Mountain Entity Incarnate

“Being around you makes every day just a little lighter.”

[fondly] “You're such an idiot.”

“Got you, always.”

“I can imagine growing old with you.”

“I could sit here and listen to you forever.”

“Let me take care of you.”

“Nothing makes me happier than being with you.”

“Of course I trust you.”

“Seeing you happy makes me happy.”

“Something about you makes me feel safe.”

“Stay for a bit?”

“Stop making me smile, dork.”

“Why didn't you tell me you were cold? Come here.”

“You mean everything to me.”

“You were in my dreams tonight.”

remus: lily, what am i supposed to do?

lily: you love him?

remus: oh god. yes. i-i love him. i love him, i love him, i love him. god, help me.

lily: when? for how long?

remus: i don’t know, i just- he smiled at me, one day. he smiled at me and told me i was beautiful, and i knew. lily, whatever am i supposed to do? he's my best friend. i can’t lose him. he is everything to me.

lily: can’t you just tell him? see if he feels the same? sometimes, the way he looks at you-

remus: no, that’s impossible. sirius... sirius would never love me.

“Remember third year,” Harry said.

Draco glanced up from the evening paper. “I try not to, no.”

The clock on the mantle read half past eight. Harry itched his ear and yawned, his legs sprawled over the sofa arm. “Third year’s the dementor year,” he said. “The year they followed us to Hogwarts. You remember.”

“Yes, school was rather like a prison, wasn’t it.”

“Every time the dementors got near, I relived the death of my parents—”

“Merlin, how many times do I have to apologize for dressing up as a dementor, I mean how could I have known—”

Harry laughed. “I’m not looking for another apology, Draco.”

Draco paused. “Then what are you doing?”

“Just reminiscing. Funny how angry I felt back then but it’s all so funny to me now.”

Draco made a face. “I was a pretty rotten kid. But I’ve changed. Like, a lot.”

Draco always looked nervous when talking about the past. Like he thought Harry would leave him if he suddenly remembered the day he let the Death Eaters in and Fred died. But Harry never forgot anything.

Harry closed his eyes, remembering that first day at Madam Malkin’s. He had been so unconflictingly angry. But children were malleable, half-formed things. No child was a bad person. They were just dumb mean kids.

Hello! Thank you so much! Sorry, this took me a literal lifetime to get to. I honestly struggled to write this because, while very fun, this prompt isn’t really in my purview of things I usually write, but, I wanted to give it a try. I changed it a bit because I’m terrible at following directions, but, I hope you enjoy it anyways even though it’s not really what you asked for. 

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The thin newsprint blurred before his eyes and Draco felt oddly sweaty, his heart leaping uncomfortably, rattling around, untethered, in the chasm of his chest. The owl who delivered it bounced noisily around his desk, scattering notes and papers, bits of parchment and feathers flying about.

It wasn’t uncommon to see the Golden Boy, dour and grim, glaring back at him through the innocuous black and white pages of The Daily Prophet. It was usually a comfortable, familiar thing, those piercing, glaring eyes looking back at him. It was nice to know that, amidst so much change, so much overwhelming hurtling change in the decade since the war, some things stayed the same.

But this picture was different. This glare wasn’t of an overworked, over glorified, over loved hero of the wizarding world glaring at some poor reporter as he tried to enjoy the open air of Diagon Alley. Or grabbing fish and chips with another of the Golden Trio, as the gossip rags speculated wildly whether or not Granger had left Weasley for him, yet. Or trying to buy himself Boxer, not Briefs! as the Prophet so joyously and invasively reported last fall, Potter standing, rage filled outside of Hommes Avertis Boutiqué. No, this wasn’t a pitiful candid shot, captured around a corner or from behind a carefully placed hedge.

No, this was something much more… interesting.

Draco sat down heavily in his desk chair, suddenly very aware of how numb his legs were as he devoured the words in front of him.

Golden Boy, Gay!

Potter’s glare in the photo was one of defiance and bravery, as he faced the camera, fully. He stood, chin held high and hair wild. His leather jacket sat heavy on his shoulders, obscuring his muggle T-shirt. His jeans were torn and ratty and his boots were nearly worn through the tread, but he looked sure of himself. On the lapel, innocent but indisputable, sat a small rainbow patch.

Reckless was all Draco could think.

He stared and stared and stared and remembered not two weeks ago when he himself had been seen at a ministry function. When he had worn a simple grey suit. When he had tenderly tucked into his breast pocket, innocuous and unobtrusive, a rainbow pocket square.

It had been a gift from Pansy and he had been terrified to wear it. He had come out to his friends years before and had only just begun to quietly, slowly, tentatively unfurl in his identity. He had been so nervous in his faltering and flighty pride. So very afraid of what people would say, how they would treat him. How they could hurt him.

He remembered how The Prophet had eaten him alive for his small act of visibility. That he dare draw attention or be proud of any part of his woeful and shameful self. A death eater was one thing, but a queer death eater? He had been doomed from the moment he had arrived.

Ravenous and thirsty for blood were the reporters as they had reopened his wounds and rubbed salt in them. They asked horrible and invasive questions, leaving him bare and exposed before the masses. He had fled the event after a few comments left him bleeding out onto the marble floor amidst the many guests who stood by with idle and morbid curiosity. Watching him grit out terse responses to questions that stripped him of his humanity, his dignity, his personhood.

When he finally left, shaking with rage and grief, ripping the pocket square from his jacket as he walked swiftly towards the atrium floos, he had bumped into Potter. Potter who was customarily furrow browed and sulking, as he was often want to do at ministry functions.

“You alright?” He had asked, startling them both.

“Yes. Fine, Potter. Absolutely brilliant.” Draco had bit out, wadding up the pocket square and tossing it to the ground, ready to strangle the man, but not having any fight left in him.

If Potter had seen the welling tears in his eyes or felt Draco’s frantic magic swirling around them, he didn’t mention it. He just watched him leave, making the hairs on the back of Draco’s neck prickle as he stepped into leaping green flames of the floo.

Now, at his little desk, in his pants, hiding himself away in his flat like some shameful secret, he choked out a half hysterical laugh. The owl hooted from the window sill and he jumped. He had completely forgetting the interloper, shaken as he was.

He reached for the small envelope tied to its leg, taking a moment to stare at the untidy scrawl on the envelope before he tore it open.

Into his hands, neat and folded fell his discarded pocket square and a simple note.

Malfoy, 
You dropped this. Thought you might want it back.HP

His stomach and heart did all kinds of horrible and uncomfortable things as his hands felt the care and attention placed into the small piece of fabric that Draco had so angrily tossed away, the deliberation and patience. He was pleased and horrified in equal measure that Potter could be so kind. Soft in a way he hadn’t anticipated, never expected.

You’re right, I did.