of the bloody age. With his two abnormally fortunate friends, they were the Golden Trio. Merlin, and Potter called him pretentious. Harry Potter this, Harry Potter that, could there ever be a simple conversation without mentioning witless, obtuse, imbecilic Harry James bloody —
“Mister Malfoy!”
Draco’s head snapped up, blinking rapidly at just slightly peeved emerald eyes. Not the right hue, however. Too old, too tired. Lupin, then. Predictable, of course. Lupin had some keen senses for a simple professor.
“Yes, professor?”
“Where is your mind this morning? I don’t believe you’ve heard a single word I’ve spoken at all.”
“Professor, today’s lesson is about boggarts. You were reviewing the instructions for the second time because Longbottom was too mortified by the very thought of encountering one to pay good enough attention the first time around.”
Lupin’s eyes went large, before a slight grin twisted upon his lips and he nodded.
“Very good, Malfoy. Now, what is a bog—”
“A boggart is a physical manifestation of our deepest and most appalling of fears, professor.”
“Hmph. Yes, well, and what does one—”
“A boggart had no literal form in any sense, as it as I just said—a manifestation of fears. If there is nobody to look upon it, it is nothing. Are you quite finished with your questions?”
Lupin wet his lips, his brow creased as he inspected the Slytherin. Then, he stepped away, gesturing to the cabinet before all his students with his wand.
“Line up! We’ve practised the spell enough; let’s see some action, yes?”
A chorus of ‘Yes, professor!’ rang through the classroom, and once everybody had their fill of pushing each other and giggling about this whole scenario, the deafening click of the door unlocking echoed against the walls. It creaked open. The first student stepped forward, and everything went completely quiet.
It was simple enough. Fun, really. Spiders, snakes,professors, there were all the usual fears repeated with many students. Potter hadn’t gone. Whether it be the Dark Lord, a Dementor, Sirius Black, none of the options that could be stuffed in Potter’s mind would ever be acceptable for the normal folk to witness. The line was thinning out, and soon enough, Draco was being shoved up to the front of the classroom, right in front of the cabinet, of the boggart inside.
To be completely truthful, he hadn’t considered what his boggart would ever become. When he stepped out into the light, he almost collapsed to his knees.
It was Harry Potter. Bloodied up more than any proper pounding could ever provide. He was staggering, barely able to keep himself on his feet. His eyes were dull. He was dying. Bleeding out. Oh, the blood was everywhere. All over the ground, spilling around Draco’s freshly-polished shoes. It sounded as if Potter was wheezing, but it appeared to be more as if he was struggling to breathe because of the blood clogging up all the passageways.
“...’m...M’sorry, Draco...”
Draco blinked, shuddered, felt his wand being released from his grip and clattering onto the hardwood underneath his feet.
“Draco... Don...Don’t look-look a’me like tha...that... M’sorry...”
Not-Real Potter inched closer, pallid, bony fingers reaching out to grasp messily at Draco’s robes, smearing the rich green and silver with a ghoulish crimson.
“M’sorry, Draco... Did-Didn’t mean...to do...an-anythin’ this ba...bad...”
Sticky palms that were cold as death were suddenly pressed against his cheeks, and that was when he understood that they were drenched with his tears. His body felt too numb and too sore. His head hurt. Or was it his heart? He couldn’t differentiate those two anymore.
“Don’t forget me, Draco...”
Four blessedly clear words, and then Not-Real Potter dropped to the floor. Lifeless. Crumpled up in a pile of bone, flesh, and crusting blood. Fingers splayed out over Draco’s shoes, one final attempt as staying with him, even in death.
A gasping whimper left him, and he felt his entire being shudder with the torment of losing the only thing he was certain would never be lost. Potter always kept him protected, kept him grounded. They despised one another, but Draco always felt his body calm whenever Potter was near. Potter was safe, but with him dead... There was no more light for him to look to.
He grimaced as his knees slapped against the cold floor, his trousers soaking up the blood as a harsh, wretched sob was all he could manage to emit. It was brutal. He felt himself shivering, and it was tiring. He was still crying. It wouldn’t stop. Nothing would stop. Nobody could stop anything. He was alone, and he’d always—
“Draco,” a voice breathed out, the desperation thick in the air as another presence dropped down beside him. A hand was on his shoulder, twisting his body around, pulling him closer. He was being embraced. He felt himself nestling his face deep into the person’s neck, breathing them in. They smelt lovely. It was an intoxicating mixture of broom polish and cinnamon and kindling. The person’s skin was so warm, and their pulse was lightning quick. Dangerous. They were afraid. Draco didn’t care. They were here, and he couldn’t imagine them ever leaving. He swung his arms around the person, hugging them close to his body and pressing himself as tight against them as he was physically capable of being.
“Draco, it’s okay,” the voice whispered, their soft lips so close to his ear, their hot breath puffing against his skin, “I’ve got you.”
Their voice was lulling him into a right state of serenity. It was like melting dark chocolate, dripping through his fingers, enveloping him in its rich essence. It was a delightful voice. He quite liked this voice. He wanted this voice to keep speaking to him. He gripped at the person’s robes, his eyes fluttering open as he felt the comfortable weight of the person’s hand against his damp cheek. It didn’t feel like the other hands that had touched him; these were hot and sweaty and real. Alive. There. He felt sick with relief.
He tilted his head into the person’s hand, feeling them lift his gaze until he was staring into the most inimitable eyes, soaked in the colour of fresh basil leaves and pine needles. Oh, Merlin, he’d gone mad.
“It’s not real, Draco,” Harry told him, all while Draco’s fingers dug deep into his robes, trying to understand the living body underneath them.
“It was just a boggart. It’s not real. I’m here, Draco.” Harry took one of the Slytherin’s hands, and rested it over his heart, allowing Draco to feel the thudding beat. It felt much more real than that filthy boggart had ever felt. It made Draco’s hands tremble, everything about this whole situation suddenly too overwhelming for his mind to comprehend. Witnessing a death that had utterly destroyed him, but had really never happened at all... He didn’t know what to do about that. Thankfully, Harry seemed to be a bit more composed.
“Draco, look at me.”
Draco didn’t. He couldn’t. It was too...too much of everything. He couldn’t control what he was feeling anymore. He felt like he was spiraling, unable to stop moving.
“Watch me,” Harry pleaded, turning Draco’s head just slightly as he released him, then gripping his wand and lifting it to aim at the boggart. He cast the spell at the damned thing, but nobody could laugh. He shot it back into its cabinet and bolted it up hard. He didn’t want it coming out again, not with Draco around.
“It’s gone. Look, everything’s gone. It never happened, Draco. I’m okay.”
Draco paused, eyes darting down to examine his hands. There was no blood. Not one droplet, not one remanence of the Not-Real Potter being dead at his feet. The Slytherin inhaled sharply, his upper lip quivering as he tried to say something, anything.
Harry didn’t say anything either. He just held Draco again, let him rest his head on the Gryffindor’s shoulder, let him close his eyes and let all the memories of losing him fade away into nothingness, where they should be.
“You won’t lose me, Draco,” Harry whispered to him after he felt Draco loosening up, curling into him more as the tension dispersed.
“I won’t ever do that to you, I promise.”
“Don’t...” Draco rasped, voice roughened from the heartache. It felt as if he hadn’t spoken in years, centuries.
“What? Don’t what, Draco?”
“Don’t... Don’t promise me anything... You can’t ever...be certain,” he mumbled, tongue heavy in his mouth and his head throbbing. He just wanted to go to bed and forget about this entire day. This whole year. His whole life. Merlin, the humiliation was emerging, and it felt awful.
“Draco, I’m not going anywhere. Trust me.” Harry’s sincerity was fogging up his head, and he didn’t like it at all.
“Why? Why should I trust you?”
“Because, Draco, you want me in your life.”
Draco tried very much to look positively scandalised.
“I could live very well without you, thank you!”
“You could, yes. Your life would probably be splendid without me in it, but that’s not what you want.”
“My wants have nothing to do with this.”
“They have everything to do with this, Draco.”
“What goods will my wants do me? You hate me!”
“You hate me, too.”
“As I’m supposed to.”
“Not as you want to.”
“You’re changing the whole subject, Harry!”
Harry paused, his lips tilting up just slightly as he observed the Slytherin with amused, dancing eyes.
“What’s so funny?”
“You called me Harry.”
“Yes, what of it?”
“The only time you ever called me Harry was when you first met me. After that, it was just Potter. Why the sudden change, Draco?”
“Oh, uh, well...” Draco’s cheeks heated up, and he shuffled backwards, trying to escape Harry’s whole bloody existence. This was too embarrassing; he felt like tossing himself out of the nearest window.
“Draco? Do you have something you want to tell me?” That stupid boy-wizard was grinning again. Draco wanted to smack it right off his face. Or...or, of course, kissing it away wouldn’t be too bad either. No. No! That was a terrible idea, stop it!
He was gnawing at his bottom lip, trying to remember just how much he loathed Harry Potter. It wasn’t working.
Then, he felt Harry’s fingers entangling themselves with his own, and his brain went to right mush.
“Draco, I don’t mind,” said Harry, squeezing Draco’s hand as he lifted them both up to their feet, Draco practically falling into the Gryffindor’s arms from Harry’s movements.
“I, um... You don’t mind what?”
“This, Draco.”
“Oh. Uh... Right, well. N-Neither, um, neither do I...”
“I should think not. You’re totally in love with me.”
“In love with you? Why, I neve—”
Harry Potter kissed him. Square on the lips, he just...kissed him. It was dizzying. Long, slow, lazy... His arm wound around Draco’s middle, holding him in a sweet embrace as the Slytherin just melted in his arms, forgetting about their statuses and all that societal nonsense surrounding them. It was wrong, oh, it was so wrong, but really, who cared?
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Everybody called Harry Potter lots of things. Draco, however, didn’t have too much to say. He just called Harry Potter, well, his. That’s all he was, and all he needed to be. Alive and well and his.