Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. No money is being made. It's all a product of my imagination. I couldn't resist.
A/N: Song lyrics at the top belong to Mr. Robbie Williams. Thanks to my lovely beta StringsofPearls.
Let Them All Fly Off
I'll be misunderstood
by the beautiful and good in this city
none of it was planned
take me by the hand
just don't try and understand
Every time Harry looked at him, the question in those deep-set green eyes was unmistakable. Why?
Why, indeed. Draco had often asked himself the same question. Why he took up the task to kill Dumbledore, why he didn't have the nerve in the end to pull it off, why he took the Dark Mark. In the end, it hadn't been about the Malfoy name after all, or his father's approval; it had been about his mother and the unadulterated, debilitating fear of death that forced him to meet those hellfire eyes and swear allegiance to what he believed was the losing side. Early in his sixth year, he had realized that what he loathed about Potter was the boy's determination and ability to persevere. He hadn't understood how Potter could just get up after being knocked down, time and time again, and slay a basilisk in the process. But from this realization, he had also begun to believe that the Boy Who Had A Bazillion Lives would actually win. Still, he'd chosen Voldemort because it was his fear of the bastard that had pulled him in and kept him there.
His pride kept all of these answers from Harry, but he didn't doubt that the man had long figured it out anyway. Sometimes, he was wary towards how well Harry could read him and pick him apart. But this ability also comforted him and he was well aware of the irony. Harry would brush the side of his face with two long, gentle fingers and quirk his lips slightly as if to say, I know, and Draco would take a deep breath and feel relieved that he didn't have to say anything at all.
So it was discomfiting to see that question in Harry's eyes when he knew that Harry already had the answer. Why was Draco Malfoy with Harry Potter? People on the streets either gawked or whispered. A select few narrowed their eyes. A year after the end of the war, they still saw him as Death Eater and as the son of a Death Eater. It'd been considered more or less a scandal when they first came out. Many had expected the saviour of the Wizarding World to marry a beautiful young woman and have equally beautiful children, possibly breeding more saviours. But as fate would have it, Harry Potter not only fell in love with a man, he fell in love with a former Death Eater who had tried making his life as miserable as possible not so long ago. On top of that, the Prophet had attributed said man with "wicked good looks" and had not excused the pun. Indeed, Draco knew that his features were striking and that people trusted him even less because of them.
Of course, few people knew that he had deflected in his seventh year. His discovery of Professor Snape's double identity was a sharp, needed slap in the face, waking him up to a sense of courage and cold determination that had been lurking beneath all that fear. So he had joined the Order, told them everything he knew in return for his mother's safety, and testified against Voldemort's followers, against his own father. They had urged him to agree to his name in the paper, but he had stubbornly refused and no one understood why. He didn't want to play the role of the redeemed Death Eater for people he didn't know and certainly didn't care about. So he had kept to the shadows and fed them information, occasionally accompanying them on stake-outs and the like.
And in the middle of it all, he had punched Harry Potter twice before he found his mouth connecting instead of his fist. He hadn't planned it, any of it. He had expected Harry to recoil, spit in his face with disgust and never look at him again. Instead, Harry had covered his mouth with his hand and stood there, breathing harshly for hours, or so it had seemed to Draco, before he finally spoke.
"What was that for?" he had asked quietly, which alarmed Draco.
"What kind of fucking question is that?" Draco snarled in response, on the defensive because he didn't really have an answer.
"A logical one?" Draco swore he saw Potter's mouth twitch.
"Couldn't you have just hexed me or something? Merlin, what is wrong with you?" Draco barely got the words out before he found himself pinned to the wall and attacked by unbearably soft lips.
And at the risk of sounding trite, which he found happened a lot when Harry was involved, the rest was history. When the others finally found out, Draco had been highly entertained by their reactions. Granger's mouth had formed a small 'o' while her eyes misted over. She was the least surprised of them all, or so she had said. Weasley had turned a shade of red that Draco had thought was physically impossible, and used an impressive string of profanities. It had taken him at least a month to get over the shock. Lupin had looked tired as always but shared a shrug and a smile with Tonks, whom Draco found was quite likeable, despite her clumsiness and horrible hair. Snape had raised one eyebrow and looked slightly amused before commenting snidely on Potter's general inaptitude and regarding Draco with something close to affection.
After months of struggling with the whys, hows, and what-have-yous, Draco had given up trying to understand. He knew what he knew - he was in love with Harry Potter and no amount of puzzling and hair-tearing would grant him the ability to articulate what he felt and why he felt it. He just wished that Harry would give up too.
"Draco? Are you okay?"
Draco started and looked over to catch lovely green eyes, darkened a little with concern. He had found long ago that whenever he met those eyes, he would always feel the urge, the kind that burned slightly in his throat and took his breath away, to be completely honest. This moment was no exception.
"I love you, you know." His voice was low, but clear and strong.
Harry looked surprised for a brief second and then took one of Draco's hands, their fingers entwining with aching familiarity. They fit perfectly.
"I know," Harry said simply and Draco looked into those eyes again because they always filled with everything Harry felt. "I love you."
A sudden, sharp cough reminded Draco that they were out in the park and not in the private comfort of their flat. He turned his head and saw two middle-aged women, lips pursed and brows all but snapping together, as they passed briskly by. He didn't doubt that their disapproval was directed largely at him.
When he looked back at Harry, he cursed inwardly at what he saw now in those green depths. He supposed he deserved the Idiot of the Year award.
"Harry, love, I don't give a rat's arse what a stuffy, ill-mannered old hag, or the Minister of Magic, or the bloody milkman thinks about me. I'm not five years old and I don't need anyone's approval. As long as you love me, I'm yours."
What he got in return was a smile he would never forget and a kiss that left him embarrassingly weak in the knees and his mouth wanting, needing much, much more. And when he found Harry's eyes again, he saw no questions, only promises.