They were just friends and it was fine. Really, it was. It was enough. Draco didn’t watch Harry from across the room. He didn’t memorize the way Harry’s face transformed as something funny clicked in his head and he began to laugh. His head wasn’t clearer whenever Harry was around. His heart didn’t melt when he watched the effortless way in which Harry played with his godchildren, parading Teddy around on his shoulders and clutching a sleeping Rose tight to his chest, cooing things for only her ears. Draco didn’t mind when Harry smiled like the sun at a waitress or let handsome men kiss his cheeks to thank him for his efforts in the war. It was of no matter, for Harry wasn’t his. They were just friends and it was alright.
Except for, it wasn’t. And Draco’s heart ached. And he couldn’t even blame Harry for one second. Months ago Harry had kissed him. But Draco had been so absolutely terrified of ruining their friendship that he had said no. Without even explaining why. And what the hell had he been thinking. The light in Harry’s eyes had dimmed. But he had understood. He had merely kissed Draco on the cheek and said,
“Draco, I would never force anything on you.”
And then he had reached down, squeezed Draco’s hand once, and left.
They had become friends so randomly. So unconventionally. It had just started to feel real, when Harry had kissed him. And although Draco had been too scared to admit it to himself, he was so attached to Harry and his light already that he didn’t want to jeopardize it in anyway.
So they were friends.
And Draco spent a lot of time lying in bed listening to Cigarettes After Sex and pretending it was okay.
And imagining what would have happened if he had let himself lean into Harry. If he had just put his hands on Harry’s hips and deepened the kiss. If he had kissed down Harry’s neck and lightly bitten his clavicle.
But the fact of the matter was, he hadn’t.
And so Harry wasn’t his. When they ate picnics at the park, Harry sat on the opposite side of the blanket. When Hermione and Ron had game night, Draco sat in their oversized armchair by himself, only allowing himself a moment to close his eyes and imagine Harry walking over with a mug of butterbeer to sit in his lap and link their fingers together, tracing patterns on the back of his hand like it was a secret between just the two of them. And when Harry texted him to invite him to curry night, it was just a group event.
Every time Draco took too deep a breath, he was reminded of the pit in his stomach. For he missed something that he had never had. Something that had merely slipped through his fingers.
When he heard a sad song, his eyes became unfocused.
As the girl on the bench across the street carded her hands through her boyfriend’s dark unruly hair, his heart clenched painfully.
It felt like Harry was the first thing he had ever really wanted that he couldn’t have. And it was all his fault.
He didn’t know what to do.
//
playlist for this mood:
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3MMBaKPAs7Xb7glfdJ6obb?si=o12gpxBtSo2NS3DC9fGJ1Q
