Thoughts Through a Veil of Whisky and Secrecy

You're not sure if you can take it anymore. Two years. You've spent two whole years of your life, and his, you suppose, keeping this a secret. This is where secrecy has left you, drowning your sorrows in a nondescript bar off Diagon Alley. You contemplate your empty glass with a deep frown on your face. The bartender looks over and asks if you want another. Apparently, it looks like you need it. You down the whisky in one big gulp, and feel the all-too-familiar burn down the back of your throat. He hates whisky, is the first thing that comes to mind. You remember the face he made the first time you went out drinking together.
"That is disgusting. If you think I'll kiss you after you've had that vile stuff, you're wrong." You've always had a penchant for the stuff, so you figured you'd tease him about his "refined tastes".
"Ignoring the fact that we both know there are better things to do with your mouth, I'll simply ask what you have against my drink?" His face contorted into a trademark scowl.

"It tastes like death warmed over. It's a drink for the undignified lower-class, Potter," he scoffs. "It's beneath me." You chuckle at the memory and motion for another drink. You find it funny that that particular memory has surfaced through your inebriated ramblings. He was always more of a martini-fan, himself. They suited him - strong, classy...and with enough dignity to choke a horse. He'd flick his hair out of his gunmetal-gray eyes and glance at you. Those glances made you feel special, didn't they? Lust, admiration, love, even a tinge of contempt - they were all displayed in a simple, eloquent glance. He never glanced at anyone else like that, and that kept your hope in him afloat. You still hope that one day you'll be able to kiss him in public, to announce to the world that THIS is the one you love, the man you want to spend the rest of your life with. You can feel that burn settle in your stomach. The taste in your mouth is bitter now. He's not ready. Who knows if he ever will be? He'll tell you he loves you, he can't live without you... but then he'll leave again. He'll go back to his mother and pretend to be the dutiful son. His father's gone now. He died in prison during your last year of school. You can remember the tears in his eyes when he received the owl. He ran out of the Great Hall and every inch of you screamed to run after him... You didn't. You couldn't have, he would have been embarrassed, angry that you blew your cover. You'll never forget how you sang him to sleep that night. How you held his shaking body in your arms and tried your damndest to make him feel better.

"It'll be ok, I swear Draco. You still have your mother who loves you, and I'll never leave you." You stumbled over those heart-felt words, knowing how awkward you must have sounded. His tear-spangled eyes stared up at you.

"He was my father, Harry. He might have been a bastard, but he was still my father. I didn't even get to say goodbye..." He trailed off as tears ran their course down his face.

"I know. I know how it feels to have no goodbyes. I'm sure he knew how much you loved him, Dray. He was your father, and he did love you. It's impossible not to love you." He didn't respond to that, merely buried his head in your damp shoulder. Through the haze of the bar, you seem to remember everything. All the memories of fights, kisses, touches, tears and laughter dance around your head like a painful slideshow. Right now you miss him so much that the ache reaches down to your bones. But you still don't know if you can take the secrecy anymore. Whisky and thinking don't mix very well, and you slump down with your eyes closed. The soundtrack from your latest fight rings in your ears.
"Why can't I just tell Ron and Hermione?! For Merlin's sake, they're getting married in a month! I want to tell them I want you there as my date!"

"You just can't, don't you understand?! Mother's barely coming to terms with the fact that I'm gay! It's upset her enough that I won't be carrying on the family line, I can't tell her about you! It'd give her an aneurysm! And you KNOW it wouldn't go over well with your friends. They're still not convinced that I wasn't siding with Voldemort during the war!"
"That's not true! They know you were in the Order, why wouldn't they accept it!"
"I'm a MALFOY, Harry! Darkness has been associated with my family for generations! Just because I know the difference between right and wrong doesn't mean they'll automatically love me! Why can't you just wait until the time is right? Does it really bother you that much?"

"Yes. It hurts, Draco. It hurts that I can't shout from the rooftops that I love you and that I want to be with you."

"Well Potter, if you're looking for someone that will just give up their lives so YOU can be open about your relationship, then I suggest you find someone else." You choke down a sob, and motion for the bartender to give you another. Curse him, you think. Curse him and all those stupid Malfoy ancestors of his. You just can't handle watching him walk away anymore.
"Why does it hurt so much Dammit? What is there to be ashamed of? I love you!" You mutter to yourself, and bang your fists on the bar. A shadow falls over you. Great, you think. It's probably someone to cart you to St. Mungo's Psychiatric ward.
"Well Harry, I'd assume it hurts because you've got splinters in your fists," a familiar drawl remarks from behind you. You spin around, not believing your ears. The voice continues, thick with emotion: "As for being ashamed... No one could ever be ashamed of you." He looks into your eyes and delivers the most earth-shattering kiss you've ever received.
"Especially not when they're madly in love with you too." It takes a minute for you to regain coherent thought. You wonder if he's being serious.

"You mean... we don't have to hide anymore? Please Draco, the secrets are killing me." Those fine aristocratic hands of his brush away a tear from your eye. You hadn't even realized you were crying. Emotion and determination dance across his pale face.
"I swear. I'm ready to tell the world that I don't give a damn what they think. I'm proud of being with you." He grabs your tanned, Quidditch-callused hand in his as you leave the bar, bright sunlight from Diagon Alley shimmering through the bar's gloom. One of you, or maybe both of you, because right now it's hard to tell, turns to the other.
"I love you."