Shylan

Harry wondered again when it was that he realized Draco Malfoy was beautiful.

It was a realization that seemed to happen several times, and yet felt like a reoccurring blow to his mindset.

He was his own complex and interesting person, his decisions always seemed to be more calculated and measured than possible for some circumstances.

He adapted like water; flowing effortlessly whichever way was needed, always taking what was thrown at him in stride—as if he knew it was coming.

He knew just what was needed and when, never too much or too little. Knew when to keep his cool and when his opinion needed to be spoken.

But Draco was also broken. So horribly fractured.

Harry would watch some nights as Draco would sit up in his bed, sobbing from whatever memory had decided to plague his dreams, crossing his arms over his stomach and holding himself where no one else would. Hiding the blurred gray smudges of the Dark mark away from his eyes.

Holding himself so tightly.

Harry thought that perhaps Draco was trying to hold all of the shards of himself together so they wouldn't cut anyone else.

And Harry watched as morning came and Draco tucked the shards away and glued them back in place.

Harry liked to think that these moments humanized him in a way, forcing himself to see Draco as so much more than the child he had been.

Draco didn't allow people to walk over him, and refused to be beaten down again. He fought until he got what he wanted, until his voice was heard.

People tended to find a grudging respect for him, not able to hate him for the sheer determination and means he used to get where he needed to be.

His kindness could have a backhanded side to it, speaking in ways that people didn't understand until the time came.

His humor was witty and sharp, his tongue silver with his quick retorts, but sometimes people didn't like it, didn't like the things he said.

His thoughtfulness seemed neverending, except when he finally tried to tell someone what they needed to hear, they couldn't stand it.

And that was okay, Harry realized, because Draco didn't feel the need to unnecessarily please everyone anymore. He didn't need people to like him and he didn't care if they didn't, he would get in his piece, and leave it.

Draco sometimes dragged his nails over his arm, carelessly. The dark smudging of ink was grayed, but Draco was never very keen to let anyone see it.

Draco treated children like tiny adults. Speaking seriously and joking with them like old friends. Kids liked that, so refreshing from being babied by their parents and older peers.

And Draco was beautiful.

He was tall and lithe, and stood proudly. His hair gleamed almost white in the sun, and it curled gently around his face and the nape of his neck.

His pale skin always contrasted beautifully with the dark jewel tones he took to wearing.

His irises were an icy gray, flecks of darker tones around his pupil. In the light, his eyes almost looked completely blank, as though a milky sheen had been cast over his iris.

He had a perfectly straight nose and perfectly straight white teeth. His high cheekbones defined the shape of his face wonderfully.

Even if he was still a little pointy.

Draco had perfect eyebrows, a darker color from his hair, almost dirty blond, and so were his eyelashes.

He had rather pretty hands, long fingers and perfectly trimmed nails. Elegant, the hands of a pianist.

He had broad shoulders that slimmed into his waist, always neatly accentuated by his smartly tailored clothes.

Draco was a very handsome man.

But Harry knew another side of him. And he was beautiful.

Draco liked his coffee between sweet and bitter, balancing each other. He liked indulging in a Strawberry Cheesecake from the little bakery at the corner of his street when he felt he had something to celebrate. He liked decorating empty areas with art and plants and nick nacks, filling up the empty spaces of his life. Draco liked making people laugh.

He also liked to pay his respects.

Draco cried over him sometimes, mourned perhaps. Harry knew how the war ended, knew where his friends and family were.

Harry knew the path that Draco walked, the journey it took to heal and restore. The work it took to become well respected in his profession.

Draco mourned differently for everyone, Harry had noticed.

He would light a candle for Crabbe, take up as a substitute on occasion for potions at Hogwarts to honor Snape's memory, he would make large anonymous donations to Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes for Fred, make sure his desk was always stocked with lemon drops in Dumbledore’s honor, and he tried to learn about his family. The ones that were burned from the Family Tree.

Teddy adored Draco, with his poshness and confidence. Teddy liked to learn all sorts of things from his cousin who treated his problems as equally as anyone else's. Andromeda welcomed him warmly every time.

And Draco was beautiful.

Because he was 26, and he had turned his life upside down and shaken it until he could start over. And he took it in both hands and made it his.

And Harry admired him so dearly for it. Draco was courageous in the way he moved forward.

Yearly donations to war funds for those who had been displaced and repairments. He turned Malfoy Manor into a home for the lost and lonely. And he apologized and made amends.

Hermione, Ron, Neville, Hagrid, Arthur, Molly, Katie, Rosmerta, Luna, Dean. He apologized to Ginny on behalf of his father, who had rotted in his Azkaban cell.

And Draco had made something for himself. He had created a life, and held the reins of it.

Draco would sometimes play a solo seekers match, spending hours at a time repeatedly catching the snitch.

Harry always loved that his mourning was something that allowed Draco freedom. Harry felt close to Draco, felt so strongly present that he was sure he could speak to him.

And Draco was beautiful in the air, windswept hair flying around his adrenaline-flushed face as he snagged the golden snitch in his hand.

He always stayed in the air after he was done, as high up as he could. Draco would sit there on his broom and allow himself to bask.

And he would start talking. He would talk about everything and nothing, his life, his job, regrets. Over and over.

After he was done, he would smile and say in a forlorn tone, ‘Good game Harry.’ and he would fly back down and resume his life.

Beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful.

And Harry was okay with only watching. Because Draco was beautiful. And Harry was and will ever only be 17.

Happy Pride Month everyone!