Second

I.

Draco Malfoy will always be second to Harry. When duty calls, and when the Boy Who Lived has to choose between he and his friends, he will always refuse Draco--apologetically, earnestly, and sorrowfully, he will refuse. Draco notices. He notes Harry’s actions, his choices, and it hurts him--not hurt because of his stupid Malfoy pride or hurt because he is Harry’s lover and he feels he should be first, no, he is hurt just because it does. It hurts because Harry has become his everything, the one person that can make him feel angry, sad, happy, and so many other emotions…

It hurts because Harry has become the point of his life, the center of it. It hurts because he knows Harry has that power; can shatter him with the mere utter of a word, and he, he can leave at any time, and it would make no difference to Harry. None at all.

And it hurts because he craves Harry’s touch and his voice and his presence, while Draco will always be a shadow in the background: certainly there, and enjoyable, but not nearly as important as Ron or Hermione or the Weasley--second.

In time, Draco comes to hate the word. It brings a bitter taste to his mouth; bitter and sour and painful. It is jealousy, it is pain, it is sorrow. He cannot stand it; he never could. All his life he has fought to be first, always first. It’s ironic, he thinks to himself, that it would be Harry to make me second--the first time and the last.

He laughs. The sound is not happy, not melancholy. It is flat and empty and endless, like the longing in his heart.

Stupid Gryffindor, he practically spits out. Stupid Gryffindor--he makes the name sound like a curse word, something too filthy to even convey with just words. His eyes are manic and flat, hungry. He wants--wants something. Something that will stop the ache in his body, something that will stop him from longing to be something he can never be. To fill a role in Harry’s life that he can never achieve.

“Harry,” he breathes suddenly, realization dawning in his eyes. “I’ll find him--I’ll stop this.”

He strides, he struts, he glides--he does it all, changing the rhythm of his walk with every turn of his emotions. He roams the grounds of their manor, eyes never ceasing their search for that telltale mop of black hair or bright green eyes. He spots a flash of color--sparkling green and detached, hiding under the cover of those hideous glasses.

For a moment he merely stands there, watching. He feels detached and something that could almost be numbness&mdashhe can feel the emotions running inside him simmering under the surface, but they don’t affect him as they should.

Just another side effect of falling in love with the Boy Who Lived, he thinks with bitter humor.

Finally, he steels his resolve and approaches Harry.

“Potter,” he grinds out.

Harry is unimpressed. “Malfoy,” he replies coolly; his voice is distant and uncaring. It drives Draco mad, he can tell, which is probably why he did it in the first place; Draco knows that, too, but it doesn’t stop him from responding.

“I need to talk to you,” Draco says quietly.

“So talk,” Harry responds carelessly. He doesn’t even look at Draco--his eyes look distant and his manner preoccupied. Draco wants to scream. Why the hell do I have to care so much when you don’t--why do I have to think about you all the time when you hardly give me the time of day?!

“Please,” he says. His face is tight and pained. His momentary loss of control (even when it is in his own head) shakes him.

“Look, Draco, I’m sorry, but I have other things to do,” Draco’s breath hitches, “and it’s pretty important.”

Oh yes, Draco thinks, of course you do. Of course you have other things to worry about : things that are far more important than a silly little affair with a spoiled blond Slytherin.

He wants to scream, to shriek and tear his hair (if only that didn’t involve actually tearing his hair); he wants to rage and argue and defy Harry; he wants to demand an explanation and talk to him about their relationship and what it’s doing to him.

But he sees Harry’s face, impassive and lacking it’s customary brightness. It chokes him to see this, because the Harry he knew--the Harry everyone knew--was always so full of life and laughter and hope. The Harry in front of him, he realizes, is not the same Harry he’d loved.

So he does none of these things. He doesn’t put up a fight or demand anything more than Harry’s goodbye. All he says is a simple, customary word:

“…Fine.”

The word has a ring of finality to it; of regret and good-byes. Harry might notice, but he doesn’t do anything to stop Draco. He never does, and probably never will. Draco has learned that it’s the way Harry works, and he can’t change it.

When Draco leaves, his eyes are shiny with unshed tears. He doesn’t admit that they’re tears; ‘just a trick of the light,’ he insists. He’s lost Harry; he’s lost his heart; but he will not let go of his pride. So he leaves his heart and his love behind, but he strides out with his head held high, eyes defiant and face otherwise emotionless. He never lets on that inside, his heart is shattered and he is completely, utterly empty.

II.

It’s been almost 2 years since they’ve talked--but mere minutes since Draco’s last thought of him. He wonders if Harry feels the same, if he has moved on like Draco had never found the strength to; after long hours of contemplation, he has decided that he would rather not know. Better to have hope and to dream than to squash it completely with the truth, he figures.

His life is monotonous and predictable, but then, he had expected it to be after he’d outgrown his childish fantasies of grandeur and fame. It’s the way his mother’s life was, and his father’s (not counting his Death Eater duties). After he’d done a little bit of growing up, he had known he would live an uneventful, if not extravagant, life. If it had not been for Harry, he wouldn’t have had any other expectation of adventure or of challenge.

Just another aspect of his life to blame Harry for, he supposes. The list has grown steadily over the years, and would continue to do so; it helps Draco from thinking of the good times and wishing for Harry.

Harry, Harry, Harry.

The name is like a mantra. He never lets go of it; he hates it, blames it for the bad things that have happened to him all his life, but he can never let go.

Harry.

His eyes water; resolutely, he wipes them. He is angry with himself, angry at the world. “Damn you, Harry Potter,” he says to the wall. “Damn you for making me care, and damn you for not caring, too…”

He is exhausted; he lies down to sleep, and for the first time in a long while, he dreams of Harry. It’s a nice one this time; they are still together, still happy and carefree. He misses those days. When he wakes, he wishes that he could stay in his dreams for a little longer than nighttime.

He yawns and looks at the time; it’s eight o’clock in the morning, not too early, at least for him. He’s an early riser, usually up during or before, dawn. He frowns.

There’s nothing for him to do today, just like all the other days. There is only so much he can do in an empty house before he craves company, so today he decides to go out for breakfast. He stops at a Muggle café; he has overcome his childish prejudice long ago, and he finds that many Muggle conveniences are rather enjoyable. He is particularly fond of cafés; they are warm and inviting, quiet and relaxing. He sips his coffee contentedly, browsing through a newspaper, and he sees something in the corner of his eye that makes him spill some of his coffee.

He looks just as Draco remembered: black hair, unruly as always; bright green eyes that are still full of youth and determination; smooth, tan skin; his body is lean and muscled, achingly so. Draco closes his eyes. Suddenly, his relaxed mood vanishes and a part of his body aches--the part of him where his heart should be.

There must be a way to get out of here before he notices me, he thinks to himself. There must be. He is already formulating a plan in his mind, but he sees the light of recognition in Harry’s eyes, the unmistakable grin on his face signaling to him that he’d been too late.

Harry is already making his way to his table.

“Hello, Draco,” he says; his words are polite, but his tone is anything but. Something about the way he says his name makes Draco shiver.

“Hello.” His voice is nonchalant.

“It’s been along time,” Harry says warmly.

“Yes,” Draco hedges. He is still not fully prepared to open up to Harry.

Harry sighs, runs his hand through his hair: this doesn’t help Draco at all, since he’s trying so hard to remain distant; to fight down the longing in his chest. He ignores the wave of nostalgia and fondness that suddenly goes through him.

“Look, I know you’re probably not happy with me right now. I wouldn’t be, either, but…I’m tired of pretending you don’t exist, Draco, and I’m tired of pretending that it never happened.”

Draco stares unblinkingly, and Harry wavers.

“So maybe we can be…friends. Acquaintances, even. Just please, let’s not try to keep each other out of our lives anymore. Even if it’s just a simple phone call every few months, or,” his voice is so earnest and heartwarming, and Draco can feel his resolve weakening already, “just a card now and then. Would that be okay?”

He is staring at Draco directly, eyes pleading and hands clenched. He is the picture of hopeless anticipation, and Draco knows he cannot resist, not even if he tried. Sighing inwardly and cursing his admittance, he nods his head yes.

He wants everything to be okay again, and wishes it to be so, but he knows they’ve only just begun the healing.

III.

It’s been almost a year since their little ‘arrangement’: they are still not as close as they once were, but they see each other often enough. Harry calls once in a while to say hello, and Draco invites Harry to lunch sometimes. It’s all fine and safe and secure, but Draco wants more; he’s been living for so long without Harry’s presence that he thinks he’s okay, that he doesn’t need him anymore, but he finds out he’s wrong. Their interaction, the parts of their lives that they occupy, only makes him hunger for more.

He wants. He craves. He needs.

The sight of Harry’s disheveled hair and shy grin makes him ache all over; it reminds him of all times and their old love relationship. He begins to feel restless; just having a little bit of Harry every few weeks is tempting him, quenching his thirst but not fully satisfying him. He wants more, he wants to see Harry every minute of every day, to share their lives and their hurts and their friendships…

The feeling came to him at the start, but he didn’t realize it until later, and when he did, he has no idea what to do. So he waited. And he watched.

It’s Sunday, his favorite day of the week. He loves the quietness of it and the laziness--just as undemanding as Saturday, but with less buzz. On Sundays, no one worries about their work or appointments; it is a day to forget about troubles and try to make the most of the time before they go back to the real world.

Someone knocks on his door; he knows instantly that it’s Harry. He opens the door, smiles and says hello--Harry grins back and mumbles a short "Hi". Draco tries not to melt at Harry’s adorably embarrassed face; it requires his full attention, and he misses the beginning of Harry’s sentence.

“--if you could come and eat lunch with me for a bit?”

Draco blinks. “You’re inviting me to lunch?” he asks.

Harry is clearly uncomfortable, because he’s having a hard time meeting Draco’s eyes. Draco can see Harry determinedly fixing his stare on the wall behind Draco, and it makes him smile. “Yes…er, you know, just to chat and catch up with things.” Harry says, fidgeting.

To his surprise, Draco smiles. “I’d love to.”

Dazed, Harry nods, and they walk past the door, side by side. Draco looks back for a moment at his empty apartment, looking vaguely nostalgic, but the moment is gone seconds later and they resume their walking.

(2 weeks later)

“Hello, Harry,” Draco greets cheerfully; Harry is here for their (now) usual weekly lunch, a time in which they go to a café and talk about their troubles, their lives, and everything else. Harry is surprised to note that he is the most relaxed at such meetings; he is more open and laid back when he talks to Draco. It is as if the blond understands him so completely that he has no need to be afraid, no need to hide his flaws and his mistakes--because Draco knows what it is like. He feels a tightening in his chest, and he recalls how horribly he had treated him before, when he’d still had a chance to make Draco happy, to be happy with him.

Harry wonders if there is more to these meetings than appears to the naked eye; he wonders if there is still a chance that Draco will love him again. He wonders if Draco has moved on, if he only comes to these meetings just because they are friends--the thought makes him close his eyes, almost painfully--and he wonders if he can still do the right thing.

“Hi, Draco,” he finally replies. “Ready to go?”

“Sure.” Draco smiles.

They have their coffee; their usual chat. Everything is completely normal, completely uneventful, except for the thoughts in their heads and the looks in their eyes.

(3 months later)

As Draco is preparing to settle in for the night, there is a frantic knock on his door and the sound of heavy breathing. Draco opens it, and he sees Harry; Harry, with his hair looking wilder than ever, his face red and his chest heaving. “Draco,” he gasps, trembling.

“What is it, Harry? What?” Draco demands almost harshly, a failed attempt to sound angry; he is too worried and heartsick to cover up his concern.

“Auror…duties…” Harry wheezes. “I have to duel…a very powerful Dark wizard. Almost as strong as Voldemort. To the death.” He looks up at Draco, looking melancholy and alone, like someone who knew they were going to die and was already resigned to it.

“Why?” Draco asks. He’s already guessed the answer.

Harry smiles humorlessly. “Because I’m the Boy Who Lived,” he says simply.

Draco sinks to the floor without realizing it; his eyes are wide and his skin paler than usual. He almost forgets to breathe, and Harry has to shake him out of it. “Draco…Draco! Please, listen to me.”

Draco nods numbly. He asks the unspoken question, though in their eyes you could see they already know the answer. “Are you going to die?” he whispers. His voice is breathy and cracked.

Harry stares at him. There is no ‘maybe’ or ‘probably’ or ‘most likely’; the answer is plain, and yet he answers.

“Yes,” he says quietly.

Wordlessly, Draco gathers his knees with his arms and starts crying, shedding all of his Malfoy self, except for his name. He makes no sounds; he does not sniff or sob; he just stares at Harry, eyes wide and running tears. He had never realized, until now, how much he had needed Harry, how much his friendship and maybe even love had meant to him; how much it would shatter him, even now, when their relationship was long over. His tears are soundless, yet he looks as if he has lost his soul.

Harry summons his courage and tentatively moves toward Draco. He kneels in front of him and strokes his cheek; he brushes his hair from his forehead and gazes at him tenderly. His quiet and stable support seems to calm Draco; his crying subsides and he stares, dried tears on his cheeks. “What now?” he asks softly.

Harry can't imagine living without Draco now: even as friends, he knows that only with Draco can he feel as angry, sad, miserable, ecstatic--everything. Everyone else could not compare; they could not make him feel as strongly, could not rip him apart and put him back together with a single word or gesture. He wants to tell Draco he’s sorry, that he’d acted like an idiot, that he had only been afraid--he wants Draco back.

He buries his head in Draco’s neck. “I’m sorry, Draco.” He murmurs. “So sorry, so sorry…”

Draco nods. He lifts Harry’s head and looks him directly, eyes shining brightly with tears and maybe love. He kisses him, gently, taking it slow and languorously exploring Harry’s mouth. It tasted like home.

“Draco,” Harry says huskily as he pulls away, “Draco…will you be my second?”

Draco answers him with a gentle kiss, and Harry stiffens involuntarily, before returning it apprehensively. He leans into Draco and Draco leans right back, and for a fleeting moment, they can forget themselves and pretend that everything will be all right.

IV.

It’s finally time for Harry’s duel; he and Draco arrive at the field, with Aurors surrounding them on all sides. Draco clutches his hands tightly; his face is pale and composed, but his hands are shaking slightly. Harry smiles reassuringly, and Draco wonders how he can be so calm.

The wizard he is to duel steps up, his face remarkably handsome and unmarked, quite unlike Voldemort’s had been. He smiles maliciously, and addresses the crowd of Ministry Aurors. He introduces himself even when there is no need to, and he names his second, who appears immediately to his right. Facing Harry, he asks in a silky voice, “Who is your second, Mr. Potter?”

Harry squeezes Draco’s hand. “This is Draco Malfoy--he’s my second,” he says steadily. He feels Draco tightening his hold on his hand, and it reassures them both.

As they prepare for their duel, he murmurs to Draco, right before they start, “You’re my second, Draco. The only one.” And then he is gone.

Draco is left to stand by and wait for Harry to die, when he can step in and meet his end as well.

Second.

Never has the word taken on such an endearing meaning; it is the first time he has not heard or said it with venom and animosity. Second, he whispers to himself.

In their final moments, he embraces the word, wrapping it around himself like a caress.

~finis~