Disclaimer: J.K.Rowling owns Draco. Sucks for me.
Warning: Pretty angsty. Easy slash.
Summary: Draco solo, day after Harry dies.
I'm crying and I didn't care.
Everyone, the whole school, is staring at me. And I'm crying and I don't care.
Because when Dumbledore stood up, with tears in his eyes, and told the school what they already knew, it was too much.
Those bloody Gryfyndor friends of his were all just standing there with blank looks in their eyes and I wanted to scream at them. Scream that they are unfeeling. That their best friend died and they don't care. That he was just "the boy who lived" to them.
He didn't live.
Did they love him? I did. I fought with him for an excuse to touch, his fist against my face made my day, just because he touched me.
Once it was just the two of us. We were fighting, then we were kissing, then…then there was a different kind of touching. Touching that made everything disappear. Touching that stirred something deep inside of me. Touching that could have been love.
But the next day the war started, and he was gone. Gone to fight the good battle, he could never be seen with the son of a death eater and I never would have been seen with the boy my parents hated.
But here I am crying into my hands in the middle of the Great Hall.
Harry is dead.
Harry is dead and I'm crying.
Harry is dead and I'm crying because I love him.