Just Know

They won't know all of what you've done for them, you know.

They won't know that they took your childhood.

They don't understand that the days their children, that they, spent in the park, you were locked up in a cupboard etching pictures in the wooden walls, getting splinters all over your fingers that leave little scars even today.

They don't understand that when they had teatime and brunch and woke up late on weekends, you were up at dawn working and getting burns from the bacon oil or bruises from the mops.

They wouldn't believe you because they don't want to, and so you don't tell them.

You don't tell them about the letters (freak, freak Freak FREAK FREAK FREAK) still lightly scarred into your skin, hidden under a weak and constant concealment.

"Knives are wicked things," you said to me one night while looking at the Gryffindor Sword bestowed on you for battle by Dumbledore,"but their sharp edges are less painful than the blunt one of a coat hanger. Coat hangers sting and usually leave infections. See that one down there? The thick one with the 'E' that looks a bit like an 'I', with the faded middle line? He did that with a chip of glass from the picture frame I'd kept one of my parent's pictures in. He burned the pictures. I saw my mom screaming, again. It was the first time I saw my dad scream, though." That was the night I thought maybe muggles had something right in keeping pictures still, without reactions. Maybe if those pictures hadn't moved and screamed, you wouldn't wake up from so many nights from nightmares.

You don't tell them why you wince the first weeks after summer when people hug you or pat you on the back. They don't want to know. You don't tell them.

They won't know half of what you've done for them, you know.

They won't know that you took belt whips for them or that you took the punches for them. They won't know and they can't remember what they've never heard.

They don't know. They won't remember.

They don't understand half of it and they'll just remember you as the hero.

A name.

A relic.

The Boy Who Lived.

Harry Potter.

Just a name and a hero and a tool.

Do you understand that?

They don't care about you, because they don't know you. They can't truly love something they can't understand. And even if they did, the love would be for a dream and a myth, not for the real you. They don't know the real you.

They don't know the boy who talked to his owl as if she were the only one who understood. They don't understand why you cried so much for a pet, and they didn't really notice she was missing after your sixth summer. They didn't ask, and you just kept a pendent with a white tuft of feathers kept carefully inside. With those feathers you hide the whispered secrets only the owl and I heard, with her you buried your ability to talk about your Godfather and grieve for him openly. But they don't know. They don't.

You're the Golden Boy, Albus Dumbledore's favorite, and that makes them think you're indestructible, absolute.

But the Headmaster makes mistakes, too. You're just living proof of those mistakes, you carry the script of his faults. (FREAK FREAK FREAKFREAKFREAK)

And don't they know that gold is easily manipulated? Don't they know gold is beautiful but not unbreakable? Don't they know it's easy to dent gold?

They say you're the light, but I think you're a shadow. Their hope is the light. Their hope is the light that creates you, the image of a perfect hero. Their hope creates The Boy Who Lived. The Boy Who Lived is a mirror, he reflects what they want and shows them what they desire.

But you're not the Boy Who Lived. You're the shadow. You're the mirror's shadow. You're the substance of the shadow and you're what makes the mirror up, but you're not the mirror.

They don't know you. They don't understand you. They don't know that you wear a mask all day and your smiles aren't really yours. They don't understand that your day-smiles are their smiles. The smiles they see are what they want to see and the Boy Who Lived gives them what they want. Your real smiles are much more beautiful than the sham they witness.

You're beautiful in the night because in the night there are only shadows and I finally get to see the real you.

I'm holding you lightly from behind and you're leaning back on me, relaxed and boneless. We're sitting in the dark and my fingers are tracing the words etched in your back (freak FREAKFREAKFREAKFREAK) because they make you what you are and everything you are is beautiful to me.

I hate the Boy Who Lived. I hate the Golden Boy. He refused my hand and shunned me years ago upon seeing me, because I didn't create the image everyone expected of him. I hate him, and he hates me.

But you're not him.

The last battle is tomorrow, and you have to fight. Not Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, but you. He wasn't prophesized to beat Voldemort, because you were.

"They won't know all, not even half, of that you've done for them, you know." I whisper, kissing your neck and wishing I could just mold into you, become one with you so I'd never have to leave you and you'd never leave me.

And you just laugh; because that's all you've got left. You just laugh, because they don't deserve your story or your words and they don't deserve to know. You laugh because there's nothing else to do, and you whisper through the night:

"I know."

And everything's all right, because I do, too.

And that's all that really matters.

I'm just Draco, not Draco Malfoy, not the Ice Prince or Prince of Slytherin. I'm just Draco.

And maybe, maybe you won't come back or I won't come back, and this room will stay empty for a year until the next Head Boy comes in, unaware that we sat here the day before the Last Battle and told eachother we loved eachother.

Maybe Voldemort won't be defeated and you'll just be another fallen warrior in their eyes, or I'll fall and the Malfoy line will end.

Maybe today is the last time we can hold eachother and whisper nonsense and talk about how ironic it is your Uncle died of a heart attack after all he's done to you, how he died within minutes after causing you years of pain.

Maybe yesterday was the last time anyone visits Hedwig's little grave at the park just outside Privet Drive, and the last time you cry on her hidden headstone and apologize about not being able to protect her from that whale of a cousin of yours.

Maybe tonight is the last time you'll describe the pictures your uncle burned in his fireplace, the last time you tell me how green your mother's eyes were in her wedding pictures or how happy your Godfather looked at your father's bachelor party.

Maybe, Merlin there's so many maybe's.

But at least we know a few things. Like the fact that we're loved, like the fact that it all ends tomorrow, like the fact that neither of us will be alone ever again. If one of us falls, the other will, too.

"I love you." I say into your shoulder, my forehead resting on you as you reach back to clasp my hands

Because I'm just Draco and Draco doesn't have to listen to the Malfoy Rule about love being a weakness.

And you?

"I know. I love you, too."

You're just Harry.

"I know."