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bottom_draco_commTitle: The Ugliest Malfoy
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
camillily
Prompt: Prompt #26, The Ugly Duckling
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Summary: He always thought he was the ugliest, and ugly he was, at least for the blind, hateful people around him.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction set in the Harry Potter universe – all recognisable characters and settings are the property of J. K. Rowling and her associates. The tale The Ugly Duckling is completely H. C. Andersen's invention. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is being made. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content.
Warning(s): Language, slash, sexual content, hurt/comfort, slightly AU
Word Count: 5 179
Author's Notes: Loosely based on the tale of The Ugly Duckling by H. C. Andersen and the prompts ‘Weasley bashing’, ‘negative-minded Draco’ and ‘Hogwarts Era’. From Wikipedia: ‘The Ugly Duckling (original title: Den Grimme Ælling) is a literary fairy tale by Danish poet and author Hans Christian Andersen (1805 – 1875). The story tells of a homely little bird born in a barnyard who suffers abuse from his neighbors until, much to his delight (and to the surprise of others), he matures into a graceful swan, the most beautiful bird of all. The story is beloved around the world as a tale about personal transformation for the better.’ ♥
Golden light from a setting sun filtered through haphazardly drawn curtains. Narcissa Malfoy let a house-elf tie up her damp hair while another gently placed her newborn in her shaky arms. Normally she would never allow the elves to fuss over her, but she was too exhausted to raise her voice in protest. It had been a tough birth; at one dramatic point during the labour she had doubted both she and the baby would survive.
“Is Mistress wanting anything?” the oldest of the house-elves, Duffy, squeaked. Narcissa held her breath as a headache bloomed behind her eyes. Silly creature. She didn’t bother to answer and instead stared down at the wrinkled thing tightly wrapped in several white blankets that rested in her lap. A slack fist smudged with blood was visible and she shuddered in disgust.
Never again, she vowed to herself. Lucius had his damned heir now. And she had carried a child and brought it to life, despite her delicate complexion. She could return to socialising with the elite purebloods without the pitying glances of the other mothers.
“Isn’t Mistress wishing to look at the pretty boy?” Duffy’s shrill voice was like nails on porcelain and sent a shiver down her spine. She almost snapped when the elf most annoyingly and rudely urged her on. As if she needed encouragement. Curious, she curled a pale finger into the bundle of cloths and tugged to get a better look at the baby.
Her son.
He had unexpectedly arrived a few weeks early, and his eyes were screwed shut and his skin was red and raw. She noted with a frown that he was bald and that his ears stuck out a bit and that his nose was awfully pointy. The first thought that struck her was that he resembled a mouse. Or a rat.
The boy was nothing like the angel she had imagined him to be.
Swallowing a groan of displeasure, she whispered the name Lucius had decided upon when they had learnt about the gender of their child. A faint glow enveloped mother and son for a moment, before it faded to the corners of the room. Little Draco blinked up at her with wide, dark eyes, and Narcissa struggled not to throw him away in frustration. They were grey. Lucius wouldn’t want a son with the eyes of a Black.
“Poor boy,” she said coldly, sweeping her gaze over his un-Malfoy-like features. Draco was almost drowning in the blankets -- so tiny was he -- and his expression was dazed and vacant. Her bitter tone was lost on him. “You don’t deserve being called a dragon. Look at you! Oh, how ugly and weak and quiet you are. Your dear father is going to be heartbroken when he sees you.” Narcissa sighed and stroked the soft, plump cheeks.
Draco was silent and lay perfectly still. The ruckus she had expected hadn’t happened, and she worried if Draco might be mentally underdeveloped. Physically he was fine, but the lack of response from him caused her stomach to knot. Pinching his arm had no effect. She cursed. Lucius would definitely blame her if his next in line turned out to be unworthy of the Malfoy throne, or worse -- incompetent. She quickly decided to keep her concerns secret; she was hopefully mistaken, and her husband was under enough pressure as it was. The Dark Lord was unforgiving in his demands.
She lifted the limp baby and cradled him carefully, inhaling his overly sweet scent. Draco made a small sound, and her lips twitched into a stiff smile of relief. Ah, so he isn’t completely useless. Then, with a brief kiss to his forehead, she gratefully handed him over to Duffy that stood tripping eagerly by the bedside.
“He needs to be fed,” she ordered, glaring warningly at the elf when it cooed at her son. “Keep him in the nursery until Lucius comes home. Wake me up in the morning.” With one last look at Draco, who was slowly starting to wriggle in distress from being bereft of his mother, she ushered the house-elf out of her chamber. The double doors closed, blissfully cutting off Draco’s surprisingly loud cries.
Thank goodness for silencing charms.
---------
Draco stood in front of his floor-to-ceiling mirror. It was a gift from Mother, and every day since he had got it he stared at his own reflection for several hours, mapping every indentation, line, wrinkle, deformation. The corners of his mouth were pulled downwards and his brows were lowered into a scowl. He tried to smile, flash his white teeth like he had seen father do to his admirers, but he looked so ugly he quickly gave up. The hollows in his cheeks were deeper than ever, and that was his own fault. He hadn’t eaten properly in weeks. His hipbones jutted out and his shoulderblades could be wings made of flesh. Hideous.
In the common room someone was laughing. The sound was beautiful to Draco’s ears, and he closed his eyes and savoured in the warm thrills. How happy that person must be. Comfortable heat rolled over him and his mind was filled with gold and sparkles and diamonds and fire. When the laughter died, the sudden draft in his room hit him like a blow to the stomach. Panting, he lifted his heavy lids -- just a little bit -- and he glanced through his lashes at his face again.
Pale, drawn, tired, frightened, hateful. Ugly. Yet he couldn’t stop observing himself from every angle.
Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the ugliest Malfoy of all? The taunt had followed him through sixteen years.
Draco ran a thin hand through his white-blond hair. It reminded him that at least something about him was pretty and admirable. It was like feathers of the most luxurious sort, or like silk. It fell into place, softening the sharp lines of his jaw and chin. He caught his own gaze, then, and a tremor wracked through him at the chill it held.
Dark as a thunderstorm and lacking the silver of the lightening, his eyes looked like two bottomless caves.
Father used to say Draco wasn’t human. Draco often wondered about that, too. Laughter and giggles and excited shouts reached him once more through the stone walls. He certainly wasn’t one of them.
---------
Draco whimpered when Madame Pomfrey brutally examined his arm.
“Ow,” he whined, tears welling up in his eyes.
“Hush, you stupid boy,” the woman chastised, yanking roughly at his shoulder and digging her fingers into the bruises. “You got yourself to thank for this, so quit moaning as if you are dying and endure the pain. You have merely broken a collarbone.”
Draco thought broken bones were serious injuries, but he wisely kept his mouth shut and turned his head to the side, focusing on the other unfortunate patient in the hospital wing. Harry Potter was, predictably, surrounded by Weasley and Granger. The Golden Trio. How marvellous. Always there to support their messiah. At the foot-end of Potter’s bed sat a second girl who had glaringly red hair and horrifyingly many freckles. She had to be Weasley’s sister and Saint Potter’s betrothed, Draco reasoned. Of course, Potter was still ignorant of his tragic destiny as her spouse, while everyone else knew of her blatant obsession with the Boy Who Lived.
They were all pale and grave and subdued, as if mourning a deceased person. Maybe Potter truly was dead? It had been a frightful fall, after all. Draco craned his neck to see if Potter was breathing, but was distracted by Girl Weasley who shot him a rather impressively dirty look. Draco stuck out the tip of his tongue at her. She rolled her eyes. Draco snickered.
Pain rippled through him, black spots blocking his vision, and he gasped for air. Madame Pomfrey let go of him with a satisfied nod and pursed her lips disdainfully at his pitiful sniffing. “There. Now lay back and don’t move your arm. The bones will mend themselves and you should be well enough to leave in a couple of hours. However, I’d prefer it if you stayed during the night. You did lose quite a lot of blood.” The nurse brusquely gathered her supplies and bustled off to her office without offering a pain-relieving potion. Draco wiped the tear tracks on his cheeks and pouted at the Gryffindors’ smug expressions. Even Goody two-shoes Granger hid a smirk behind her palm, and Draco blushed in humiliation. He knew it! Behind all that sentimental gibberish of hers there was an evil streak.
“Huh,” Potter slurred, stirring to life with Potter-esque grace. There was a rustle of sheets as Girl Weasley threw herself at him.
“Harry!” he heard Granger exclaim breathlessly. “Oh, we’re so glad you’re all right! Madame Pomfrey, Harry is awake!”
“Oh dear,” Madame Pomfrey muttered, rushing to Potter’s side. “Everyone step away for a minute. Mr Potter? Mr Potter, do you understand what I am saying?” She pronounced every word as if Potter was a particularly slow three-year-old. Which he was, albeit an overgrown one.
Draco grimaced and wished they would all go to hell. His damaged arm prickled uncomfortably and his stomach lurched, and their innate chatter was grating on his nerves. Potter mumbled something intelligible and Madam Pomfrey fawned over him. Then Potter suddenly sat bolt up right and retched violently. Draco was appalled and let his opinion be publicly known.
“That is disgusting!” he hissed, sneering in Potter’s direction. “Get him out of here. I don’t want germs all over me.” Madame Pomfrey’s face turned red with exasperation and she shushed him while she tended to Potter with motherly care. Potter was now clutching his ribs and putting on a brave act in front of his worried friends.
“I am okay, really. Honest. Just…a bit sore.”
“You have got a serious concussion,” Madame Pomfrey concluded firmly, patting Potter’s ruffled hair after having spelled the sheets clean of vomit and given him a glass of water. “You will be keeping Mr Malfoy company tonight. Make sure to get a lot of sleep. The rest of you head back to Gryffindor Tower. It’s soon curfew.” She shooed Potter’s friends unceremoniously out of the room, and Draco took great delight in her manhandling Girl Weasley over the threshold as the redhead kept glancing longingly at Potter. Potter smiled faintly in return, and once she was gone he slumped against the pillows as if exhausted.
Madame Pomfrey dimmed the lights and retreated into her office, leaving Potter and Draco in an awkward silence. Draco fixed his gaze on the arched ceiling.
“Where’s your broom?” Potter’s croak disturbed him from counting the bricks and he huffed in irritation. He would have to start over. Trust Potter to thwart him.
“That’s the most ridiculous pick up line I’ve ever heard,” he replied dryly, counting one brick. “I have it in my pants, for your information, and I won’t pull it out for your plebeian entertainment.” Three bricks. “Four-eyed pervert.” Eight.
Potter sighed long-suffering. “I meant your broomstick, you prat. Mine is next to my bed. I can’t see yours anywhere.”
Draco squirmed. “Well, what do you think?” he snapped. Fuck the bricks. “I, unlike a certain someone, am not in a habit of having luck on my side at all times. Apparently, my broom wasn’t even recognisable.”
Potter actually had the nerve to look guilty. His tone when he spoke, however, was accusing. “I wasn’t the one cheating by spiralling right into the other team’s Seeker and drag him with me to the ground. You got what you deserved."
“I did not!” Draco forgot himself and twisted to face Potter in indignation. A sharp ache spread along his right side, but he ignored it in favour of glaring at the other boy. “Think, you moron, would a Slytherin sacrifice himself for the sake of winning a silly Quidditch match? I wouldn’t put myself in danger only to keep you from catching the Snitch. I might hate you, but I value my life more.”
“What are you saying?” Potter’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
Draco threw back his head back in frustration. A lock of hair fell over his forehead and he blew at it. “I was hexed. I had no control over my broom and, well, you know what happened.”
“Oh.” Potter was quiet, most likely using all of his abysmal brain cells to ponder this revelation.
“Yes, oh. I guess someone was sick of seeing my ugly face around and decided it was time to kill me-”
“No.” Potter immediately interrupted him. “You think anyone at this school is capable of murder?” He shook his head. “I don’t believe you. You’re a liar, Malfoy.”
Something burned at the back of his throat and Draco had to cut his eyes to the ceiling again. Betrayal. He had relied on Potter, the epitome of goodness, but had been swiftly brushed off.
“Fine,” he growled. “Deny it all you want. But when the day comes when I’m dead, slashed to ribbons and lying in a pool of my own bodily liquid somewhere in the dungeon, denial won’t be of any use. You can’t deny me back to life.”
He thought he heard Potter snort and mutter, “As if I would.” Hurt clenched tightly around his heart and he sucked in a deep breath. Not even Potter, who had a legendary hero complex, cared an ounce about him. And Potter was the last person on his very short list of people he respected. Draco mentally ticked him off and tore the list in halves.
--------
Well, this is new, was a thought that flittered through his mind even while he was busy being threatened within an inch of his life by the glowing tip of a wand. No one had attacked him openly before, and what was more surprising was that Girl Weasley was on the other end.
“How could you not die?” she was yelling, stabbing him in the chest with her wand. “I put cushioning charms on the ground for Harry, but you… You were supposed to die!”
“Honestly. Can one not walk in the hallways in peace these days?” Draco drawled, pushing her away. “Go find someone else to shriek at. I am late for Potions.”
“Oh no, I won’t let you off the hook, Malfoy.” She stabbed her wand into his eye this time.
“What on earth?” he demanded, rubbing his left eye and summoning his trademark sneer. “What are you playing at, stupid Gryffindor? I could get you expelled for this.”
Girl Weasley snorted. “Yeah, right. As if Dumbledore would believe a monster like you.” She took a step closer, pinning him to the wall. “I hate you.”
“Very nice of you to let me know. Although, I think I had figured it out already. My, aren’t I clever?”
“Ha bloody ha. You are pathetic, Malfoy. I can’t understand what he sees in you.”
Draco’s head snapped up. “Who?” he asked, confused, but Girl Weasley was pulling away. Hurried footsteps sounded nearby.
“Someone’s coming,” she whispered.
“Who?” Draco repeated, lashing out with an arm to capture her.
“I don’t bloody know, do I? I am not psychic.” She slipped from his grasping fingers and hurried down the corridor.
“No, I meant… Who did you mean?” Draco called after her. “Who sees what in me?”
“Malfoy?"
Draco spun around, and then yelped and instinctively placed his clammy palms on Potter’s chest, shoving him. They were too close.
Potter quirked an amused eyebrow. “I knew you were crazy. Did I just catch you having a passionate discussion with yourself?”`
“No.” Draco folded his arms over his chest and stuck out his bottom lip. He was officially very late for his Potions class and there was something alarming with Potter’s outfit. Potter hadn’t tucked his shirt in his trousers and his tie hang loosely around his neck, giving the impression he’d just had a wild tryst in a closet somewhere. Potter’s cheeks were red and his green eyes sparkled and he was also late for class. There was no doubt. Harry Potter was having an affair.
It occurred to Draco that it couldn’t be with Girl Weasley, since she’d been rather occupied shouting obscenities at him the past quarter or so.
Draco forgot about being sullen as curiosity overwhelmed him. A rare, playful smirk graced his lips and he eyed Potter unashamedly. Potter’s cocky attitude dropped a notch and he flicked his eyes shyly to the side. “Merlin, you look like the cat that got the cream. Who’s tamed the lion, I wonder?”
Potter stuttered and fisted his hands to compose himself. “No one,” he said, and blushed to the roots of his hair.
Draco chuckled softly. “Good one, Potter,” he said sarcastically. “Would have worked on a naïve Hufflepuff. It’s visible to everyone with a modicum of perceptiveness that you’ve just had the orgasm of your life.”
“R-really?” Potter shuffled his feet and in vain tried to flatten his hair. Draco hungrily followed the movement. Someone had just recently run their fingers through it, maybe yanked at it at the peak of pleasure… Draco had resigned himself to a fate of being lonely and bitter, but it nevertheless stung to know even Potter had sex.
Maybe he was in love. Maybe she loved him in return.
“Yes,” was all Draco managed, as something thick unexpectedly lodged in his throat, and then he turned on his heel and took off for his cold room in the dungeon. He didn’t come out the rest of the day.
--------
He wanted so badly to be beautiful. Draco stuck the glittering star to his temple and turned his head to the side to inspect the result. His cheekbones shimmered with silver dust and his normally ghostly pale skin was dazzling in the moonlight that hit him through the narrow window. More golden stars adorned him. Around his throat he’d wrapped a scarf, and he wore a loose white t-shirt and Muggle jeans. His wrists were wrapped in leather bands with emerald studs. He shone. The glow was artificial, not of the natural sort that radiated off those that were happy or good-looking, but Draco was pleased with it.
He hadn’t attended the Halloween Ball before. The previous years he’d curled up in his room and listened to the boosts of cheers and loud music. He couldn’t quite pinpoint why exactly he’d changed his mind and decided to go this time. Perhaps it was what Girl Weasley had said, that someone, a he, liked him. Draco grinned despite how his lips pulled up and revealed fang-like corner teeth that made him look like a beast. Could another boy actually fancy him? He so hoped that was what she had meant.
Once he stepped into the Great Hall, he regretted it. He felt more alone than ever, even though he stood in the middle of a crowd. No one spared him a glance. No one took notice of him, to his disappointment. He bowed his head, letting his fringe fall to cover his eyes, and found a corner close to the dancefloor where he could be entirely by himself. It was awful to have his hopes crushed this early in the evening. He mentally slapped his own forehead for being so foolish. “What did I expect, anyway? Gasps of awe? That my mystery boy would come stumbling all over me and tell me he loved me? He probably doesn’t even exist.”
Half-heartedly, he began swaying to the fast-paced music. He was torn between wanting to leave and join the queue at the bar. On one hand, he had a tempting plate of chocolate in his trunk he’d bought last weekend in Hogsmeade. On the other, it was sort of fun dancing and watching his schoolmates; especially Weasley and his sister, who both were making arses of themselves on the dancefloor. It was evident that sense of rhythm was something Weasleys severely lacked.
As the night dragged on, Draco worked himself into a sweat. He hadn’t known dancing could be this exhausting, but at the same time it was refreshing to express his emotions this way. He was still in his own little world, hidden in the shadows and moving smoothly to the beat, when hands began stroking his front and a warm body pressed against him from behind.
Draco tried to turn to look his molester in the eyes, pulse racing in fear, but he was trapped in the strong embrace.
“Don’t panic,” said a low voice, just as Draco was about to panic and wildly kick out with his legs. “Relax. It’s just me.”
Draco had no idea who it was. He couldn’t place the voice or the scent of the other person’s cologne. What he did know was that the person was a male. Light stubble grazed Draco’s chin as he nuzzled him and an erection pressed hesitatingly into Draco’s thigh.
“Who are you?” Draco asked hoarsely, and bit his tongue when the other boy wrapped invisible arms around him and started to rock him gently. He couldn’t recall the last time someone touched him this tenderly without the intention to hurt him.
“Me,” was the answer. And Draco found that he was content with that, as long as Me continued holding him. They hugged for the rest of the ball, sometimes kissing, and when it ended, Draco brought him with him to his bed.
--------
When he woke the next day, Draco simply lay in bed. Stars decorated his pillow and sheets, as they had fallen from his face during sleep. He was certain he was alone now, but he had most definitely not been alone when he went to bed. His lips stretched so wide they almost split, and he buried his nose into the mattress beneath him. It smelled of that wonderful boy he had met at the ball. The lingering scent calmed him somewhat. He hadn’t dreamt him up, then. But it was strange that he had been invisible.
Draco frowned. Was he a ghost? No, one couldn’t feel their heat or caresses. Maybe he’d put on a disillusionment charm? But those were incredibly taxing to maintain for long. What about cloaks of invisibility? Draco was aware of their existence. They were expensive and rare and tended to stop functioning now and then. It would have been too risky to sneak up on Draco with one of those. If it was an invisibility cloak, though, why had he chosen to cover himself? Didn’t he want to be seen with the ugly Malfoy? Was he ashamed of being gay?
Draco hadn’t questioned the boy yesterday and he hadn’t grabbed at him to see who it was. He was too starved for love to ruin the moment when he had it.
When he eventually staggered out of bed to begin his traditional, hour-long session of staring at his mirror-self, he almost fainted in shock. Something had happened to him. Something amazing. His lips were pink and slightly puffed from kissing, and his cheeks were still dusted with silver but now they also had a healthy, rosy colour. His hair wasn’t simply blond, but gleamed in the rising sun.
The biggest change was in his eyes. Warm, melted silver. The grey clouds of thunder were gone.
Draco gave a shout of joy and quickly threw on his school uniform. For once, he didn’t comb his hair and rearranged it so that it covered his protruding ears, or fight with dark circles beneath his sunken eyes. Soaring like a bird he ran through the labyrinth that was the dungeon and into the Great Hall, and when he spotted a mug of cocoa waiting for him at his seat he laughed. It came from deep in his chest and spilled out his mouth, and he couldn’t and wouldn’t hold back.
Students furrowed their brows and broke into whispers at his odd, out-of-character behaviour. Draco didn’t eat breakfast, as he often found it difficult to get out of bed and drag his feet to his first class of the day. Now, though, he sat down at the Slytherin table and basked in memories of a male body tangled with his and lips almost too carefully brushing against each other, and sipped his cocoa and even ate a toast.
Mid-way through his cocoa, Potter walked in with sleepy eyes and messy hair and a goofy grin that put even Hufflepuffs to shame. It was obvious that Potter had had mind-blowing sex. No one could glow so much otherwise. Draco lost his appetite.
Girl Weasley came stomping in after Potter. “You make me sick,” she said, a bony hand reaching out to tug at Potter’s shirt. Draco blinked in bewilderment. Potter’s smile faded and it took the light in his eyes with it. Girl Weasley raised her voice when he didn’t give a response. “Him, Harry?”
Draco froze when his sensitive ears picked up the conversation. What did she mean by that?
“Yes, Ginny. Him.” Potter gave her a warning look. “And I would appreciate it if you didn’t shout it out, seeing as I haven’t, you know, come out of the closet yet.”
Girl Weasley stepped in front of him, not batting an eyelid. “I still think it is a joke. Saviour of the Wizarding World, a sodding pouf? C’mon, Harry.”
Harry didn’t rise to the bait.
“I dare you…” Girl Weasley continued, tossing fiery hair over her shoulder. She licked her lips. “…To tell everyone present that you are gay. If you do, I know you speak the truth and will leave you alone. If not, I know you are foolishly trying to avoid me and will sharpen my clutches. Don’t think I am not serious about this, Harry.”
Harry’s expression grew murderous. For several tense seconds the pair glared challengingly at each other. Draco swallowed, not sure he wanted to witness what would happen next. What if Potter said he was gay? He would be the first public figure to ever have admitted to being homosexual. Would people shun him? Hate him? Bully him? Love him even more? And Draco? Would he dare to follow suit?
Draco saw Potter staggering back a step, but his usually so expressive eyes revealed nothing. Girl Weasley seemed to think she was winning, and she lifted her chin triumphantly. Was Potter chickening out?
There was a pause. One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Three, four, five… Potter hissed, snake-like, and left the Great Hall and Girl Weasley behind. Draco sat at the Slytherin table with his mug of cocoa, and realised to his dismay that he was on the verge of crying. Somewhere between ten minutes ago when Potter had appeared through the doors and now, he had started hoping Potter was his boy. And it crushed him to know he wasn’t.
Draco couldn’t see it, so caught up in regret and sorrow was he. Like a candle about to burn out, the weak glow from within him flickered on and off until it finally disappeared, leaving him as ugly as the other students had ever seen him. His schoolmates recoiled from him, but a few Ravenclaws drew closer in scientific curiosity.
Just as Draco was about to get to his feet and lock himself inside his room, gasps of astonishment were heard throughout the Hall. Draco looked up instinctively, and saw Potter striding towards him, jaw set in determination. Draco’s mouth fell open in disbelief. Potter opened his arms for him.
“Come here, you,” Potter said softly, and Draco recognised the voice instantly. Potter never used that tone with anyone. But he had, at the Halloween Ball, with Draco.
Potter slid onto the bench next to him and wrapped himself around Draco. Potter buried his face in Draco’s neck and inhaled his scent, and Draco felt a long-forgotten need well up in him. Home.
“It was you?” he whispered. Potter nodded and was quiet. Girl Weasley stormed out with a wail, and Potter clung to Draco as if nothing else mattered.
--------
They fell onto Draco’s bed, both smiling shyly and pretending they weren’t curious about each other’s bits. Draco giggled. Bits. Potter’s bits. Harry’s.
Harry.
“Harry,” he said, and Harry kissed him clumsily.
“Say my name again,” Harry pleaded, and Draco indulged him. Ten times. Which led to nine kisses and one snog.
Draco shivered and pulled Harry on top of himself, like a blanket. His Harry blanket was warm and soft and hard and his. So perfect. So beautiful. How come Draco hadn’t seen it before? Harry was bloody gorgeous.
Their tongues explored mouths, earlobes, necks and collarbones, while their hands frantically touched every expanse of bare skin. When Harry slid against him, their erections pressed together and Draco’s toes curled involuntarily. He spread his legs and wrapped them around Harry’s back, pulling him impossibly closer. The urge to bring each other to completion intensified, emotions nearly spiralling out of control.
“Faster,” Draco gasped, arching and digging his nails into Harry’s sweaty back. “Oh, please, Harry…”
Harry moaned and sneaked a hand between them and cupped Draco, massaging his balls before he began stroking his cock in earnest. His touch tingled, pressed searing heat into his groin and out, and Draco gave in to his pleasure completely, without abandon. Before he tipped over the edge, he caught a glimpse of a strange light that filled the room.
--------
“You are beautiful,” Harry had said, when they had recovered from their fifth round of sex. Beautiful was not a word associated with Draco Malfoy, and it had taken Harry two hours and thousands of kisses and reassurances and promises of eternal devotion for him to believe that he actually could be. Might be. Was.
Draco slipped his fingers into Harry’s hair and played with the hairs on Harry’s neck. Harry stretched from his position hunched over his Transfiguration textbook and smiled up at him.
“Hi, baby.” Harry sneaked an arm around Draco’s waist and pulled him onto his lap. Madame Pince shot them a glasses look. Neither of them noticed.
“Imbecile,” Draco told him, leaning in for a kiss. He hated that Harry called him nicknames. “You know what?” He interrupted the kiss and drew back a little. “I looked in the mirror again today and I saw it! You’re right, I am beautiful.”
Harry punched him lightly in the shoulder. “Don’t let it get to your head. Your nose is still a bit pointy.”
Draco waved it off, knowing his nose was perfect, thank you very much. “Do you mind? We’re having a moment here.”
Harry dutifully focused his attention on his boyfriend. Not that it ever strayed.
“I just want to thank you.” Draco blushed but plunged on. “You make me beautiful, on the inside and on the outside. Without you I would have wilted away.” He lowered his head to Harry’s shoulder and rested there. “I am happy”
Harry placed a hand on the back of Draco’s head. Then he whispered, “I am happy too.”
Fin
Author:
camillily Prompt: Prompt #26, The Ugly Duckling
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Summary: He always thought he was the ugliest, and ugly he was, at least for the blind, hateful people around him.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction set in the Harry Potter universe – all recognisable characters and settings are the property of J. K. Rowling and her associates. The tale The Ugly Duckling is completely H. C. Andersen's invention. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is being made. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content.
Warning(s): Language, slash, sexual content, hurt/comfort, slightly AU
Word Count: 5 179
Author's Notes: Loosely based on the tale of The Ugly Duckling by H. C. Andersen and the prompts ‘Weasley bashing’, ‘negative-minded Draco’ and ‘Hogwarts Era’. From Wikipedia: ‘The Ugly Duckling (original title: Den Grimme Ælling) is a literary fairy tale by Danish poet and author Hans Christian Andersen (1805 – 1875). The story tells of a homely little bird born in a barnyard who suffers abuse from his neighbors until, much to his delight (and to the surprise of others), he matures into a graceful swan, the most beautiful bird of all. The story is beloved around the world as a tale about personal transformation for the better.’ ♥
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Golden light from a setting sun filtered through haphazardly drawn curtains. Narcissa Malfoy let a house-elf tie up her damp hair while another gently placed her newborn in her shaky arms. Normally she would never allow the elves to fuss over her, but she was too exhausted to raise her voice in protest. It had been a tough birth; at one dramatic point during the labour she had doubted both she and the baby would survive.
“Is Mistress wanting anything?” the oldest of the house-elves, Duffy, squeaked. Narcissa held her breath as a headache bloomed behind her eyes. Silly creature. She didn’t bother to answer and instead stared down at the wrinkled thing tightly wrapped in several white blankets that rested in her lap. A slack fist smudged with blood was visible and she shuddered in disgust.
Never again, she vowed to herself. Lucius had his damned heir now. And she had carried a child and brought it to life, despite her delicate complexion. She could return to socialising with the elite purebloods without the pitying glances of the other mothers.
“Isn’t Mistress wishing to look at the pretty boy?” Duffy’s shrill voice was like nails on porcelain and sent a shiver down her spine. She almost snapped when the elf most annoyingly and rudely urged her on. As if she needed encouragement. Curious, she curled a pale finger into the bundle of cloths and tugged to get a better look at the baby.
Her son.
He had unexpectedly arrived a few weeks early, and his eyes were screwed shut and his skin was red and raw. She noted with a frown that he was bald and that his ears stuck out a bit and that his nose was awfully pointy. The first thought that struck her was that he resembled a mouse. Or a rat.
The boy was nothing like the angel she had imagined him to be.
Swallowing a groan of displeasure, she whispered the name Lucius had decided upon when they had learnt about the gender of their child. A faint glow enveloped mother and son for a moment, before it faded to the corners of the room. Little Draco blinked up at her with wide, dark eyes, and Narcissa struggled not to throw him away in frustration. They were grey. Lucius wouldn’t want a son with the eyes of a Black.
“Poor boy,” she said coldly, sweeping her gaze over his un-Malfoy-like features. Draco was almost drowning in the blankets -- so tiny was he -- and his expression was dazed and vacant. Her bitter tone was lost on him. “You don’t deserve being called a dragon. Look at you! Oh, how ugly and weak and quiet you are. Your dear father is going to be heartbroken when he sees you.” Narcissa sighed and stroked the soft, plump cheeks.
Draco was silent and lay perfectly still. The ruckus she had expected hadn’t happened, and she worried if Draco might be mentally underdeveloped. Physically he was fine, but the lack of response from him caused her stomach to knot. Pinching his arm had no effect. She cursed. Lucius would definitely blame her if his next in line turned out to be unworthy of the Malfoy throne, or worse -- incompetent. She quickly decided to keep her concerns secret; she was hopefully mistaken, and her husband was under enough pressure as it was. The Dark Lord was unforgiving in his demands.
She lifted the limp baby and cradled him carefully, inhaling his overly sweet scent. Draco made a small sound, and her lips twitched into a stiff smile of relief. Ah, so he isn’t completely useless. Then, with a brief kiss to his forehead, she gratefully handed him over to Duffy that stood tripping eagerly by the bedside.
“He needs to be fed,” she ordered, glaring warningly at the elf when it cooed at her son. “Keep him in the nursery until Lucius comes home. Wake me up in the morning.” With one last look at Draco, who was slowly starting to wriggle in distress from being bereft of his mother, she ushered the house-elf out of her chamber. The double doors closed, blissfully cutting off Draco’s surprisingly loud cries.
Thank goodness for silencing charms.
---------
Draco stood in front of his floor-to-ceiling mirror. It was a gift from Mother, and every day since he had got it he stared at his own reflection for several hours, mapping every indentation, line, wrinkle, deformation. The corners of his mouth were pulled downwards and his brows were lowered into a scowl. He tried to smile, flash his white teeth like he had seen father do to his admirers, but he looked so ugly he quickly gave up. The hollows in his cheeks were deeper than ever, and that was his own fault. He hadn’t eaten properly in weeks. His hipbones jutted out and his shoulderblades could be wings made of flesh. Hideous.
In the common room someone was laughing. The sound was beautiful to Draco’s ears, and he closed his eyes and savoured in the warm thrills. How happy that person must be. Comfortable heat rolled over him and his mind was filled with gold and sparkles and diamonds and fire. When the laughter died, the sudden draft in his room hit him like a blow to the stomach. Panting, he lifted his heavy lids -- just a little bit -- and he glanced through his lashes at his face again.
Pale, drawn, tired, frightened, hateful. Ugly. Yet he couldn’t stop observing himself from every angle.
Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the ugliest Malfoy of all? The taunt had followed him through sixteen years.
Draco ran a thin hand through his white-blond hair. It reminded him that at least something about him was pretty and admirable. It was like feathers of the most luxurious sort, or like silk. It fell into place, softening the sharp lines of his jaw and chin. He caught his own gaze, then, and a tremor wracked through him at the chill it held.
Dark as a thunderstorm and lacking the silver of the lightening, his eyes looked like two bottomless caves.
Father used to say Draco wasn’t human. Draco often wondered about that, too. Laughter and giggles and excited shouts reached him once more through the stone walls. He certainly wasn’t one of them.
---------
Draco whimpered when Madame Pomfrey brutally examined his arm.
“Ow,” he whined, tears welling up in his eyes.
“Hush, you stupid boy,” the woman chastised, yanking roughly at his shoulder and digging her fingers into the bruises. “You got yourself to thank for this, so quit moaning as if you are dying and endure the pain. You have merely broken a collarbone.”
Draco thought broken bones were serious injuries, but he wisely kept his mouth shut and turned his head to the side, focusing on the other unfortunate patient in the hospital wing. Harry Potter was, predictably, surrounded by Weasley and Granger. The Golden Trio. How marvellous. Always there to support their messiah. At the foot-end of Potter’s bed sat a second girl who had glaringly red hair and horrifyingly many freckles. She had to be Weasley’s sister and Saint Potter’s betrothed, Draco reasoned. Of course, Potter was still ignorant of his tragic destiny as her spouse, while everyone else knew of her blatant obsession with the Boy Who Lived.
They were all pale and grave and subdued, as if mourning a deceased person. Maybe Potter truly was dead? It had been a frightful fall, after all. Draco craned his neck to see if Potter was breathing, but was distracted by Girl Weasley who shot him a rather impressively dirty look. Draco stuck out the tip of his tongue at her. She rolled her eyes. Draco snickered.
Pain rippled through him, black spots blocking his vision, and he gasped for air. Madame Pomfrey let go of him with a satisfied nod and pursed her lips disdainfully at his pitiful sniffing. “There. Now lay back and don’t move your arm. The bones will mend themselves and you should be well enough to leave in a couple of hours. However, I’d prefer it if you stayed during the night. You did lose quite a lot of blood.” The nurse brusquely gathered her supplies and bustled off to her office without offering a pain-relieving potion. Draco wiped the tear tracks on his cheeks and pouted at the Gryffindors’ smug expressions. Even Goody two-shoes Granger hid a smirk behind her palm, and Draco blushed in humiliation. He knew it! Behind all that sentimental gibberish of hers there was an evil streak.
“Huh,” Potter slurred, stirring to life with Potter-esque grace. There was a rustle of sheets as Girl Weasley threw herself at him.
“Harry!” he heard Granger exclaim breathlessly. “Oh, we’re so glad you’re all right! Madame Pomfrey, Harry is awake!”
“Oh dear,” Madame Pomfrey muttered, rushing to Potter’s side. “Everyone step away for a minute. Mr Potter? Mr Potter, do you understand what I am saying?” She pronounced every word as if Potter was a particularly slow three-year-old. Which he was, albeit an overgrown one.
Draco grimaced and wished they would all go to hell. His damaged arm prickled uncomfortably and his stomach lurched, and their innate chatter was grating on his nerves. Potter mumbled something intelligible and Madam Pomfrey fawned over him. Then Potter suddenly sat bolt up right and retched violently. Draco was appalled and let his opinion be publicly known.
“That is disgusting!” he hissed, sneering in Potter’s direction. “Get him out of here. I don’t want germs all over me.” Madame Pomfrey’s face turned red with exasperation and she shushed him while she tended to Potter with motherly care. Potter was now clutching his ribs and putting on a brave act in front of his worried friends.
“I am okay, really. Honest. Just…a bit sore.”
“You have got a serious concussion,” Madame Pomfrey concluded firmly, patting Potter’s ruffled hair after having spelled the sheets clean of vomit and given him a glass of water. “You will be keeping Mr Malfoy company tonight. Make sure to get a lot of sleep. The rest of you head back to Gryffindor Tower. It’s soon curfew.” She shooed Potter’s friends unceremoniously out of the room, and Draco took great delight in her manhandling Girl Weasley over the threshold as the redhead kept glancing longingly at Potter. Potter smiled faintly in return, and once she was gone he slumped against the pillows as if exhausted.
Madame Pomfrey dimmed the lights and retreated into her office, leaving Potter and Draco in an awkward silence. Draco fixed his gaze on the arched ceiling.
“Where’s your broom?” Potter’s croak disturbed him from counting the bricks and he huffed in irritation. He would have to start over. Trust Potter to thwart him.
“That’s the most ridiculous pick up line I’ve ever heard,” he replied dryly, counting one brick. “I have it in my pants, for your information, and I won’t pull it out for your plebeian entertainment.” Three bricks. “Four-eyed pervert.” Eight.
Potter sighed long-suffering. “I meant your broomstick, you prat. Mine is next to my bed. I can’t see yours anywhere.”
Draco squirmed. “Well, what do you think?” he snapped. Fuck the bricks. “I, unlike a certain someone, am not in a habit of having luck on my side at all times. Apparently, my broom wasn’t even recognisable.”
Potter actually had the nerve to look guilty. His tone when he spoke, however, was accusing. “I wasn’t the one cheating by spiralling right into the other team’s Seeker and drag him with me to the ground. You got what you deserved."
“I did not!” Draco forgot himself and twisted to face Potter in indignation. A sharp ache spread along his right side, but he ignored it in favour of glaring at the other boy. “Think, you moron, would a Slytherin sacrifice himself for the sake of winning a silly Quidditch match? I wouldn’t put myself in danger only to keep you from catching the Snitch. I might hate you, but I value my life more.”
“What are you saying?” Potter’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
Draco threw back his head back in frustration. A lock of hair fell over his forehead and he blew at it. “I was hexed. I had no control over my broom and, well, you know what happened.”
“Oh.” Potter was quiet, most likely using all of his abysmal brain cells to ponder this revelation.
“Yes, oh. I guess someone was sick of seeing my ugly face around and decided it was time to kill me-”
“No.” Potter immediately interrupted him. “You think anyone at this school is capable of murder?” He shook his head. “I don’t believe you. You’re a liar, Malfoy.”
Something burned at the back of his throat and Draco had to cut his eyes to the ceiling again. Betrayal. He had relied on Potter, the epitome of goodness, but had been swiftly brushed off.
“Fine,” he growled. “Deny it all you want. But when the day comes when I’m dead, slashed to ribbons and lying in a pool of my own bodily liquid somewhere in the dungeon, denial won’t be of any use. You can’t deny me back to life.”
He thought he heard Potter snort and mutter, “As if I would.” Hurt clenched tightly around his heart and he sucked in a deep breath. Not even Potter, who had a legendary hero complex, cared an ounce about him. And Potter was the last person on his very short list of people he respected. Draco mentally ticked him off and tore the list in halves.
--------
Well, this is new, was a thought that flittered through his mind even while he was busy being threatened within an inch of his life by the glowing tip of a wand. No one had attacked him openly before, and what was more surprising was that Girl Weasley was on the other end.
“How could you not die?” she was yelling, stabbing him in the chest with her wand. “I put cushioning charms on the ground for Harry, but you… You were supposed to die!”
“Honestly. Can one not walk in the hallways in peace these days?” Draco drawled, pushing her away. “Go find someone else to shriek at. I am late for Potions.”
“Oh no, I won’t let you off the hook, Malfoy.” She stabbed her wand into his eye this time.
“What on earth?” he demanded, rubbing his left eye and summoning his trademark sneer. “What are you playing at, stupid Gryffindor? I could get you expelled for this.”
Girl Weasley snorted. “Yeah, right. As if Dumbledore would believe a monster like you.” She took a step closer, pinning him to the wall. “I hate you.”
“Very nice of you to let me know. Although, I think I had figured it out already. My, aren’t I clever?”
“Ha bloody ha. You are pathetic, Malfoy. I can’t understand what he sees in you.”
Draco’s head snapped up. “Who?” he asked, confused, but Girl Weasley was pulling away. Hurried footsteps sounded nearby.
“Someone’s coming,” she whispered.
“Who?” Draco repeated, lashing out with an arm to capture her.
“I don’t bloody know, do I? I am not psychic.” She slipped from his grasping fingers and hurried down the corridor.
“No, I meant… Who did you mean?” Draco called after her. “Who sees what in me?”
“Malfoy?"
Draco spun around, and then yelped and instinctively placed his clammy palms on Potter’s chest, shoving him. They were too close.
Potter quirked an amused eyebrow. “I knew you were crazy. Did I just catch you having a passionate discussion with yourself?”`
“No.” Draco folded his arms over his chest and stuck out his bottom lip. He was officially very late for his Potions class and there was something alarming with Potter’s outfit. Potter hadn’t tucked his shirt in his trousers and his tie hang loosely around his neck, giving the impression he’d just had a wild tryst in a closet somewhere. Potter’s cheeks were red and his green eyes sparkled and he was also late for class. There was no doubt. Harry Potter was having an affair.
It occurred to Draco that it couldn’t be with Girl Weasley, since she’d been rather occupied shouting obscenities at him the past quarter or so.
Draco forgot about being sullen as curiosity overwhelmed him. A rare, playful smirk graced his lips and he eyed Potter unashamedly. Potter’s cocky attitude dropped a notch and he flicked his eyes shyly to the side. “Merlin, you look like the cat that got the cream. Who’s tamed the lion, I wonder?”
Potter stuttered and fisted his hands to compose himself. “No one,” he said, and blushed to the roots of his hair.
Draco chuckled softly. “Good one, Potter,” he said sarcastically. “Would have worked on a naïve Hufflepuff. It’s visible to everyone with a modicum of perceptiveness that you’ve just had the orgasm of your life.”
“R-really?” Potter shuffled his feet and in vain tried to flatten his hair. Draco hungrily followed the movement. Someone had just recently run their fingers through it, maybe yanked at it at the peak of pleasure… Draco had resigned himself to a fate of being lonely and bitter, but it nevertheless stung to know even Potter had sex.
Maybe he was in love. Maybe she loved him in return.
“Yes,” was all Draco managed, as something thick unexpectedly lodged in his throat, and then he turned on his heel and took off for his cold room in the dungeon. He didn’t come out the rest of the day.
--------
He wanted so badly to be beautiful. Draco stuck the glittering star to his temple and turned his head to the side to inspect the result. His cheekbones shimmered with silver dust and his normally ghostly pale skin was dazzling in the moonlight that hit him through the narrow window. More golden stars adorned him. Around his throat he’d wrapped a scarf, and he wore a loose white t-shirt and Muggle jeans. His wrists were wrapped in leather bands with emerald studs. He shone. The glow was artificial, not of the natural sort that radiated off those that were happy or good-looking, but Draco was pleased with it.
He hadn’t attended the Halloween Ball before. The previous years he’d curled up in his room and listened to the boosts of cheers and loud music. He couldn’t quite pinpoint why exactly he’d changed his mind and decided to go this time. Perhaps it was what Girl Weasley had said, that someone, a he, liked him. Draco grinned despite how his lips pulled up and revealed fang-like corner teeth that made him look like a beast. Could another boy actually fancy him? He so hoped that was what she had meant.
Once he stepped into the Great Hall, he regretted it. He felt more alone than ever, even though he stood in the middle of a crowd. No one spared him a glance. No one took notice of him, to his disappointment. He bowed his head, letting his fringe fall to cover his eyes, and found a corner close to the dancefloor where he could be entirely by himself. It was awful to have his hopes crushed this early in the evening. He mentally slapped his own forehead for being so foolish. “What did I expect, anyway? Gasps of awe? That my mystery boy would come stumbling all over me and tell me he loved me? He probably doesn’t even exist.”
Half-heartedly, he began swaying to the fast-paced music. He was torn between wanting to leave and join the queue at the bar. On one hand, he had a tempting plate of chocolate in his trunk he’d bought last weekend in Hogsmeade. On the other, it was sort of fun dancing and watching his schoolmates; especially Weasley and his sister, who both were making arses of themselves on the dancefloor. It was evident that sense of rhythm was something Weasleys severely lacked.
As the night dragged on, Draco worked himself into a sweat. He hadn’t known dancing could be this exhausting, but at the same time it was refreshing to express his emotions this way. He was still in his own little world, hidden in the shadows and moving smoothly to the beat, when hands began stroking his front and a warm body pressed against him from behind.
Draco tried to turn to look his molester in the eyes, pulse racing in fear, but he was trapped in the strong embrace.
“Don’t panic,” said a low voice, just as Draco was about to panic and wildly kick out with his legs. “Relax. It’s just me.”
Draco had no idea who it was. He couldn’t place the voice or the scent of the other person’s cologne. What he did know was that the person was a male. Light stubble grazed Draco’s chin as he nuzzled him and an erection pressed hesitatingly into Draco’s thigh.
“Who are you?” Draco asked hoarsely, and bit his tongue when the other boy wrapped invisible arms around him and started to rock him gently. He couldn’t recall the last time someone touched him this tenderly without the intention to hurt him.
“Me,” was the answer. And Draco found that he was content with that, as long as Me continued holding him. They hugged for the rest of the ball, sometimes kissing, and when it ended, Draco brought him with him to his bed.
--------
When he woke the next day, Draco simply lay in bed. Stars decorated his pillow and sheets, as they had fallen from his face during sleep. He was certain he was alone now, but he had most definitely not been alone when he went to bed. His lips stretched so wide they almost split, and he buried his nose into the mattress beneath him. It smelled of that wonderful boy he had met at the ball. The lingering scent calmed him somewhat. He hadn’t dreamt him up, then. But it was strange that he had been invisible.
Draco frowned. Was he a ghost? No, one couldn’t feel their heat or caresses. Maybe he’d put on a disillusionment charm? But those were incredibly taxing to maintain for long. What about cloaks of invisibility? Draco was aware of their existence. They were expensive and rare and tended to stop functioning now and then. It would have been too risky to sneak up on Draco with one of those. If it was an invisibility cloak, though, why had he chosen to cover himself? Didn’t he want to be seen with the ugly Malfoy? Was he ashamed of being gay?
Draco hadn’t questioned the boy yesterday and he hadn’t grabbed at him to see who it was. He was too starved for love to ruin the moment when he had it.
When he eventually staggered out of bed to begin his traditional, hour-long session of staring at his mirror-self, he almost fainted in shock. Something had happened to him. Something amazing. His lips were pink and slightly puffed from kissing, and his cheeks were still dusted with silver but now they also had a healthy, rosy colour. His hair wasn’t simply blond, but gleamed in the rising sun.
The biggest change was in his eyes. Warm, melted silver. The grey clouds of thunder were gone.
Draco gave a shout of joy and quickly threw on his school uniform. For once, he didn’t comb his hair and rearranged it so that it covered his protruding ears, or fight with dark circles beneath his sunken eyes. Soaring like a bird he ran through the labyrinth that was the dungeon and into the Great Hall, and when he spotted a mug of cocoa waiting for him at his seat he laughed. It came from deep in his chest and spilled out his mouth, and he couldn’t and wouldn’t hold back.
Students furrowed their brows and broke into whispers at his odd, out-of-character behaviour. Draco didn’t eat breakfast, as he often found it difficult to get out of bed and drag his feet to his first class of the day. Now, though, he sat down at the Slytherin table and basked in memories of a male body tangled with his and lips almost too carefully brushing against each other, and sipped his cocoa and even ate a toast.
Mid-way through his cocoa, Potter walked in with sleepy eyes and messy hair and a goofy grin that put even Hufflepuffs to shame. It was obvious that Potter had had mind-blowing sex. No one could glow so much otherwise. Draco lost his appetite.
Girl Weasley came stomping in after Potter. “You make me sick,” she said, a bony hand reaching out to tug at Potter’s shirt. Draco blinked in bewilderment. Potter’s smile faded and it took the light in his eyes with it. Girl Weasley raised her voice when he didn’t give a response. “Him, Harry?”
Draco froze when his sensitive ears picked up the conversation. What did she mean by that?
“Yes, Ginny. Him.” Potter gave her a warning look. “And I would appreciate it if you didn’t shout it out, seeing as I haven’t, you know, come out of the closet yet.”
Girl Weasley stepped in front of him, not batting an eyelid. “I still think it is a joke. Saviour of the Wizarding World, a sodding pouf? C’mon, Harry.”
Harry didn’t rise to the bait.
“I dare you…” Girl Weasley continued, tossing fiery hair over her shoulder. She licked her lips. “…To tell everyone present that you are gay. If you do, I know you speak the truth and will leave you alone. If not, I know you are foolishly trying to avoid me and will sharpen my clutches. Don’t think I am not serious about this, Harry.”
Harry’s expression grew murderous. For several tense seconds the pair glared challengingly at each other. Draco swallowed, not sure he wanted to witness what would happen next. What if Potter said he was gay? He would be the first public figure to ever have admitted to being homosexual. Would people shun him? Hate him? Bully him? Love him even more? And Draco? Would he dare to follow suit?
Draco saw Potter staggering back a step, but his usually so expressive eyes revealed nothing. Girl Weasley seemed to think she was winning, and she lifted her chin triumphantly. Was Potter chickening out?
There was a pause. One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Three, four, five… Potter hissed, snake-like, and left the Great Hall and Girl Weasley behind. Draco sat at the Slytherin table with his mug of cocoa, and realised to his dismay that he was on the verge of crying. Somewhere between ten minutes ago when Potter had appeared through the doors and now, he had started hoping Potter was his boy. And it crushed him to know he wasn’t.
Draco couldn’t see it, so caught up in regret and sorrow was he. Like a candle about to burn out, the weak glow from within him flickered on and off until it finally disappeared, leaving him as ugly as the other students had ever seen him. His schoolmates recoiled from him, but a few Ravenclaws drew closer in scientific curiosity.
Just as Draco was about to get to his feet and lock himself inside his room, gasps of astonishment were heard throughout the Hall. Draco looked up instinctively, and saw Potter striding towards him, jaw set in determination. Draco’s mouth fell open in disbelief. Potter opened his arms for him.
“Come here, you,” Potter said softly, and Draco recognised the voice instantly. Potter never used that tone with anyone. But he had, at the Halloween Ball, with Draco.
Potter slid onto the bench next to him and wrapped himself around Draco. Potter buried his face in Draco’s neck and inhaled his scent, and Draco felt a long-forgotten need well up in him. Home.
“It was you?” he whispered. Potter nodded and was quiet. Girl Weasley stormed out with a wail, and Potter clung to Draco as if nothing else mattered.
--------
They fell onto Draco’s bed, both smiling shyly and pretending they weren’t curious about each other’s bits. Draco giggled. Bits. Potter’s bits. Harry’s.
Harry.
“Harry,” he said, and Harry kissed him clumsily.
“Say my name again,” Harry pleaded, and Draco indulged him. Ten times. Which led to nine kisses and one snog.
Draco shivered and pulled Harry on top of himself, like a blanket. His Harry blanket was warm and soft and hard and his. So perfect. So beautiful. How come Draco hadn’t seen it before? Harry was bloody gorgeous.
Their tongues explored mouths, earlobes, necks and collarbones, while their hands frantically touched every expanse of bare skin. When Harry slid against him, their erections pressed together and Draco’s toes curled involuntarily. He spread his legs and wrapped them around Harry’s back, pulling him impossibly closer. The urge to bring each other to completion intensified, emotions nearly spiralling out of control.
“Faster,” Draco gasped, arching and digging his nails into Harry’s sweaty back. “Oh, please, Harry…”
Harry moaned and sneaked a hand between them and cupped Draco, massaging his balls before he began stroking his cock in earnest. His touch tingled, pressed searing heat into his groin and out, and Draco gave in to his pleasure completely, without abandon. Before he tipped over the edge, he caught a glimpse of a strange light that filled the room.
--------
“You are beautiful,” Harry had said, when they had recovered from their fifth round of sex. Beautiful was not a word associated with Draco Malfoy, and it had taken Harry two hours and thousands of kisses and reassurances and promises of eternal devotion for him to believe that he actually could be. Might be. Was.
Draco slipped his fingers into Harry’s hair and played with the hairs on Harry’s neck. Harry stretched from his position hunched over his Transfiguration textbook and smiled up at him.
“Hi, baby.” Harry sneaked an arm around Draco’s waist and pulled him onto his lap. Madame Pince shot them a glasses look. Neither of them noticed.
“Imbecile,” Draco told him, leaning in for a kiss. He hated that Harry called him nicknames. “You know what?” He interrupted the kiss and drew back a little. “I looked in the mirror again today and I saw it! You’re right, I am beautiful.”
Harry punched him lightly in the shoulder. “Don’t let it get to your head. Your nose is still a bit pointy.”
Draco waved it off, knowing his nose was perfect, thank you very much. “Do you mind? We’re having a moment here.”
Harry dutifully focused his attention on his boyfriend. Not that it ever strayed.
“I just want to thank you.” Draco blushed but plunged on. “You make me beautiful, on the inside and on the outside. Without you I would have wilted away.” He lowered his head to Harry’s shoulder and rested there. “I am happy”
Harry placed a hand on the back of Draco’s head. Then he whispered, “I am happy too.”
Fin
