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Ever since Draco could remember, Harry Potter had been the Dark Lord’s favourite. From the moment he had been brought into Malfoy Manor as an infant, Harry was showered with attention. He was given the best of everything, the finest clothes and the most delicious foods.
The Dark Lord ensured that Harry wanted for nothing, and Harry always had a smile for him in return.
Draco remembered the first time he had seen Harry, back when they were still children. Harry was kept in a separate wing of the manor, one that Draco had been warned to never, ever enter. He had been young and stupid then, and he knew better now, but at the time, he couldn't help but be curious.
Voldemort was their god, and Harry... well. Harry was Harry. A boy his age who was revered above the rest for reasons Draco did not understand.
But his parents could not protect him forever—of course Draco eventually found an opportunity to sneak away, hoping to glimpse the Dark Lord’s great secret for himself.
After creeping down the hall that led to the forbidden wing, he had been sorely disappointed to find all the doors were shut. He’d been about to turn around, afraid of being caught, when the door at the far end creaked open the slightest bit.
Draco approached cautiously, small fingers clenched around the door frame, and peeked through the crack. There was a boy in the room. Only, the boy was nothing special, just a skinny little thing with messy hair and fancy clothes that matched the robes that the Dark Lord often wore.
“Hello,” Draco said boldly, pushing the door wide open and stepping into the luxurious bedroom, a room so much larger than his own that he was immediately jealous of this strange, unknown boy who lived in his family’s manor.
The boy looked up from where he was sitting on the floor, and Draco was taken aback by the green eyes that met his own. They were bright and intelligent. Captivating.
Then Harry’s lips widened into a great toothy smile. “Hello,” he said, in a voice so soft that Draco might have mistaken it for a girl’s if he had not seen the boy’s mouth move.
Draco stared. He had been warned not to come here. Now that he was here, he had no idea what to do.
“I want a pancake,” Harry said, enunciating his words one by one.
Draco still stared, unmoving. Then, when he finally found himself able to speak, he asked, “What?”
Harry’s brow furrowed. He rose to his feet, graceful for a boy so young, and approached. He looked Draco over several times, as though confused by the sight of him, then laid a hand against Draco’s cheek. His hand was shockingly cold.
That, of course, was when Voldemort chose to appear.
A blast of magic separated Draco and Harry from each other, the force of it enough to knock Draco back and into a dresser. It hurt. It was one of the biggest hurts Draco could recall ever having.
Harry, on the other hand, had landed in a heap at the Dark Lord’s feet. His mouth fell open, those green eyes wide with surprise as he hurried to stand.
“Did your parents never tell you that this room was off limits?” Lord Voldemort demanded in a low, dangerous tone. He had his wand out and it was pointed at Draco.
It took Draco a moment to recover enough to realize that the Dark Lord was speaking to him. To him! It was crazy. Draco had never seen the Dark Lord up close before, either. He was a terrifying wraith of a man with red eyes and a pale face composed of severe angles.
Harry, for his part, silently tugged on the sleeve of Voldemort’s robes, his lower lip jutting in a little pout that Voldemort ignored.
“Did he speak to you?” the Dark Lord asked without looking down.
Harry shook his head, biting his lip, and Draco’s stomach clenched with nerves. His entire body hurt like a bruise.
Voldemort exhaled slowly, then turned his scarlet eyes to the boy by his side. His tone was almost chiding as he asked, “Did you let him in?”
This time, Harry hesitated. He looked so small and helpless. So unsure.
Later, Draco would not recall where his courage had stemmed from. Perhaps he felt protective over this fragile-looking boy that lived in his home and was feared even by his own parents. Perhaps some part of him had been hoping that the Dark Lord would look at him with such fondness instead.
“We’re friends,” Draco said quickly, only his words came out a little croaky, which was embarrassing.
Harry looked at him, almost expressionless. Shakily, Draco got to his feet and held out his hand. Harry stared at it for a moment before stepping forward placing his own in it. Draco swallowed and squeezed gently, heart pounding.
“Friends,” the Dark Lord repeated slowly, looking between the two of them.
“Y-yes, my Lord,” Draco said, feeling a little faint. He wiped at his face with his free hand, trying to rid himself of the tears.
The Dark Lord appraised him for a long moment before finally speaking. “Go to your room, Draco.”
Draco’s knees almost buckled in relief. He turned to leave but not before he heard the Dark Lord say, “You will not tell anyone about this.”
Draco spun around just long enough to answer, “Yes, my Lord. I promise.”
He ran back to his room. He did not tell his parents about what had happened. It was bad enough the Dark Lord had caught him disobeying. If his parents were to find out, he would be in so much trouble.
It would not occur to Draco until several years later that Harry Potter had asked him for a pancake because he’d mistaken Draco for a house elf.
After that first day, the day that heralded all the days that followed, Harry Potter joined Draco’s family for breakfast.
Neither of Draco’s parents said anything. They acted as though it was completely normal for this mop-haired boy to sit at their table and use their silverware.
Harry ate with poor manners that would have gotten Draco scolded, and smiled with too many teeth whenever anyone looked at him. Draco was the only one who offered him a tentative smile in return and was rewarded with a small hand shoved in his direction.
“Draco,” his mum said warningly, only she didn’t get it. What was happening was something only for Draco to understand.
Draco put his hand in Harry’s and let the other boy squeeze down. Then Harry spoke in a high, clear voice, the only words he had spoken all morning since entering their dining room:
“We’re friends.”
No one else spoke after that, and once breakfast was done, Draco was permitted to lead Harry around the house, room by room, explaining what everything was.
Harry was a good listener. He didn’t interrupt, and when Draco was finished, he applauded politely.
“Do you live here, too?” Harry asked.
Draco was offended. This was his house. He opened his mouth to say so, but hesitated at the bright, trusting look in Harry’s eyes.
Harry only lived in one room. He did not know about the rest of the house. Draco had been the one to show him, to explain about things like portraits and the floo network.
“This is my house,” Draco said, in a nicer tone than he might have used a minute earlier. “My family lives here. Can I ask you a question?”
Harry nodded. He was smiling again.
“Is he your dad?”
“My dad?” Harry echoed.
“The Dark Lord,” Draco clarified. “Is he your dad?” No one ever told him anything, but one thing Draco did know was that so long as Harry was kept happy, he wouldn’t get in trouble.
“No,” Harry said after a moment. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, who is he, then?” Draco asked, scrunching his face. An uncle? Or maybe a godfather, like Uncle Severus.
Harry made a dismissive noise, like it didn’t matter, except it did. Draco really wanted to know.
“The Dark Lord is everything,” Harry said with another smile.
That was not a proper answer, but Harry sounded so sure that Draco didn’t know how to ask again without sounding stupid.
“Do you have toys?” Harry asked suddenly. “Can I see them?”
This was a question Draco knew how to answer. Here was the perfect chance to show off some of the nice things his parents bought for him!
“Yeah, sure.” He grinned and held out his hand. “Come on and I’ll show you. I’ve got the coolest broomstick ever! You can ride it, if you like, I don’t mind—”
Harry wound up so enamoured with Draco’s broomstick that he begged the Dark Lord for his own.
Voldemort provided a broomstick of his own creation, a work of art crafted from holly and imbued with rare magic that, to this day, Draco could only guess at. The broom responded to Harry’s wordless summons. Whenever it was not strictly locked away in the broom cupboard or set aside by Harry himself, it instinctively followed its owner around.
At first, it bothered Draco to see his precious broomstick overshadowed by Harry’s much nicer one. He was jealous that Harry held sway over Lord Voldemort, a powerful wizard able to provide such impressive things. For as long as he could remember, Draco had wanted his own custom broom very badly. He pleaded with his dad and his mum for one, but no thousand-galleon broomstick could compare to the gift that passed from the Dark Lord’s hand to Harry Potter’s.
The Dark Lord was not Harry’s father. He did not treat Harry the way a parent would treat a child. He did not treat Harry like a child at all, really. Harry was different, a special category all on his own. So there was no one like Harry, but there was no one like the Dark Lord, either.
Draco reasoned it was alright for Harry to have better things so long as they were friends, so long as Harry relied on him for explanations and companionship. The Dark Lord was still terrifying, but Harry’s presence softened him. How could Draco be truly afraid when Voldemort looked at Harry with such obvious affection?
When the Dark Lord arrived at the manor, he would go directly to Harry. Then he would pick Harry up, hold him close, and ask him about his day in soft, warm tones that made Draco’s heart twinge in strange ways.
Harry never had to walk when Voldemort was around. He was carried everywhere, cradled to the man’s chest or shoulder. And Harry never had to ask for anything—aside from the broomstick, it seemed Voldemort knew precisely what to provide. A beautiful snowy owl, a box full of Harry’s favourite treacle tarts, a colourful quilt so that Harry and Draco could build a fort together in the guest bedroom.
“Are you excited for Hogwarts?” Draco had asked, one warm afternoon in the main drawing room.
“I don’t know.” Harry plucked a marble rook from the board in front of them and moved it several spaces to the left. “I will ask him.”
Draco shuffled his knight over to take Harry’s bishop. “You don’t know if you’re excited?”
“I don’t know if I’m going. Check.”
The response was so casual that it made Draco’s head hurt. Ever since he’d been old enough to understand magic, Draco’s parents made sure to tell him about the special place that awaited him once he turned eleven. Draco had assumed that he and Harry would be attending together.
“But why not?” he asked, dumbfounded.
“I don’t know,” Harry said again, still in that calm, pleasant voice like music. “It’s your move, Draco.”
Draco could no longer focus on the chess match. While it was true that Draco and his family were the only ones permitted to know of Harry’s residence in the house, surely the Dark Lord did not intend to keep Harry here forever?
“You should tell him you want to go,” Draco said firmly. “He’ll listen if you ask him.” Just like with the broomstick. Just like with the owl and everything else.
Harry did not seem convinced, if the crease between his brows was any indication.
“If you come with me to Hogwarts,” Draco continued, “we can play Quidditch together. And there are huge grounds, bigger than the ones here, where you can fly around as much as you like.”
Harry’s eyes widened almost comically, and Draco knew he had struck the right chord.
“Okay,” Harry said, more eager now that Hogwarts had been deemed worthy of his interest. “I’ll ask. Now move.”
Draco stared down at the board and scrunched his nose. After several minutes of thinking, he gave up. “Harry,” he said, “I don’t see what I’m supposed to do.”
Harry smiled beatifically and tipped Draco’s king over with a careless sweep of his hand. “Checkmate!”
Despite Draco’s best efforts, Harry would not get to attend Hogwarts. Instead, the Dark Lord was to come to the manor and personally tutor Harry himself.
“Aren’t you upset?” Draco had pleaded.
Harry offered that same smile—the blank, beautiful bliss. “He would like to teach me himself,” said Harry. “And who am I to deny him?”
“But—”
“Have fun at Hogwarts,” Harry continued, resting his hand on Draco’s shoulder, “and you can tell me about it when you come home for the holidays.”
“I thought you wanted to go to Hogwarts with me,” Draco said severely, shaking Harry’s hand off. “We were going to play on the Quidditch team together! Now you tell you want to stay here and—and—” He struggled with his words, with the things he knew he was never, ever supposed to say. “Stay here with him.” Draco was not quite able to hide the bitterness in his voice. “He’s never even here, Harry! He’s busy running Britain all the time. You just need to try harder to convince him—”
For the first time, Harry’s face darkened. “I said no.”
There was no threat in the word, no wand in Harry’s hand, but Draco felt suddenly cold. It was the same awful sense of dread Draco felt whenever his dad raised his voice, or whenever the Dark Lord’s attention turned his way.
“He wants me to stay here,” Harry said, each word enunciated with the grave eloquence that Draco associated with adults, “and I want to stay here. I’m not going to Hogwarts.”
Stunned, Draco could only nod his head in response.
Harry had a funny way of speaking, even then. Sometimes he hissed to the snakes in the garden—special magic from the Dark Lord, Draco’s parents said. But special magic could not explain why Harry carried himself with the gravitas of a young man rather than a young child.
As he and Draco grew older, this gap between them would grow more pronounced, Harry’s linguistic choices ultimately shaped and moulded by the Dark Lord. At this age, however, Draco simply did not understand. Harry’s refusal was a slight he took very personally, and although he was smart enough not to say so, the hurt lingered.
Before even turning ten, Harry was given a wand—a creation of Ollivander’s that shared the same core as the Dark Lord’s.
Phoenix feather. It made sense to Draco if only because he had never met anyone who shone as brightly as Harry did. When Voldemort was with him, that brilliance was multiplied thousandfold. Draco learned very quickly that it was best not to linger in the room when the two were together.
There was an intensity to their lessons that was almost palpable, and it made Draco’s skin crawl. He could feel the Dark Lord’s power pressing down on him, suffocating him. It was a relief to get out of there, to escape to his normal life.
So Draco went to Hogwarts, and Harry remained in the manor, protected by the best wards that money could buy and apprenticed under the world’s most dangerous Dark Lord.
The Malfoys held a place of honour in the Dark Lord’s inner circle; they were trusted with Voldemort’s most precious possession. Anyone who watched Harry and the Dark Lord together could see that in the Dark Lord’s eyes, Harry was valued far more than any rare tome or crown jewel.
This honour carried Draco through his first year at Hogwarts. Deference greeted him wherever he tread—children told by their parents to seek his favour—and while Draco’s life had not been as sheltered as Harry’s, he was not impervious to the attention.
His father had instructed him to keep his distance from other students until he knew better, and Draco had mostly abided by his father’s wishes, too anxious to extend his reach beyond the safety of his immediate peers. Because of this, he did not make many true friends at Hogwarts. He had Crabbe and Goyle, but he was not as close to anyone as he was to Harry.
Harry wrote letters very often, documenting his lessons with the Dark Lord, and in return, Draco provided the best descriptions he could of Hogwarts, hoping to entice Harry to join him. But when Draco returned home for the winter holidays, he was met with Harry’s quiet, unblinking stare.
The Dark Lord joined them for supper that evening, and Draco was reminded that however unnerving Harry’s green eyes could be, they were nothing compared to the brilliant crimson of Lord Voldemort's.
“Are you enjoying Hogwarts so far, Draco?”
“Yes, sir.” Draco set his fork down on the table, his stomach twisting anxiously. He did not want to be caught with food in his mouth if the Dark Lord was to ask him another question.
“Top marks in all your classes, I would assume,” the Dark Lord continued, slicing neatly into his portion of pot roast.
“Yes, sir.”
From across the table, his mum offered him a reassuring smile. Draco smiled back, then cast a sideways glance at Harry, who was occupied with a pile of mashed potatoes. His hands were slight, their motions quick and decisive as he scooped a perfect spoonful of potatoes into his mouth.
Draco turned his attention back to the Dark Lord. “May I ask a question, my Lord?”
By contrast, Voldemort’s motions were slow, elegant. The drag of his knife through his steak was precise and deadly. “Of course, young Draco. I welcome all of youth’s curiosities. Ask your question.”
Every year of said youth felt painfully apparent as Draco asked, careful to keep his voice plaintive and respectful, “Will Harry ever get to go to Hogwarts?”
Both of Draco’s parents exchanged a panicked glance. His mum shifted forward to block him from view, her words hurried as she interjected, “He knows not what he says, my Lord, please forgive him—”
“No, no.” The Dark Lord waved an airy hand. “As I said, I welcome youthful curiosity. It is natural to wonder, to question. After all, I myself once attended Hogwarts.” His eyes, glittering like rubies, fell upon Harry, who drank in the attention with a gentle, attentive smile.
Under the veil of Voldemort’s awareness, Harry was a quiet, delicate thing. There was none of the mischievous glint in his eye, or the sly smirk that sometimes graced his lips. Instead, he watched and waited with the stillness of a doe in headlights, prey held captive by predator.
“My Harry,” Voldemort said softly, “is very precious to me. As such, I have taken a personal interest in his protection and education. Hogwarts, though extensive in its curriculum, cannot provide the gifts that I intend to grant.”
“I see,” Draco said. And he did.
Harry would never be allowed to go to Hogwarts, or to participate in greater society the way that Draco did. There was a darkness in Harry, something that Draco only ever saw matched in the Dark Lord. Power lurking beneath the surface. It was a power that Harry didn’t even realize he had. And it was a power that Draco knew, even at his young age, that he could never hope to match.
“Harry is very lucky to have you, my Lord,” Draco said, dropping his gaze to the table in deference.
“Yes,” the Dark Lord said softly, his tone contemplative. “He is.”
At the few events that Harry was permitted to attend, he stayed by the Dark Lord’s side. Draco and his family were the only others allowed within arm’s length, and when Voldemort was occupied with foreign dignitaries or wealthy supporters, Harry relied on Draco to navigate him through the unfamiliar waters of high society.
Draco gave Harry a crash course in etiquette and propriety. He made sure Harry knew how to introduce himself, bow properly and make small talk.
"You have to be charming," Draco told him. "Make them like you. Then they’ll do what you want."
"They'll do what I want anyway," Harry said, matter-of-fact. "He says so."
Draco could not argue that, and he supposed it did not make much of a difference in the end. Not even Draco’s aunt Bella, who boasted herself as the Dark Lord’s most favoured servant, was allowed to speak with Harry. Voldemort had exempted the Malfoy family from this ban only because Harry had insisted on a friendship with Draco.
According to Harry, the Dark Lord did not mind that Harry and Draco spent time together. He was pleased that Harry had a friend, and he saw it as an advantage that Draco was now more loyal to Harry than to him.
“It means you’ll protect me,” Harry had explained, though Draco did not see how that could matter. Surely Harry was more powerful than Draco could ever hope to be.
Draco knew his life was considered less important than Harry’s, that he would be expected to sacrifice himself in Harry’s place if there was ever any danger. But Harry was the Dark Lord’s protege. He knew magic that only the Dark Lord knew. What defense could Draco provide compared to that?
Draco had never found the Dark Lord's pale, serpentine visage to be attractive, but he could admit that Harry’s presence made the Dark Lord beautiful. There was a fluidity to their movements, an ease with which they moved together that was almost obscene.
As Draco grew older, he found himself more and more drawn to watching them. The Dark Lord, a contradiction of affection in a man reported to possess none, and Harry, a boy who should have been like him and yet was so very different.
Though Voldemort was monstrous, his hands were delicate as they traced the line of Harry's jaw and teased through the black silk of his hair. Though Voldemort was a god, Harry was his divinity.
Love was a strange, ugly creature found between them.
Draco pictured Voldemort's lipless mouth against Harry's full one, and how Harry's body would tremble when caged by those long, skeletal limbs. The image was as tantalising as it was horrifying, but Draco could not shake himself of it.
It became an obsession of his, this depraved wondering, and he spent hours thinking of how to approach the subject with Harry. Everyone admired the Dark Lord, Draco included, but the Dark Lord only admired Harry. Was the reverse also true?
Eventually, Draco became certain that if he could open Harry’s eyes to the devotion the Dark Lord had placed so lavishly at his feet, the world would finally make sense. Harry was too unsocialized to judge him for prying, too unaware of the implications to understand what a confession would entail. But Draco’s curiosity had burned for what felt like forever, and eventually he mustered the courage to quench it.
“Do you love him?” Draco had asked.
“Love?” Harry repeated, mimicking Draco’s tone as he canted his head to one side. His eyes were so very luminous; there had to be magic involved, some spell or potion applied to enhance their vibrant colour. “I don’t know,” Harry said. “Do you think I love him, Draco?”
“I think that what you have with the Dark Lord is special,” Draco said quickly, “and if there was to be love, it would exist between the two of you.”
“He never speaks of love,” Harry commented. Lately, he had taken to floating instead of walking, a skill taught to him by the Dark Lord. As he followed Draco down the hall and towards the dining room, his feet hovered an inch above the ground. Soon he would no longer even need a broom to fly. “How am I to know?”
“Love doesn’t have to be something you say,” Draco hedged. “It can be… a feeling.”
“What does love feel like?”
This time, Draco had to think about his answer. “Love is…” He paused. “When you love someone, they’re important to you. You’re happy when they’re happy, so you want to make them happy, and you want to give them things that will make them happy.”
“He calls my presence a gift," Harry said in a contemplative tone. His feet touched upon the ground as he turned to face Draco.
“What else does he say about you?” Draco asked, his curiosity momentarily overwhelming him as he slowed his steps to match Harry's.
“Many things.” Harry frowned. “I do want him to be happy. I like when he is pleased with me. Is that love?”
“That’s part of it,” Draco allowed. He bit his lip, then asked, “Do you wish he would? Love you?”
Harry’s brow creased, then smoothed out as one corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “I think someday I would like to feel it.”
It was hours before dawn when Draco woke with a start. He felt oddly disoriented as he blinked in the darkness, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He was in bed, only something was—
“Draco?”
Draco did not scream, but he did yelp in an undignified manner as he scrambled back in his bed to get away from the intruder. “Harry?” he hissed. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said.” Harry crawled closer, until his face was far too close to Draco’s for comfort. “I want to try kissing you.”
“What? No!”
But Harry only shifted even closer, and so Draco—in his panic—reached out and shoved hard.
Harry tumbled off the bed with a muted noise of surprise, leaving Draco frozen in horror. All he could think about was how much his mother would cry if he was murdered by the Dark Lord for kissing Harry Potter.
“I’m not—” Draco struggled to get the words out. “I’m not kissing you, are you insane?”
Harry’s head rose over the edge of Draco’s mattress. “Why not? Do you love me?”
What kind of question was that? “What?” Draco said. His head was beginning to hurt, as it so often did when Harry was around. The conversation about love had taken place days ago. Why was Harry bringing it up again now?
“If you do, then I understand why you wouldn’t want to.”
Draco pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I am not in love with you, Harry. I just want to know why you came into my room in the middle of the night asking to snog.”
Even in the dark, Draco could see Harry’s pout. “I wanted to try it.”
“Yeah, well, you should have asked.”
Harry angled his head slightly to the left. “I did ask.”
“You—” Draco stopped and exhaled loudly. “Nevermind. Ask me again in the morning.”
“Okay.” Harry faded out of sight, but not before he called out, “Good night!”
Draco rolled over and buried his face into his pillow until he was sure that Harry was gone. Then he lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling until dawn began to filter through his curtains. The Dark Lord really was going to kill him.
The gardens of Malfoy Manor were especially beautiful during the Easter holidays. Draco’s mother took great care to cultivate a dazzling assortment of flowers, and the surrounding hedges were trimmed into the shapes of various animals. A stately fountain in the middle of the garden featured a statue of a beautiful witch pouring water out of a jug.
Draco had brought Harry out here in the hopes of having a private conversation while his parents were occupied with breakfast in the dining hall. Being a teenager was difficult enough without having to teach Harry how to be one, too.
“So what changed your mind?” Draco asked, sitting himself on the stone bench and stretching his legs out.
“I love him,” Harry said simply.
Draco kept his face carefully blank, a skill built over years of friendship with Harry, who was probably insane, and said, “Oh?”
“Or, at least, I think I do—”
Draco rubbed at his face and sighed.
“—but I can’t be sure, you see, because I haven’t tried it yet. He says that experimentation is the foundation of any powerful magic. Are we having pancakes for breakfast?”
“Love isn’t magic,” Draco pointed out. Then, belatedly, he added, “I’ll ask Dobby to make us some.”
Harry perched his chin on his hands. “I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do,” he confessed. “What do you think I should do?”
Dobby appeared with two plates of pancakes and two glasses of orange juice. Harry dug in with relish, but Draco remained lost in thought. It felt stupid to say that he’d been expecting Harry to know what to do. Harry knew the Dark Lord better than anyone, but he was still just a teenage boy like Draco.
“Have you thought about telling him?” Draco asked.
Harry shot him a look. Draco bit down on his lip to avoid laughing, but it seemed he did a poor job of hiding his amusement because Harry scowled.
“I’m sorry,” Draco said, without the slightest hint of contrition. “I had to ask.” Then, in a more serious tone, he asked, “But have you?”
Harry sighed, stabbing at his plate, but his spirits seemed higher as he gazed out at the garden, contemplating Draco’s words.
“He is everything,” Harry said quietly.
Draco fell silent. He was aware that this situation was not normal. The godliness of Voldemort made him untouchable. But Harry simply had a way about him that radiated light—even when surrounded by darkness. Only Harry could achieve this impossible task, rousing emotion from an intimidating, impassive deity, like drawing water from a stone.
“I don’t think kissing me will teach you anything,” Draco said at last. He stretched out an arm to tentatively pat Harry’s knee. “If anything, it’s him you need to practise on.”
Harry sighed again, louder than before. “But he is coming to see me today.”
“You don’t have to tell him today.”
“This is your fault,” Harry complained loudly, as though Draco hadn’t spoken. “How am I to explain this to him?”
“I just said—”
Harry sat up and glared. “He will know. He will see it in my head.”
“Then…” Draco trailed off as the implication of what Harry was saying dawned on him. “... don’t show him?”
Harry flicked a finger at Draco’s plate, which did a somersault and landed pancake-first on the asphalt. “We don’t keep secrets.” He flicked his finger a second time; the plate on the ground turned into a pile of ants. “I don’t like this.”
Draco was also liking this less and less. “The Dark Lord—you’re his favourite,” Draco said quickly. “He won’t be upset with you. He—” Draco did not want to speak on the Dark Lord’s behalf, but this still seemed obvious to him, and so he could not help but add, “He loves you, I think. As much as someone like him can love.”
Harry was still frowning. Then he said, “I think you’re right,” and Draco relaxed until Harry continued with, “so I mustn’t show him. You will come with me.” Harry smiled. “And distract him.”
Draco groaned.
Despite Draco’s numerous protests, Harry refused to change his mind. Of course, denying Harry’s request was just as bad as going along with it, which left Draco with no choice but to accompany Harry to the duelling hall after lunch.
“He won’t even know I’m there,” Draco complained. Those few times when Draco had been in the room with them, the Dark Lord had ignored him.
“He will,” Harry insisted, and Draco wondered just how delusional Harry was, to even think such a thing.
With Harry, the Dark Lord was affectionate and utterly focused. His hands touched Harry with reverence—perhaps in the way a god would touch their creation—and he had eyes for no one else.
True enough, when the Dark Lord arrived fifteen minutes later, he went directly for Harry.
Harry’s face lit up, though this momentary delight was momentarily eclipsed with the same insecurity Draco had glimpsed earlier.
“Draco is here today,” Harry said quickly, glancing over the Dark Lord’s shoulder in Draco’s direction.
Draco would have preferred to phase through the floor to the earth’s core, but he smiled shakily and bowed as the Dark Lord’s attention fell upon him. “My Lord.”
“I wanted to suggest,” Harry continued, “that we train together. I think it would be good for him to learn some of what you taught me, if he is to protect me appropriately in the future.”
Voldemort’s crimson gaze was cold and calculating as it swept over Draco. “I see.”
“It would be the greatest honour to learn from you, my Lord, if you were to permit it,” Draco said, dropping to his knees and lowering his head as far as it could go. It did not stop his body from shaking as the Dark Lord drew nearer.
Years with Harry had done nothing to eliminate the awe and fear he felt in the Dark Lord’s presence, with the full attention of the world’s most dangerous dark wizard concentrated solely on the top of his head.
“This is acceptable,” Voldemort said after a moment. To Harry, he added, “You will teach him what you know, and I will observe.”
What followed was three hours of torture. Some of the magic Harry attempted to impart on him was fascinating, but Draco found it impossible to concentrate. He fumbled his wand frequently and embarrassed himself more often than not.
Harry chided him and offered to guide his wand movements, but Draco was too anxious of the Dark Lord’s judgement to accept the offer. He could not imagine what would happen to him if the Dark Lord thought Draco was the subject of any romantic interest.
By the end of the session, Draco was soaked in sweat, prepared to confess to anything if it meant his suffering would end.
“This is pointless,” Voldemort said in an emotionless voice. He had not spoken a single word since agreeing to Harry’s request. “He has learnt nothing.”
Part of Draco was offended—surely he had shown some ounce of promise—before he remembered this was the least of his worries. “My apologies, my Lord,” Draco said breathlessly, falling to his knees for the second time. “I will work harder to earn your approval in the future.”
“Draco earns high marks at Hogwarts,” Harry said loyally. “It is not his fault you are so intimidating.”
Draco dared to lift his head and shoot Harry a look of utmost horror. Why would Harry say something like that?
But the Dark Lord only laughed. “That may be true,” Voldemort said, and there was warmth in the words as his eyes drifted over Harry’s face. “Draco, you are dismissed.”
Draco scrambled to his feet, eager to escape, but Harry flew over and took him by the arm, holding him in place.
“Harry,” Draco said warningly, but there was a tense edge to Harry’s expression that made him hesitate.
When Harry turned back to the Dark Lord, however, his face was once again serene.
“I would like to ask something else.”
Draco was sure did not imagine the irritated twitch of the Dark Lord’s facial muscles.
Still, the Dark Lord’s answer was patient. “Yes?”
“I want to visit Hogwarts,” Harry said, his words emerging slightly faster than normal. “And I would like Draco to serve as my guide while I do so.”
“I thought he was going to kill me,” Draco hissed as he hurried Harry past the gates. They had been allowed to leave, but only after the Dark Lord had applied dozens of protective spells to mask Harry’s presence from outsiders.
“He wouldn’t,” Harry said absently. His gaze was occupied with the massive castle ahead of them. “He knows I care about your company.”
“If he understands that,” Draco said in a flat voice, “then surely he’ll understand it when you tell him the same about yourself!”
“It isn’t the same.” Harry turned to face him. “You said so.”
Draco grimaced. It was not the same. What Harry and the Dark Lord had was transcendent, possibly beyond the scope of Draco’s comprehension. To him, the Dark Lord was master and god. There was no reason or logic, only the force of the Dark Lord's will.
But Harry existed in a sphere both inside and outside of the Dark Lord’s influence. The Dark Lord could not control him, just as he could not control the rise and fall of the sun, day after day. Draco understood why the Dark Lord chose to hold Harry captive, to never let him go. Harry was achingly beautiful and infinitely precious, a possession and a partner. Harry defied everything.
“Then don’t tell him,” Draco said finally, just to have something to say. “Crawl into his bed like you tried to do with me, and ask if you can kiss him.”
“Oh,” Harry said thoughtfully. Bright green eyes fixed upon Draco’s face, eerie in their vibrancy. “Do you think that would work? When would it be proper to ask him for that?”
It was utterly impossible to say anything to Harry. Absolutely impossible. “I was joking,” Draco said in a pained voice. “That was a joke.”
But Harry was already walking off, a mild frown on his face.
Draco hurried after him. “Joking,” he repeated. “A joke.”
“But—”
“No.”
Harry’s frown deepened.
Draco sighed. “Let me show you around the castle.”
Sixth year ended, summer passed, and then school began again. All the while, Draco perched on the edge of his anxieties, waiting for the Dark Lord to come for him. Draco had encouraged Harry to... to do whatever insane thing that Harry would eventually decide to do. And as Harry was precious to Voldemort in ways none of them could hope to be, he would not be punished. Draco would be punished in his place.
But Harry’s letters were normal, full of happy chatter on the Dark Lord’s lesson plans and the latest developments in the Dark Lord’s ever-growing empire.
It was not until Draco arrived home for winter break that he once again gave into his curiosity and visited the wing where Harry resided, intent on asking if any progress had been made.
The door was open just enough for light to spill through. Draco pushed at it, but froze on the threshold as his eyes focused on the scene within.
Harry lay pressed to the wall, his body covered entirely by the Dark Lord’s, his eyes fluttering shut as those pale hands wandered his waist, methodically fingering the dips and folds of his shirt.
“Did you miss me?” the Dark Lord murmured, Harry’s unruly curls brushing against his face as he dipped his head, lowering his lipless mouth to the shell of Harry’s ear.
“Yes,” Harry breathed, his hands rising to clutch at the Dark Lord’s shoulders. His head tipped back, arching his neck, and Draco could not find fault with how the Dark Lord’s eyes followed the motion, greedy crimson irises tracing the path of exposed skin straight down to the clavicle.
This was all that he had imagined. A fantasy brought to life. Draco watched as the Dark Lord brought his mouth to Harry’s throat, as the clothes between them were slowly removed. He felt the ghost of their touches on his own skin; those soft lips parting under his, the tongue that pushed its way into his mouth. His body warmed at the idea, swaying in place, the fever of his aimless longings at last cresting as Harry gasped the Dark Lord’s name.
“Voldemort.”
Only Harry could speak this name like it was nothing. Like it was everything.
The Dark Lord was eager after that, pressing closer and closer until he was buried within, until Harry was clawing at the Dark Lord’s back and pleading for him to go faster, harder, deeper.
The tableau of intimacy stirred an ache in Draco, a sharp want that pulsed deep in his chest and radiated outwards. He sank to his knees, unable to tear his eyes away, unable to remove himself from their orbit. It was wrong to watch and worse to enjoy the sight, but it did not feel wrong, and this was what damned him.
For all the many ways he had pictured the Dark Lord and Harry together, he had never expected it to be tender.
Draco had once believed that Harry might be taken unawares, that the Dark Lord would lay claim to Harry’s body as he had all of Britain. But the Dark Lord was mindful of each twist and tremble, gentle with every given caress even as he moved deep inside, gripping Harry’s hips with devoted, immovable hands.
It was Harry’s keen cry that broke through Draco’s haze. It was Harry’s body stretched taut in ecstasy as the Dark Lord silenced his wail with a kiss. It was this final proof of consummation, like a backhand across the face, that reminded Draco of who they were, of who he was.
Horrified with himself, Draco fled. He did not stop until he was barricaded in his room, the vulgar thud of his heart echoing in his ears.
Once upon a time, the Dark Lord had looked upon Harry, an infant forged in the cradle of prophecy, and glimpsed the potential for a future. That future had sprawled across a thousand moments, a million possibilities, to shape a bond that defied the stars. Even the splendour of godhood could not compare.
Yet now that bond had taken a physical form, nothing had changed. It seemed unfathomable that the unconventional creature of their love could leave the world around them unaffected, and yet Draco found that was precisely the case.
The worship they felt for each other, it had always been there. For Harry, there was wonder and laughter and the delight of devotion. For the Dark Lord, there was only Harry. There had never been room for anything else.
“So,” Draco asked one balmy summer day, “did you ever tell him?” This question, too, had burned in him for some time, though growth and shame had tempered his capacity for indiscretions.
Harry smiled, his joy writ across his face in a thousand infinitesimal ways. He raised a hand to Draco’s face, and the dry warmth of his palm seared Draco to the bone.
“No,” Harry said. “I never told him.”
There was a beat of silence, and then Harry laughed. It was a beautiful sound, brighter than all the stars in the sky—all of them that had been, all of them that were, and all the ones that had yet to come.
“I never told him,” Harry repeated, still smiling. “But I think he knows.”
END.
