Existing

Draco didn't know when he started bleeding. All he could process was his blood stained hands, and the not-so-gentle feeling that accompanied blood when it seemed to be gushing out of your stomach. The smell of blood stung his nose, forcing him to remember the last time he had bled. Draco swore that he could still feel the bump on his nose where Weasley had punched him, it was right after Harry had told him about them; about Harry and Draco as friends and as a couple, which included a Harry and Draco that kissed, held hands, and blushed. Frequently.

Some would call it love.

Draco wouldn't.

He didn't know how to describe what the pair of them had, but he wouldn't call it love. He had seen too many failed couples to believe firmly in love anyway. Besides, love was normal; people fell in love every day. And Harry and him were anything but normal.

The look on Granger's face when she caught them snogging behind a suit of armor was evidence to that fact.

But Harry seemed to believe strongly in love. And when Draco was with him, he couldn't help but believe in it to; believe that it applied to them. There was no denying Harry when you are wrapped tightly in his arms, and he's whispering soft words in your ear and calling you 'love'.

Draco didn't know what he did to deserve to be loved by Harry. He didn't think he could ever do anything that was make him deserve it. Yet somehow, against the odds, he had it.

It was only when Harry wasn't around that Draco had problems remembering that they could be defined by love. It was hard to remember when he couldn't feel Harry's reassuring kiss on his lips, or when he couldn't hear Harry breathing his name. It was in these times that Draco decided that they just were, and there was nothing that could change that fact.

Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy existed together.

It was that simple.

The blood was coming out quicker now, rushing through the fingers that he had clamped uselessly to his stomach, trying to no avail to stifle the pain. The memories were seeping through too, just like the blood, each one clearer then the one before.

He could remember in perfect detail their first kiss. It was the perfect blend of green and red uniforms, the ideal Christmas couple. Red and green, under the mistletoe. It was the night that Harry learned how to wipe Draco's smirk off his face. Or, to be more exact, how to kiss it off.

Draco liked that way better then when Harry used to try to punch it off him.

It was more effective this way.

The next memory wasn't as sweet, but in a way meant more to Draco then the others. It was the time that Harry had somehow persuaded him to walk into the Great Hall, hand in hand with him. Draco was paler then he usually was as he let Harry lead him in, and looking back on it he was sure that Harry had been the only thing holding him up right then.

Harry, and maybe the look on Snape's face. But that was just an added bonus.

But none of that mattered now. Draco had come here with a mission, and now that it was done, he was dying. It wasn't, after all, like he hadn't known that this was a possibility, he had just hoped it wouldn't happen. He didn't want it to end this way. He wanted to hold Harry again, to see him blush when he teased him. He wanted Harry to come and save him.

But Harry wasn't coming. Draco had been foolish. He had told Harry to stay home, he had said to him that this was something he had to do himself, and that he would be fine. He promised Harry that he would return.

He had never broken a promise to Harry before.

What a shitty way to start.

Draco could feel the memories slipping away, priceless moments with Harry flashing in between bland moments without him. The blood kept spilling out of him, so much that Draco couldn't believe he still had some left.

He had come here today to talk to his father. Harry had told him not to do it, but something in Draco wanted to see the look on his father's face when he told him that he was in love with Harry Potter.

Or, as he couldn't help but think now: he existed with Harry.

But not for long.

Because after the look of shock and disgust had faded from his father's face, his father stabbed him. Just like that.

Draco had been ignorant enough to think that it wouldn't happen. And now Harry would have to pay the price.

He didn't like this feeling, the one that made it seem like he was fading, drifting into the unknown. He wouldn't mind it so much, hell, he might even have liked it, if he could have forgotten that he was leaving Harry. If it could have slipped his mind that he would never get to see him again.

He had left Harry without a goodbye kiss. He had, stupidly, selflessly, believed then that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy existed together.

He had not believed that it could change. But it did.

And the result of it was Draco Malfoy dying on the cold marble floor, soaked in blood, a faint tingling on his lips of the goodbye kiss that he never shared with Harry.

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