Title: Tabula Rasa

Author: kolachess

Summary: You don't regret it - what you chose for him and you. You never did. But that never kept you from wishing. "Honestly, Potter! You're looking at me as though you expect another person to pop up in my place!"

Rating: R

Length: ~9000, One-shot

Pairing: Harry/Draco

Warnings:(SPOILERS - highlight to read) AU-6th, Swearing, Major character death (Harry or Draco)

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and events created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. This is a work of fiction written for fun, not for profit. No copyright infringement or slandering of characters, actors or any related persons is intended. "Nuit Napolitaine" is the name of a perfume in Patrick Suskind's novel, Perfume: The Story of a Murderer. No infringement is intended on that name either.

Author's Notes:A big thank you to the lovely aliza for helping me beta my story, as well as my other friends for their inputs! This is my first HarryxDraco fic, so hopefully I've done ok with their characteristics.

"Tabula Rasa" or "blank slate"/"erased slate" comes from Latin and Roman origins and contributes to the theory that aspects of people's personalities, behavior and emotions are shaped and influenced by their experiences rather than by their predestined nature.

Tabula Rasa

You don't know when it started, when that tireless and unrelenting obsession gave way to something besides hate and loathing—something far more dangerous.

But then you'd be lying.

You know when it started because you were the one who started it.

There it was—that sound, which sounded suspiciously like a sob, a sob that clenched a sort of desperate grief. But it couldn't be, because it couldn't be coming from Malfoy. Even as pale hands grasped the cracked yellowing porcelain so tightly it must have been painful, even as thin fragile arms that barely seemed capable of sustaining defeated shoulders did, even as legs—normally long and elegant—shook and trembled, legs that no doubt would have given away were it not for the owner's death grip on the sink, even as fair hair—which had always been meticulously cared for—was ruffled and disheveled at angles it has never seen, even as the face in the mirror, so gaunt and hollowed, differed from a corpse only by its expression of torture and agony...

...he couldn't bring himself to associate the sound with Malfoy.

You could only stand there. Complete and utter disbelief washed over you because you never thought even for one second, not once in all those years of exchanging blows and throwing hexes and lashing out insults, that he could be as human as you.

The sound of running water drowned out the cries, drowned out the source of cries as the blonde desperately splashed his face with water. He couldn't though—drown it out. He was still gasping for breath and releasing shuddering breaths that verged on a break-down. Finally, after he managed to reign in the frantic haywire pounding of his pulse and count the number of breaths he's releasing to one per few seconds, he looked up.

You remember the way he stared at you through that scratched rusting mirror—an expression of shock at the intrusion of privacy and then the trembling rage that followed soon after.

"You!" He whipped around so fast he almost lost his footing on the water-logged floor of Myrtle's bathroom, but his hands found the support of the sink. For a second, he was so furious he forgot the way he usually spat out 'Potter!' and failed to come up with anything beyond the haze of red in his mind. For a second, he was so shocked he forgot his wand and by the time he had drawn it, he'd been disarmed.

You could have let him hex you. And you, in turn, could have hexed him. You could have hexed each other till one of you or both of you got hurt. Or until a teacher got involved. You could've done that and let it be. Someone would have been hurt, but at least it would have ended there.

But you didn't feel like dueling him at that moment. What you had seen shocked you. And a second was all you needed to use your favorite spell against him. What happened after hadn't been pretty. He seemed torn between running away from you and attacking you in a sore attempt to retrieve his wand by force. And although you had just come to the conclusion that he was indeed human, you were by no means sympathetic to his cause.

"Malfoy, I don't want—it's not—" he began, mouth agape as though the words tumbling through were not his own.

"Shut up, Potter!" Malfoy hissed, jaws firmly set as nostrils flared in anger, "Just couldn't keep your bloody nose out of other people's business, could you?" He sneered viciously. His eyes seemed to flash between storm grey and cold furious black. Even with Malfoy's wand safely tucked away in his own hand, Harry felt like his rival would, at any given moment, shower him with hexes. Although, launching himself at Harry like a beast seemed a more likely alternative.

Surprisingly, Malfoy did neither. Instead, he pivoted back around to face the sink, not caring at the moment that Potter still had his wand or that he really ought to get away. His hands found relief in clenching the sink once more; it was a conduit to siphoning off his rage. He needed to calm down. He didn't need...this—whatever it was Potter was planning—today. "Leave," he managed dangerously, not looking up at the mirror where he knew he would find Potter's reflection, which would set him off again. "Get out of here, Potter," he spat venomously. He didn't care if Potter left with his wand at this point, strangely enough. He just wanted to be left alone.

But you couldn't leave him alone. You wanted to play Hero. You, the Saviour of the Wizarding World, obviously could not simply let matters be. You felt obligated to do something because of what you saw.

Don't lie to yourself. It's the truth.

You stammered out a few more words or sentences. He threw back a few more biting remarks. At one point, he did launch himself at you, punching you squarely in the jaw and knocking your glasses and you onto the slippery bathroom floor. You, in turn, struggled back, determined to restrain him and keep him from lashing out and to listen.

A few more screaming matches and physical assaults left you both panting and bleeding, ire still prickling your systems.

"Malfoy..." Harry started, still gasping, "You don't have to do this! This—Voldemort's ...I can help! You don't have to go to him. You don't! If you just stop doing his bidding, we can protect you! And your family!"

You said that with such vigor and confidence, he almost believed you. You were so naive and hopeful, so willing to act; then, so full of unrelenting pleas and offers that he eventually did. He believed in your words and your false sense of security. Your confidence, so enticing that he could do little but give into it. He just wanted it all to end—the constant sneaking around and trying and pressuring and fearing and failing and worrying and hating. It didn't mean he trusted you. Far from it!

But it was started.

The moment you offered him sanctuary, your mind no longer linked 'Draco Malfoy' with 'Slytherin', 'Insufferable', 'Enemy', 'Evil' and 'Death-Eater'. And neither did your heart. Certainly, six years of loathing and hatred didn't dissipate in a happening of two hours, but your heart changed that day. If it couldn't set itself to hating Draco Malfoy...

You didn't love him. Not right away, of course. Now that's absurd.

But you no longer hated him.

At first, you pitied him. Felt sorry for him, for what he went through. He hated that. Hated that look you held in your eyes when you gazed at him. He didn't hate you, couldn't hate you. So he found something else to hate—everything about you. But he was well within his rights to hate your look of pity. He was a Malfoy. Malfoys aren't pitied. They. Just. Aren't.

You scoff, and you say you pity him because that's what he is right now—a pity. He's done nothing so far—nothing for you, nothing for others, nothing for his parents who he claims to want protection for and nothing for himself. And he could be. You're holding to your word, talking to the Headmaster even as weary and aged as he seemed and the old shoulders so burdened with life, to see if anything could be done for Draco's parents.

Ah yes. Draco, you call him now. You're determined to 'befriend' him. Of course, he won't have any of that nonsense.

"Look, Potter—" he still spat out Harry's name in the same manner, as though it were a disgusting insect hovering upon his lips that he needed to be rid of, "—just because I'm 'on your side' now..." His eyes narrowed. "Doesn't bloody well mean I'm ON YOUR SIDE! Are you listening, Potter? Or is your head so deeply implanted in the Weaslette's bosom that you can't take out your ears for two seconds for someone who doesn't have the brains of a squidling? For the last sodding time, I amNOThere to 'be friends' or 'mates' with you. We. Had. A deal. That is all."

You never tell him that rather than fuming about the comment at Ginny like he had expected you to, you had actually found it rather humorous. You just stand there of course, completely unfazed. Well, perhaps a frown gracing your features. You don't like how he talks about this 'deal' of yours.

Yet somehow, somehow... somehow, sometime and somewhere along the way, amidst all this war and chaos, you grew to love him.

And he, you.

Not that he would ever admit it. And he never did. Well, not the way you wished.

The irony—you've certainly had your fill—you and he both—complaining about the irony, talking about the irony, lamenting the irony and laughing at the irony. It was absolutely textbook, your romance, if it could be called that. Draco would always grimace and snap at you when you compared your story to that of Muggle and wizarding bedtime stories, tales like 'Favern and Wimble'or 'Romeo and Juliet'. You don't tell him you grimace too when thinking about the latter story.

You don't know at the time just how wrong you are.

Because in those two stories, as differently as they end—'Favern and Wimble'had a happy ending where the couple elopes, while 'Romeo and Juliet' had the 'star-crossed' lovers dying together bit at the end—they end together. Dead or alive, the lovers remained together.

You didn't have that fortune.

You did have a parody, a satire of a storybook romance to begin with—

How it happened isn't important. You remember. This story accounts for what you don't.

How it happened isn't important. What happened after was.

He was with you, all the time, even when you had gone home to Grimmauld Place for the summer, and the Order headquarters was flooded with everything and anything war-related. News about the war flurried day in and day out. Plans, decisions and strategies were now constantly discussed over the table where dinner used to be served. Though, he didn't have anywhere else to go, one could suppose. Malfoy Manor had been lorded over by Voldemort. Lucius was still in Azkaban, while Narcissa was out of the country, presumably in France with her kin. Draco's parents were 'safe'. You heave a sigh of relief. So that left Draco with you.

His aid in the war effort was a tremendous relief. Before Draco, Harry would have laughed in the face of anyone who said Potions was an important subject. And he did, to Hermione that one time before exams. He honestly couldn't see how Snape, the slimy greasy bastard, could hold Potions in such high esteem. Then again, since it was Snape, he didn't care. He thought Potions was a subject that left much to be desired. All that meticulous work and precise measurements, so easily thwarted with one little mishap in the cauldron. He wasn't downplaying it, certainly not! He'd been in the Hospital Wing enough times to learn that those little bottles of various ointments and potions had been what saved his arse numerous times.

Still.

He smacked you upright the head when you laughed because he said Potions was an important subject.

So you didn't anymore.

Of course, the real reason why you don't anymore was because you saw the werewolf, Remus Lupin, dragged in one day, unconscious and beaten with robes half soaked in blood—blood that you knew was his because you could see the horrifying gash running up his side, uncovered by the tattered clothing that had been torn and shredded—and while you could only sit in frustration and worry, Draco had been at his side following Snape's every order, feeding him bottle after bottle of miracle.

Remus survives...

...in exchange for half the stock of potions.

You respect Potions now. Just as you do Draco, just as you do Snape—begrudgingly.

And so the war raged.

People here today were gone the next. People missing turned up dead. Or they never turned up at all. Some families were missing mothers. Some were missing fathers; some, the children. Some families were simply taken out of the picture completely. Those were often for the best.

But it was ok. You and he were shaken, traumatized, exhausted and weary, but you were fine. Ron and Hermione were there still, the Weasleys, Remus and Tonks alive...you and Draco were alive. Everything would still be ok, as long as you were alive.

Until you realize that Lucius Malfoy had not changed sides like Draco had led you to believe. Though, in retrospect, he never led you to believe his father had. He had simply given you a shaky smile when you asked him about Lucius after his visit to Azkaban. You misinterpreted.

Narcissa Malfoy loved both her husband and son dearly.

Thus she was torn just as much.

His father did not know about you. He didn't know that his heir had been seeing Dumbledore's Golden Boy, did not know that his son shared the same bed as The Boy Who Lived, did not know that Draco had been helping and aiding the Chosen One, the sworn enemy of the Dark Lord.

When he did find out, about the last part that is, Lucius Malfoy did everything he could to keep the Dark Lord from finding out...

...because he wasn't a cruel parent like everyone else had believed. He loved his wife and son.

He loved his wife and son and believed firmly, perhaps mistakenly, that following the Dark Lord would grant them the happiness they deserved: a world where their kind didn't live under the constant fear of Muggles, of all things. He loved his wife and son, and they loved him back. That was something you never understood. If you had, things wouldn't have turned out the way they did.

You promised him.

You promised him he would be safe.

His parents would be safe.

You couldn't keep it.

"Draco? Are you alright?" Harry peered cautiously and worriedly as he approached Draco, who was sitting in that plush worn sofa that used to belong to Sirius's great-uncle, the fact courteously shrieked out by the portrait of Mrs. Black when they removed it from its cozy inhabitance of the attic. The other man was inattentive of Harry's queries, mesmerized instead by the flames in the fireplace that had simmered to a faint crackle. Harry frowned, uncertain of this new development lately. He dampened his lips and tried again, "How was Parki-Pansy?" He said this with more enthusiasm, certain that it would garner more response from his boyfriend. He knew Draco worried about his fellow Slytherins—enemies or not.

You thought he had gone to see Pansy Parkinson, the dark-haired Slytherin witch from your year, as well as Draco's good friend. But he hadn't. You didn't know that all those times he's told you he went to check up on his friends, he's been visiting Lucius and Narcissa. You wonder why, why the hell would he feel the need to cover up this fact.

To be truthful, he doesn't know either.

Perhaps it was because he knew, to an extent, that he was betraying you by going to them, because he knew where their loyalties lay, even if he didn't yet know his own.

You couldn't protect his parents.

So in the end, he had to.

"Don't...don't make me choose damn it, Harry!" He hissed, hurt lacing his tone and frustration gleaming his facials. His pallor was terrible—Harry was just now beginning to notice. Days of uneasy rest had become evident in the formation of rings under his eyes. Harry was shocked, a little hurt and rather irate at himself for not noticing what his lover had been suffering these days. The war took its toll on everyone, Harry especially, but still...

"I'm not making you! Will you just sit down and listen for a soddin' moment? I'm not saying we'll leave your parents to die—" Draco snarled at this, ferociously glaring down Harry, who felt a pang of envy and wondered if the former would ever feel the same amount of love for him as he did his parents. "—I'm saying that we can't do anything to pull them out of Volde—oh for Merlin's sake! You don't have to flinch at his bloody name!" Harry broke off furiously. He hated it. Hated the way Draco and other peoplestillflinch at the Dark Lord's name. All this fear and inaction. The bastard was the root of all their problems. "Voldemort!" He seethed daringly, just to prod Draco's reaction. The latter decidedly ignored him.

After a few moments that the clock ticked away idly, Harry sighed, anger still apparent in his features, though the creases in his brow relenting a little. "I'm not saying we're...abandoning them, Draco. But we can't do anything right now. I know that...that Voldemort's discovering you as my...ally is tantamount to treachery by the entire Malfoy house to the fucking bastard, but your parents are in his Inner Circle. He's not exactly stupid to get rid of his "loyal" followers, right? We can get them out. I promise."

But he knows you can't. Because not only is it damn near impossible to retrieve Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, they don't have any desire to leave. You don't know that.

Draco does.

That's why he felt he had to choose.

That's why he spent some nights crying silently, with his back turned to you on that dingy old mattress. If he wasn't crying, then he was trapped in his nightmare—recurring. Sometimes he chose to save you, only to watch Lucius and Narcissa shrivel up in the flames, screaming in agony and clawing at Draco, screaming at him 'Why?'. Sometimes when he chose to save you, they simply vanished. As if they never existed to begin with. Sometimes he chose to save them, only to see you die in a thousand painful ways. Sometimes he killed himself, just so he wouldn't have to choose. The coward's way out. But of course, he never died. Instead, he would watch as both his parents and you get Kissed, and he could only hold your soulless bodies and mourn.

But you never knew this, because he never told you.

You suspected, but that was all.

The Day you Obliviate his memory, you don't regret it. You never did. You still don't. You wish it could have been different, but there was no other way. He had made his decision. And you had made yours.

"You promised, damn it. You fucking promised, Potter!" His surname had once again found its way to the other's lips, nearly foreign sounding from misuse. But that feeling was always shot away as anytime Draco lost his temper, he would resort to it, as though it were a secret weapon. "You promised to keep them safe! And you couldn't!" Draco's lips were trembling now, and it was all Harry could do to keep himself from reassuring them, locking onto them and comforting them with his own. He had to remind himself that he was as angry at Draco as Draco was at him.

"Yeah. I did, didn't I? Andyoupromised to stay with me!" He scoffed, not knowing whether to punch Draco or cry. "How was I to know that you trapped me in a fucking promise I couldn't fucking keep because your parents are still the loyal Death Eaters they are? Well guess what, Draco? I CAN'T SAVE PEOPLE WHO DON'T WANT TO BE SAVED!" Harry saw red at this point. He could hear the blood, his blood, pulsing and throbbing through his temple, the beat furiously fast. His bright green eyes locked with Draco's fierce metallic orbs.

Draco held his stare, body rigid and lips still trembling. "Good. Don't bother saving me then." The last bit was nearly a whisper, a fierce whisper that Harry could barely hear through the throbbing of his angry pulse. Something flashed through Draco's eyes. He looked...almost defeated. For a second. And he seemed to linger for just a moment, as though hesitant to wait for something. It was as if someone had pressed a pause button and suspended the scene in the air. But it didn't last long as the next thing Harry knows, the scene resumes and Draco's walking away.

You knew something had to be done.

You were an accomplished Legilimens.

All those lessons with Snape and Dumbledore paid off after all. You no longer had nightmares about Voldemort. Well, not the kind special only to your scar connection.

It was easy for you to rape his mind, storm through his memories and re-sort them. Certain memories, you kept, even enhanced. While others, you tossed aside like last week's edition of the Daily Prophet. And one memory...one memory you implanted: a lie. You were desperate to keep him, to keep him from turning to Voldemort. Keep him from his parents.

That was one thing you could never get over.

You were always jealous of his parents. That they got Draco's heartfelt, sweet love when they gave him nothing in return, while you, who gave Draco your entirety, received only half that. They didn't deserve it—Draco's love—you thought. And you thought you were good enough to decide that. You never understood the Malfoys as a family. You never did. And maybe you didn't understand Draco enough either. That's why you made the mistake that you did...

...the mistake of turning Draco against them.

He groaned, attempting to sit up from his position on the ever familiar bed of the Hogwarts Hospital Wing; although, Madam Pomfrey was nowhere in sight. His head was swimming and threatening to split open at the tiniest movement.

"Shh it's ok, I've got you." The soothing voice of his lover was music to his ears, instantly abating the growing pains in his head. He could feel the Gryffindor's strong Quidditch-trained arms supporting him—one around his lower back, helping him carefully into a sitting position and the other tenuously touching his head, where the source of pain seemed to be originating from. It was as though he knew exactly where to touch, Draco thought surprised yet not distastefully.

"Ouch...lord, Potter...what happened? I feel like I've been hit with a two ton Bludger and sat upon by that obese Hufflepuff cow—what's her name?—simultaneously!" Draco complained loudly, not caring that the sound of his own voice served nothing but irritate his headache more.

Harry smiled. Draco complaining was always a good sign. "You slipped."

Draco stared at him funnily. One elegant eyebrow raised in an 'I-don't-believe-you' manner. Then he began to talk slowly, as though Harry might not comprehend him at a pace faster than an infant's crawl. "Malfoys...don't slip." He said this as though it were a fact of life that every child has been taught of since birth.

Harry laughed. "O-Of course not..." He smiled nervously. Draco narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"Harry, is there something you're not telling me?" He drawled out slowly and deliberately, liking the way it sent shivers up Harry's spine and knowing he's got the Chosen One trapped in a corner. A feral grin began to creep up on the corner of his lips.

At that moment, they were interrupted by the sound of the doors being swung open to give way to Madam Pomfrey, who immediately unleashed a tirade about 'children!' and how some boys just 'never grow up!'. Harry had the decency to blush. Draco only quirked his other eyebrow up in response, attention diverted—or perhaps he decided to let the matter drop for now.

You would later tell him that he had a potion mishap. Something had gone wrong. A spider perhaps had crawled in unwittingly, some dust. In any case, the potion exploded and Draco was knocked down, receiving a concussion in the fall.

When Draco asks to see the potion he was working on to understand why the mistake was made, you only stammer out some poor excuse about having cleaned it up already. He explodes and raves at you for half an hour about your stupidity and recklessness, what ifs and the probable importance of the potion, why can't he remember any of it, but he calms down soon enough.

He then changes the subject to inquire after the latest news of the war—you told him he had been out of it for three days. You tell him the updates—how Ernie Macmillan's younger sister had been brutally murdered, at the hands of an Imperiused Benedict Macmillan, Ernie's father, while Ernie's mother could only watch on in horror at what happened to her family. He cringes. Then his eyes flash with anger and a little sadness.

"Sick fuck. Why don't they SEE the man is insane? He's even attacking Purebloods...Honestly. You'd think that all Slytherins have gone and gotten themselves saddled with the brains of some second year Hufflepuffs. Mother and father too..."

You freeze up. You're scared at what he will say next. But it's not his words that answer your unspoken question but his eyes—

—his eyes, a fierce cold grey.

He turned to Harry, determination in place. "I will kill them, Harry. I...I hate them for what they've done to me, to you...what they planned on doing to me and you..." His voice quivered, though from rage or hurt or both, Harry couldn't tell. He was too busy relishing the feeling of relief and normalcy in his mind. He reached out and pulled Draco towards him, pulled him nearly into his lap and held him protectively. He planted a gentle kiss on Draco's forehead, then one on his lips and whispered, "It's going to be fine. I promise."

But it didn't, did it? You and Draco were never good at keeping promises.

You first notice something is wrong when you come back from a Horcrux hunt one day.

Harry was exhausted. He, Ron and Hermione had spent the past few weeks trying to track down the location of the locket, after finding the one left by Regulus to be a fake. They traced it through Mundungus Fletcher, the slimy good-for-nothing little pickpocket, to the disgustingly pink chest of Dolores Jane Umbridge, Ministry personnel. They made it out of the Ministry barely, nearly getting caught along the way. Now Harry wanted nothing more than to just collapse into Draco's embrace and savor the comfort.

The moment he walked through the doors of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, he found Draco Malfoy leaning against the wall of the walkway, smiling lightly up at him. "Welcome home, Harry."

Draco didn't smile like that.

Not the Draco you knew.

The Draco you knew always carried a grief and sort of weighty responsibility on his shoulders. The Draco you knew was always snappy and irritable because his mind always worried about people—about you, about the members of the Order, about the Slytherins, about his parents. He can never smile in a carefree manner, never break out a smile that wasn't laced with pain or burdened with weariness, sorrow or uncertainty. His smile wasn't perfect.

This Draco's was.

You could have laughed at the irony of it. You definitely cried. Once upon a time you would have moved mountains for him to smile that freely, without all those shadows of pain and sorrow marring it. Now you feel the small empty ache in your heart as you take in the beautiful smile before you, thinking how much you miss the imperfection.

He was still snarky.

He was still spoilt, aristocratic and had more often than not a holier-than-thou attitude.

But he was changed.

On the Second of May, Nineteen Ninety Eight, the Dark Lord fell.

The Chosen One conquered.

You still remember the feeling of walking to your death, knowing that you were His Seventh, knowing that you left without saying goodbye to Draco, because you knew he would never have let you go had he known, because you knew you would never have been able to leave seeing those angry tears in his eyes.

You scoff now.

That was another change.

He cries for you.

The Draco Malfoy you knew never cried for you. He would snarl at you, lash out at you, punch you, kick you, snatch you at your lapels and snog you until you couldn't tell left from right and then tell you off for being such a fucking idiot for worrying him—

—worrying him. You always worried him.

You vaguely remember memories ago, wishing Draco would cry for you the way he cried for his parents.

He does now.

You feel your stomach lurch and the need to vomit at the sick mockery that now lay before you.

It wasn't that this Draco Malfoy had done a complete one eighty. No one else could tell something had happened, no one close enough anyways.

This Draco Malfoy.

You snort. You don't even know when you started calling your lover, 'This Draco Malfoy'. You still whisper 'Draco' in his ear when you're making love, still spit out 'Malfoy' in his face when you're having a row. But in your head, you call him 'This Draco Malfoy'. You reminisce on fond memories of the Draco Malfoy 'you knew'.

Your heart, on the other hand, is torn.

You walked to your death that night in the forest glade and later, as you came to, you come across someone you hadn't seen in a long time.

Narcissa Malfoy was as beautiful as ever, clearly the one whom Draco had inherited his elegant figure and graceful touch from. She looked worn and much older than her years, yet she still held herself upright as the lady she was.

As you lay on the ground, still immobile from the shock of the Killing Curse shot from Voldemort's wand that destroyed the Horcrux inside you, you hear the soft shuffling and crunching of grass. Without opening your eyes, you know it's Narcissa. You can smell her perfume—Nuit Napolitaine. You know it by name because Draco knows it by name. He carries a bottle of it with him, and it hangs on a necklace around his neck.

You asked him why he carries it but never uses it.

He laughed and tells you it's a perfume for women, not cologne for men.

You ask him why he carries it then.

He can't answer. He frowns, searching for a reply to your question and now his. But he can't remember.

You walk away.

You don't know which hurts more. The fact that the Draco you knew never told you the significance of the bottle of perfume he carried around his neck, never told you that it was his mother's favorite and brought him comfort, or the fact that this Draco forgot, because you made him forget.

So the pieces instantly click, and you know it's Narcissa before she bends down to ask you if Draco is alive.

You nod.

She's satisfied.

Dead, she declares you.

The Dark Lord laughs.

You were carried up to Hogwarts Castle by your first friend, Hagrid, who could not stop sobbing as he held you lifelessly in his arms.

You stayed your hand, waiting for the right moment to act.

Stayed your hand as Voldemort taunted you, taunted your friends.

Stayed your hand as brave, brave Neville stood up against him, even when it seemed no one else would and all was lost.

Stayed your hand when Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy called almost pleadingly for their son to join them.

You know something is wrong when you hear footsteps walking towards you, on your side of the crowd.

You feel sick when you hear the way Voldemort addresses Draco because you know that he knows the ins and outs of Draco's betrayal. But he was still toying with him, toying with Lucius and Narcissa as well.

You know there's no way Draco would join them. So when the world exploded with green, you took action.

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy never stood a chance. Their faces of hurt betrayal and utter disbelief would have torn you. That is why you chose not to look, because you know you did this to them. They didn't believe Draco had betrayed them, would betray them, ever. The Dark Lord—yes, because he already had—but never them. Never. Even after not hearing from him for months, they still believed.

You duel the Dark Lord.

Everything is in chaos around you.

The moment Draco Malfoy unleashed his attack on his parents, the world exploded. Hexes flew everywhere, students scrambled to defend their home while Death Eaters crazed for blood. And the two of you, in the epicenter of it all—this field of death and destruction.

Somehow you win.

By using your favorite spell.

The events that followed were all a blur to you. Among the cheering and mourning, you remember glimpses—Lavender Brown's bloodied body, victim to Fenrir Greyback; the Weaseleys hunched and huddled over what must have been Fred's lifeless form; the rubble that was now Hogwarts, your home; snapping the Elder Wand with so much hate and loathing and tossing the fragments into the lake below; and Draco—

—Draco who came to you shuddering, looking almost crazed and dazed but safe.

"I did it, Harry...I did it. You did it...it's finally over," he mumbled disbelievingly, as stupefied as a Malfoy could get. When he finally recovered enough of his wits and senses, Draco chuckled lightly and the sound tickled Harry's chest, where the former was currently ensconced in. The lithe blonde then glanced up at Harry, and smiled.

That was the day your heart broke.

Cleanly severed, ripped in two.

You still live together.

In the remnants of the house that used to be headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix in the Second War against the Dark Lord Voldemort.

You decide to become an Auror, as you have always wanted. It's the only way you can get away from the guilt that haunts you every time you look at him.

He decides to rebuild the Malfoy name, taking over the Manor and rebuilding that. He's also got a nice little boring job at the Ministry as the Minister's personal secretary.

Sometimes you're on Auror duty and you swear your partner—a blond and rather short but firm bloke by the name of Adolphus Hemsworth—is actually the Draco Malfoy you knew, because the Draco Malfoy you knew would have worried about you too much to let you take on Auror duty on your own.

This Draco Malfoy worries too. But he isn't as domineering. He'd scold you still, snap at you and smack you on the head for worrying him, but he'd never do anything that limits you.

It drives you crazy.

You tell him that one day—you don't know why—and he just arches a golden brow.

"Are you sure you're quite alright, Harry? Some days I really do wonder if the old man didn't feed you one too many lemon pops and one of them didn't just combust in your mouth and completely acid out your brain—assuming you had one to start with of course. Now, why on Merlin's green earth would you want me to hold you back?" He drawled out in that sarcastic tone of his, eyes speculative and curious, not leaving Harry's.

You murmur something and leave, not bothering to correct his usage of the term of 'lemon pops'.

He notices too.

At least, you think he does.

You're staring, again. He notices that at least, and the way you look at him. You assure him nothing is wrong. No, you didn't trip on Auror duty and fall into a heap of Muggle trash bins. Yes, you took your potions this morning—you're over the cold now. Yes, your glasses are just fine, thank you very much. Right prescription. You're sure. No, he doesn't need to tinker with—

Damn it, Draco.

You massage your head in annoyance.

"No need to get your knickers in a twist. There, I fixed it again, didn't I?" Draco rolled his eyes, stormy grey orbs disappearing momentarily behind long lashes. "You ought to get yourself checked out at St. Mungo's, with the way you've been staring off lately. Or perhaps invite Loony over for lunch. The two of you ought to have a decent conversation or three. Ask her about her...Nargles, were they? See if..." He ranted off, waving his wand to clear the dishes from the table. Harry stared at him, brows furrowed, unsure of what to say.

The Draco you knew would have blown up the entire kitchen before getting a decent set of dishes in. Potion-Master Extraordinaire, but never could get a simple set of dishes to obey.

You smile fondly at the memory.

"Honestly, Potter! You're looking at me as though you expect another person to pop up in my place!"

You freeze.

He doesn't. He continues on, amused by his little joke, while perusing the Daily Prophet for any interesting facts other than 'What the Chosen One Chooses to Wear' which, he takes pleasure in pointing out, is a ludicrous column given your lack of taste in anything requiring style and that if the paper really wanted advice so badly, it should be running to him because at least he knows that there exists name brands for things other than Quidditch supplies.

He stops eventually though. And then you know that he knows something isn't right.

There is a gleam of uncertainty, a brief flicker of sadness and for one moment, you are brought back memories your Draco. The one you destroyed.

Then it's gone.

He says nothing.

And you realize, with a numbing pang in your heart, that the Draco you knew would not have said nothing.

The next thing you know, he's slid out of his chair and onto his knees in front of you. He then folds his arms on your lap and looks up at you coyly, wantonly. The fine corners of his thin lips are curled up very slightly, his intent to play with you and tease you evident in the way he draws in his breath slowly, deliberately. His eyes glimmer with a sheen of mischief or lust—mischief and lust. His long and spider-like fingers are now trailing up your thigh and your breath hitches—

Because you realize he's crying.

He doesn't seem to realize this. At least, not until he blinks and a lonely drop escapes. He stares at the damp spot on your trousers in confusion, because it's not the damp spot he's used to seeing. He reaches up to touch his eye and begins rubbing at it ferociously.

"Something...caught in my eye, excuse me-"

You love him.

Even though this Draco isn't the Draco Malfoy you knew, you still love him.

You just wish you never had to kill the other one.

You wish.

You knew how it would end.

Hermione was the only one to notice. She was the most brilliant witch of her year—so keen, so loving, so understanding. She was the one who held you as you cried and confessed everything you had done—to Draco, to his parents, to you. She hushed you and just held you. She told you that it wasn't your fault. It was the Horcrux in you. The piece of evil that lingered in you caused you to turn your love into something cruel enough to rape your lover's mind.

You let her soothe you with her words.

But you know they are lies...

...because you don't regret it. You never did. You'd do it again if you had to, because it kept Draco with you. You just wished...

He tells you he loves you.

The Draco you knew never told you he loved you. He showed you through your lovemaking, crying out your name with so much need and warmth that it assured you more than three little words ever would, ever could. He showed you by grasping your hand so tightly, you feared it would break. But you let him do so because it's his way of knowing that you're still here, you'll be ok. The Draco you knew never would have told you he loved you. You knew that.

You couldn't stand it any longer.

You loved this Draco now. But you still loved the Draco you knew. You missed him and you wanted him back. You wanted them both, you greedy bastard. Or maybe you just wanted the one, because they were both parts of him, Draco Malfoy.

You've made your decision.

Second of May, Two Thousand and One.

He's scoffing at the way Voldemort died and comforted by the fact that the Dark Lord and his parents will no longer haunt the both of you.

No.

"No, Draco." The man who was once The Boy Who Lived croaked in a strained voice. He felt like he was hallucinating, like it was all surreal and in a dream, because he couldn't believe he was doing it.

"What?" Draco drew his thin brows together, confused as to his partner's sudden shift in tone.

Harry had to find his voice again before he continued quietly, "You loved them." He closed his eyes, unable to take in the other's look of incredulity on his face.

"Those monsters? Who would throw their only child to a sick-minded mad-man? Sure, when I was a child and too foolish to realize that the only part of me my father cared for was my seed! How could you even say that—" Rage now descended upon Draco's beautiful features, morphing them into an ugly expression of cold fury.

"YOU LOVED THEM!"

And before he could get in another word, you plunge into his mind once more, just as you did four years ago.

It doesn't take three days this time. When you are finished, you are both crying. He cries because of the sudden realization of what you did...what he did.

You cry because he's so beautiful.

The Draco Malfoy you knew never cried for you or in front of you. But the Draco Malfoy after did. And you're crying because you can see both of them now.

He hates you now.

You know that.

He still loves you.

He knows that.

It's killing him. You can see it. It's killing you too.

Sometimes, you just wish this whole fucking mockery of a fairy tale would just end. Yet it continues—on and on and on and on like the never-ending taunt of a Merry-Go-Round. He doesn't move out. Merlin knows why. You don't complain. You feel like you ought to. Shout at him, yell at him or throw something at him to make him leave since he already hates you so much. But he can't and you can't.

"I hate you. I hate you and loathe you with every breathing fibre of my being," Draco chuckled darkly and painfully. "You know, I want to take a knife, stab it through you, cut out your blackened heart and just watch you bleed. But I won't do that, because you wouldn't feel a damn thing anyway. You wouldn't feel fucking remorse, fucking guilt for fucking with my life and taking my parents away from me!" He trembled with utter despair, hurt and rage all melded into one ugly being. He traced the butter knife he was holding in a surprisingly delicate manner along Harry's jaw line, down past his throat, and circled his chest. "I hate you the most for making me love you. And I hate myself for not stopping it." Suddenly his expression softened, as though he was falling asleep, exhausted and weary of all the emotion coursing through him.

He finally leaves.

You don't know where he's gone...if he's happy, who he's with.

You know he's dead before they tell you.

Somehow, you know that he took a potion that night—a Dreamless Sleep potion that would allow him to sleep forever, ever the Potion Master. You know that he spent his last few months torturing himself—mentally, emotionally. You know he cried himself silently to sleep, even though he was in his huge, empty manor where no one, not one living soul was around for miles to hear him. You know he split his remaining time between hating you, hating himself, and loving you. You know he would spend hours a day completely demolishing the East Wing of the once-lovely Malfoy Manor because the anger would take hold of him like a demon and would not relinquish its hold on him until he had hurt everything around him, including himself. You know he would also spend hours a day reading clippings from the Daily Prophet, eyes so full of pain and love when he saw you in the paper—saw how you've become thin, saw how your cheeks have become gaunt and ridden with exhaustion. He bit his tongue to the point of bleeding to prevent himself from lashing out at you, worrying and fussing and telling you sleep more, drink your potions, and for Merlin's sake—straighten that tie! He stopped himself because he didn't want to hear the echo in the empty room.

You know that he died painlessly, quickly and peacefully—very differently from the way he lived.

You know that as he neared his death, he thought of you—your caresses, your kisses, your love.

You know that in the end, he died hating you almost as much as he loved you.

Almost.

You know that he died loving you just a little more than he died hating you.

You know that he died loving you.

You know all this.

Because he's telling you - I'm telling you - now.

...

I love you.

I love you, Harry fucking Potter, the Chosen One, The Boy Who Lived, Dumbledore's Golden Boy, Merlin's Eighth Fucking Wizarding Wonder.

My friend. My lover.

Merlin's beard, I must love you, to be spouting all this sappy Huffleduffy romance. You roll your eyes. Don't deny it! I can see it now! Well, I scoff. I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, scoff at your immature response.

Because you are wrong, Harry.

Did you really think I would never tell you I love you? Well you're wrong. Oh I do love writing that. You're wrong, you're wrong, you're wrong.

I can say it.

I love you.

I know you've always wanted to hear it. And I know you've always wanted to hear it from me, Draco Malfoy, and not just me, Draco Malfoy 2.0 (to which I have to add, what on earth were you thinking? To ever ponder that mayhap a second could best the original? Well I scoff to that too).

You could have hexed me. That day in the girl's bathroom—Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. You could have hexed me, I could have hexed you...and we would've kept hexing each other until one of us or both of us got hurt or a teacher came...but it would've been finished and done with there.

We would've gone about our merry ways, on different sides of the war. You would've won and I probably would've survived.

No, don't quirk your eyebrows at me, that's my trademark. Of course I would've survived. We're Malfoys. And Malfoys survive by looking after their own. No, don't start your guilt trip either. I'll leave you plenty of time to relish in that later. Oh, by the way—you might want to tell Kingsley that he ought to leave the East Wing of the Manor alone. Don't stop reading yet, I'm talking here!

Right. Well, the East Wing is rather...ahem...shall we say, out of sorts? He won't find anything there, though the foundation in that part of the Manor is a rather fickle little thing nowadays, and I'd rather not tomorrow's headline to be plastered with "MINISTER OF MAGIC KINGSLEY SHACKLEBOLT KILLED BY FALLING TAPESTRY". Ha.

No?

No. I suppose you're right. Tomorrow's page in the Daily Prophet will probably be dedicated to me. Or rather, my death. Funny isn't it? All these years, I was jealous of your attention-seeking little nancy pants...I've finally got my face on the front covers in death.

I cringe at the thought of what they might write. Ugh.

I've veered rather off track now, haven't I?

Sorry, my thoughts are getting...a tad bit jumbled now.

...

I would've survived. My family would've. You would've.

That's all I ever wanted.

But no. No, you great git. You had to go and trample around in my mind, rummage through my memories, MY private memories—did you ever think for one moment what the bloody hell you were doing? You wouldn't go barging in into someone's private quarters in their own home, so why the fuck did you think this was alright?

I know.

I know you were desperate.

And yes, I know you love me. Although people generally don't pull this sort of stunt with the people they love. So you don't really love me. You only thought you did.

...Is what I ought to say to you. But I can't. Can't say it and mean it. Because I know you did. You do.

It's the world's fault for painting a picture-perfect definition of 'love'.

I know that for all this shite we've been through, we had love.

It hell wasn't close to perfect. But you don't like perfection, do you? Unfortunately not. Otherwise your hair wouldn't look like it just gave birth to a horde of hippogriffs, you would've taken my advice to seeking out that witch who manages vision correction and rid yourself of those terrible lenses, you would've tailored your trousers to fit you rather than hang off you, you would realize that Gryffindor red is atrocious in combination with lime-green. Eurgh. Honestly, Potter—what possessed you to come up with such colors?

Otherwise, you wouldn't have loved me.

I'm not perfect. I never was. Oh I did a wonderful, spectacular job at giving the illusion of it, didn't I? Well that's because Malfoys are always immaculate. Mother always said that a wizard's first impression of another always came from the way he brushed his hair down to the shine on his shoes. Somehow, I never could get you to learn that lesson, could I? And now I never will. Pity.

...

All you had to bloody well do was ask, Harry.

Ask me to stay. But you never did, did you?

I wanted you to. I waited for a moment for you to. Do you remember?

Of course not. This story accounts for what you don't.

I wasn't actually going to leave, you know? Though I assume you don't, considering the way you've managed to bollocks things up. Even if you don't manage to keep your promises, Harry, I do. I promised I wouldn't leave you, and I meant it.

I wouldn't have left you.

You're confused now. You ought to be. The truth you have believed in for so long, the foundation for all your actions just gave away before you. You always were stubborn like that, Harry.

You still don't get it.

You want to know why I pleaded you not to make me choose? You want to know why? I'm surprised you never found out that little piece of knowledge when you tore through my mind. Leave it up to The Boy Who Lived to miss the obvious.

...

I hated you for making me choose, because I knew I would choose you.

...

Even though I walked away from you that day, Harry, I had chosen—to stay with you, over the parents whom I loved dearly and who loved me just as much.

But you were just so absolutely infuriating. How dare you makeme, force me to decide when you were part of this just as much? If you had just asked. That would have meant everything, Harry—don't you dare say it doesn't!—because it would have meant that you wanted us. And not just me.

No, I'm not blaming you. Yes, you did act rashly. Yes, you started this whole thing.

I blame us.

I...

Sorry. It's becoming rather difficult to...to think now. Ah. That would be the Sleeping Draught counterpart of the potion taking effect...I managed to tinker with the properties of the potion to make the process gradual. Brilliant, yes? It seems to now be kicking in. Nice to know my skills haven't deteriorated. Wasn't sure if it would work.

Joy.

...

I hate you.

They were wonderful parents, you know? Yes, yes, I daresay you do now. Now. After everything—never mind. It doesn't matter. Not anymore. Not after...sorry, did I say that already?

Lord have Mercy.

The world must be on its knees now that Draco Malfoy has become an incoherent hallucinatory mess.

If that shows up in tomorrow's paper, quote me on that, would you? It would serve as a marvelous source of humor for years to come, I'm sure. Ha! "Draco Malfoy, son of Death-Eater Lucius Malfoy, degenerates mentally as death nears..."

Ah...

Could you do me a favor? Harry? My...body. My parents—the Malfoy plot...please.

...if Death is anything like what I'm feeling right now, then it must be wonderful.

It's quiet here.

No birds...around.

Tinky's gone. All of them...the house elves that is, in case you were...wondering.

Sometimes, I think I hear some...shrieks or...echoes of...

Everything is warm...

...

Don't feel sad.

And don't you dare come after me, Harry Potter.

I'm still mad at you, and don't want to see you until, say...eighty years later. That'll give me enough time to vent.

...

You know I can never forgive you.

...

But I do love you.

...

I think I hear something coming now. Might be that train and—Heaven forbid—our nude Headmaster waiting for me. Might be you...

Haha...

...scared, Potter?

~ END