Easier To Run

Apparating, still marveling over the skill and rapidity in which I acquired the skill, I find myself standing on the stairwell that leads up to Ron and Hermione's flat. I can do this. It's just a party. I don't have to stay long. Then again, I remember that I promised to at least spend the weekend with them, thus the bags in my hands. Their gift is in one of them. Setting the bags down, I rifle through the one on the left, as that one seems lumpier. My heart is in my throat. I have to face Molly Weasley and Ginny W-, rather, Potter. I still can't get used to that. It never should have been. We were supposed to be Draco and Harry Malfoy or Potter. Either would have worked for me, were he still with me. A chill sends a shiver down my spine, and I close my eyes, letting my fingers clutch the box, thanking Merlin that I hadn't bought anything breakable.

Season tickets to the Canons' games for Ron, and a new potions set for Hermione, that dealt with Muggle illnesses and the like. A plaque of sorts, with their initials and marriage date carved into it in ancient Latin runes. It's just a piece of wood, really, but it's inlaid with charms and spells for a happy, healthy home, and protection from 'dark forces', as the witch who sold it to me put it.

Sliding the smooth black leather onto my shoulders again, I take a deep breath, and stare up at the wide grey door at the top of the stairs. Again, I can do this. None of the other guests are staying, that I know of. Ron knows rather well how I feel towards the afore-mentioned two members of his family. He wouldn't subject me to an entire weekend with them. I would be miserable. I might even try to choke Ginny in her sleep, knowing my bouts of temporary insanity. That's what I call them anyway. I scream, and cry, and punch my pillow until I need a new one, most of the times. I wake up the next morning with tear-stains on my face, and a raging headache. Thus is my prison, when I'm alone. It's not something anyone can help, and I'm not even sure I want to fix the 'problem.' In those moments, my rage allows my mind to wander, back through the years, to when he was still alive. If I threw a tantrum, he would shake his head, and cluck his tongue at me, and simply pull me into his arms, stroking my hair, whispering in his sing-song way that everything would be all right, that if I'd just wait, I'd see.

With a quick shake of my head, I push the memories back into my subconscious, and mount the stairs. I'm at the door perhaps a few moments before I want to be, and raise my hand to knock, before pausing again. Green eyes and tousled ebony hair fill my senses, and I nearly turn and run.

Oblivious, I knock, and Hermione opens the door, her cheeks flushed, those mouse-brown eyes sparkling mischievously. Unlike them, I can't forget. Not that they do, but they've moved on with their lives. She throws her arms around my neck, practically launching herself at me, and I stumble back a bit, smiling for the first time in months. Taking my hand, and one of my bags, she drags me in the door. As she turns, I see that another addition to the family is on the way. The matronly look suits her, I think. She's become much less exacting and strict since her Hogwarts days, and is a wonderful mother to her son. I'm sure the new baby will adore her.

Headed down the hall, I hear Ron's voice shouting from the living room, above a tumultuous roar of laughter at some joke he'd told. The boy had grown up to be much like his brothers: fun-loving, boisterous, and always ready for a good time. Harry always said that Ron would be the only one to mellow Hermione out, and he'd done it, too.

I open the door, stepping into the darkened room that's usually mine when I'm there. It hasn't changed much. A picture of he and I, on a beach somewhere in Italy, still sits on the nightstand. I gently take it and turn it down, so that I can't see our reddened, smiling faces. It won't do me to upset myself now. Before going out to join the party, I figure I'll take my time and unpack. First thing, I slip the black traveling cloak off my shoulders, and hang it on the rack by the door. My trousers go away next, followed by socks, and underwear. The last thing to be put away are my shirts. The drawer that they go in, Harry and I used to share. Slowly, I pull it open.

My eyes widen slightly at the two neat stacks of shirts that are already inside. A folded piece of parchment rests on top of one, slightly yellowed, but gently so. My name is scrawled over the front in his sprawling penmanship. Taking it up, I stumble blindly to the bed, and sink down.

My Dragon,

I think perhaps I have been wrong in not writing to you these many years. But then, it was your suggestion that we not stay in touch. You said that it would be less painful this way. I admit, it has saved me many a tear-ruined parchment, but I think it selfish of you to have asked such a thing of me. Since that afternoon in the back of the chapel, I have thought of little but you. Ginny may share my bed, my love, but she will never have my heart. That will forevermore belong to you and you alone. The sun is gone from my sky these days, and as I look out the window of this room that we once shared, I see nothing but rain and dreary grey. It's tragic really, how I failed in my last test of faith to you. I couldn't see the mistake I was making. I do have something to show for it, though, as you will see shortly.

This letter will probably never be mailed to you, as I have asked Ron and Hermione to leave it lying where I put it. In our drawer. I believe it better that way. I'll have said everything, and have it off my chest. But I cannot give you the closure I should.

To begin, I promise you that I never regretted one moment of our time together. Even those first years, when we hated nothing more than one another. I think even then, something about you made me want you. Your spunk, your ability to challenge me constantly. It all baffled me, when for so long, and even to today, people do nothing but agree with me, and go along with the things I want, rather than voicing their own opinions. But no, that was not you. Draco Malfoy, regardless how eager to please when it came to his father, was his own person, headstrong and carefree. Secondly, I'll reassure you that I love you, more than anything in this world, or any other, should they exist. In any of them, I would have called you mine, if even for the briefest of moments. At night, while Ginny sleeps, I lie awake, staring at my ceiling, trying to make the hurt inside go away. It never has, though.

Third, there is a reason beyond my own apologies that I'm writing this letter. When we first began Divination, I never believed that there was anything in Trelawney's predictions, or 'visions', as she called them. Now, I think there is.

I was put here for a purpose, Draco. I have fulfilled that purpose, and done it well, if I may say so myself. I am forever grateful to you for staying by my side until the end, in that respect. But the other night, while lying awake, as I described, I saw something. It frightened me. Having had several days to think about it now, though, I know that...whatever is coming is meant to be, and that nothing anyone does will change it.

Whatever happens, though, my love, there is something you must know. Ginny is pregnant. The doctor says it's a boy. If anything happens to me, and I should not be able to, I want you to take him, and raise him as your own. I have told Ginny this. She didn't agree with me, but on this matter, I had my way. His name will be Dustin Amory. The birth certificate will read that he is a Malfoy, as we'd planned. Regardless whether Ginny's blood runs in his veins, and perhaps I'm being cruel, but he is mine...thus ours. I only hope that you will love him as much as I know you loved me, even if not in the same way. Tell him about me, and tell him that it's all right to do as he wants, when it comes to life-changing decisions. Don't let him make the same mistakes I did.

I must close. The dawn is breaking, and I'm supposed to be back home before Ginny wakes. I needed the solitude, and the smell, and feel of this room around me as I wrote this. It has helped me find peace, in a time when I thought peace was impossible. I miss you so, my love. I will never forget you, nor let your memory wander far from my forethought.

Yours until the stars fall,

Harry;

My hands are shaking. I can barely see for the tears in my eyes. The letter falls to the bed beside my leg, and I bury my face in my hands, and sob quietly. All this time, and I never knew. Harry had a son. I wasn't told. By now, he would be eight years old. In my mind's eye, I can see my beloved sitting here on this very bed, pouring his heart out on parchment, because he thought I would be angry at him. I could never be angry at him.

I have to talk to Hermione and Ron, anniversary or no. Getting up from the bed, I tuck the letter under my pillow, frowning. Using my sleeve, I wipe the tears away from my eyes, and take a deep breath, before turning to walk towards the door. My hand closes around the knob, and I know something's off. Someone is standing outside it. But who? Turning it, I brace myself. It is a preparation made in vain, though, as I come chest to nose with a raven-haired little boy. His face turns up to me, and my breath chokes off in my throat. The eyes that stare back at me are the purest emerald green, and that skin, so milky and smooth. Did I not know he were dead, I would say Harry had taken some sort of arch-aging potion, and made himself younger again. The only difference, one only I would notice, was the lack of glasses. He'd been right. The boy truly was his son, and no one else's. Nothing of Ginny's, it seemed, had been passed to him. I could only stare wordlessly.

"Father?"