Warning: Spoilers, x-posting, sh*t for beta
Disclaimer: Upon reading the inside cover of the 6th Harry Potter book, I was shocked to discover that I do not, in fact, own any of the Harry Potter Universe. Well, dammit.
Note: Please excuse any weirdness. I’d like to chalk it up to the bad piece of pizza I ate, but, alas, I think it’s just me.
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Other Note: Cookies to whoever can figure out why my post won't format correctly.
On his last trip to Harry’s apartment, Draco found the latest novel that his on-again, off-again boyfriend was writing. It didn’t surprise Draco that it was Harry’s autobiography. He always was an arrogant prat and a selfish git, and that was one of the reasons Draco was leaving him and this filthy flat, and this hypocritical, corrupted country with its hypocritical, corrupted government. The other reason Draco was leaving he currently muttered about under his breath, which consisted of phrases like “stubborn assholes that wouldn’t commit to a real relationship.”
Draco had begun Operation: Walk Out, by going through the closets, the desk drawers, and the couch cushions for anything that slightly resembled something he might have once owned. There was little to be found, which was testament, he told himself, to the rightness of his break up with Harry, and not to the fact that Draco, himself, had been such a bad boyfr—whatever…boyfriend, or whatever.
And that, perhaps, was why he found the autobiography, because some weird part of his brain had insisted on searching all the computers in the flat, believing that he might, in fact, need yet another copy of his college papers, despite the nine keydisks he had scattered around his life. It had nothing to do with wanting to be in that unhappy place for a single minute more than he possibly needed to. So what the hell was he doing clicking on the icon that said “autobio_2nddrft.doc”, because he knew that would be a bigger mistake than pulling the fridge power cable right before a week-long trip to England, which he had done, once, to get back at Harry for something stupid they had fought about. After all, Draco hadn’t needed to return to the apartment, because he had his dorm room to return to. And he still wasn’t sure why he had let Harry stay with him after that incident, because it completely negated the punishment of having to stay in a smelly apartment…but anyway. The book.
He decided to do what any real reader would do and skim through for interesting bits; after all, he did need to get out of there before Harry could get home and convince him to stay. He ignored the voice in his head telling him that Harry could, despite his propensity to cock-up so many other things, write a riveting piece of…well, anything. He was just that good of a writer. But still, Draco read, despite the consequence of getting caught. Or perhaps, because of it.
“…but anyway, regardless of our arguments, I attended Yale, and you attended Cornell, and I constantly mocked the fact that Cornell was a pansy school and that with your academic background, you could have attended better by holding your breath and throwing your application out into the middle of Wall Street and Broadway. After all, most stockbrokers sit on some College Board or another. Some other Ivy League would have taken you, Salutatorian that you were.
“Well, it isn’t the best,” I would mimic in my best Lucius Malfoy impersonation, “but at least you beat Potter!” That was before he found out that we were fucking on a fully-regular, mostly-consensual, semi-relationship basis. Now he doesn’t say anything at all, despite having a Salutatorian-graduating, Cornell-attending, Amazing-Bouncing-Ferret for a son. Pity.
I’m fairly convinced that you’re in slight denial of his...deserving, I suppose, of the Dementor’s Kiss, but of course I never point this out, because, hey, he's your father, and (as you in grade school so loving and frequently reminded me of, with great hatred and disgust,) my parents are dead. Dead, dead, dead, and no amount of foolish wand-waving or silly beggingpeadingsobbing laments on my part is going to bring them back/send me to their Hogwarts days/allow me to see them again without the help of big bad Voldemort and his twin-terror, The Wand that Cancels Out my Own—but Voldie’s dead as well, so we’re at a bit of a crossroad…” Anyway, it’s about as likely as you knocking me up in a drunken night of wild and unrepressed passion. Not that we need to be drunk…
And that was Harry’s style, a dry, rambling humor that drew people in. The publishing company was delighted to inform Harry that he got as many readers using his pen name, Leo Evans, as he would have by just slapping a huge, spiky “Harry Potter”, most likely stylized with firebolts and the such, right at the top of the book cover. “Harry Potter, and the Dry, Rambling Mystery Novel,” Draco used to joke before joking with Harry became too much of an effort, and before rabid fangirls of your first book, Murder in Salt Lake City, were able to uncover who wrote the book. But really, with a pen name like Leo Evans, what can you expect?
He continued to scroll down the document.
“…remember during Hogwarts, I used to laugh at your singing, calling it a serenade for the auditory-impaired, or for those who were about to become auditory-impaired. You’d sneer, and sing louder, pointedly ignoring the fact that despite singing in a voice that could shatter fine china, I looked at you as though you had hung the moon. I still look at you that way, although, gathered, I do it more conspicuously. And I still appreciate your singing, although once again, gathered, it’s gotten even worse. Still, I blame that on New York pollution, and after our last fight, the one you sought an end to by slamming the bathroom door and singly loudly in the shower in the hopes of staving off my attempts to break in and reconcile with you, I sat outside the bathroom listening to you. Eventually the noise toned down and you began to sing for real. No one has eve told you, but when you’re all by yourself, you do have an amazing voice.”
Draco hadn’t known Harry had ever heard him sing for real, and had never known Harry had felt that way or had sat outside the bathroom like that. He was now having to fight his little “you’re his soulmate, go unpack your fucking bags,” voice. He would not cave. He would not cave. He would not continue reading. He would not continue…
“…walked in on you and Severus Snape arguing about something and he was muttering about “Potter” and “Caution” and “Avoid” and “Gay” and you said, “Can’t rape the willing, and then turned to me and spoke as if you could see me through the invisibility cloak, saying, “You know what that phrase mean, don’t you, Potty?”
And that irritated me so much, along with the fact that your father had trained your senses to such a degree that you could feel when anyone walked into a room, regardless of whatever cloaks and deception charms they were wearing. Earlier that year on the train ride to Hogwarts, you had stomped on my face, breaking my nose, and then covered my body up with my own invisibility cloak. You still hadn’t shown any remorse when a week later, we sneaked out to Hogsmead for our one year anniversary. Come to think of it, you still haven’t shown any remorse now, and it’s been five years…
Anyway, I digress. That night with Snape, you said, “You know what that phrase mean, don’t you, Potter?”
“I’ll thank you not to find me completely ignorant,” I replied in my snarkiest Malfoy voice, which wasn’t much of a voice at all, despite having had it thrown at me in scathing tones for several-something years.
It has since improved, though, over the course of our six years of on-again, off-again Relationship That is Not a Relationship.”
Not anymore, Draco thought, as he made a move to start searching yet again for something else he might possibly have missed. Yet an unseen force dramatically pulled him back to his chair. He cursed Harry and his magical wiles, before realizing that it probably had more to do with his imagination than Harry’s jinxing ability. But something confused him. Harry seemed to have written his entire autobiography to “you” and “you” seemed to be…Draco. It was like one big letter to his blond lover.
The Malfoy scrolled to the front page, hoping for some explanation, and found it in the very beginning.
The forward proved that the book was, in fact, a long and detailed letter to Draco.
“My Love,” it began.
You’ll probably think me ignorant for writing this book to you. But I figure that it’ll be good for your ego. After all, you’ll soon have a best seller dedicated solely to you.
The first day I saw you, I was straight. Nevertheless, I could appreciate the fact that you radiated some kind of ethereal beauty most never possess. Not a day has gone by in the nine-plus years we’ve known each other that I haven’t thought of you, seen you, snipped at you, or kissed you, and somewhere in between that day and this, I went from straight, to in love with you. It’s funny that we’ve come so far.
Most people are friends for years before they become lovers. We were enemies for years before we even considered becoming lovers. And we’re still working on being friends. But nevertheless, this is the story of my life. And I write it to you, because you are my life. If my story is going to be about you, it might as well be directed to you.
But anyway. Enough sappy bullshit. This isn’t a soap opera; it’s a comedic tragedy. Let the angry snickering begin…”
Draco sat staring at the screen for a few minutes, before scrolling down to the very end of the document.
“…so I’ve bought the ring and you’re due home, soon. Knowing us, though, we’ll fight for a while and have gratuitous make-up sex. Maybe that’s when I’ll ask. Or maybe you’ll come home to pack up and leave, which is actually more likely, and in the case that—“
That was where it ended, but that didn’t matter to Draco, who was too busy holding back tears to notice a door opening and shutting, the scuffle of someone removing their boots, car keys being placed on the passthrough, and a whole other variety of sounds that should have been an indication for him to get up and look like he was in some various state of leaving, and not staying.
Too late, he thought, as Harry walked into the room. He stopped to eye his lover, before glancing over at the computer monitor, and giving Draco a look that would have made Malfoy Sr. proud, had he not hated Harry with everything he had. Draco shifted nervously.
“So, how does it end?”
Draco stared. Harry shook his head.
“How does the story end, Draco? Only you can tell me…”
Draco continued to stare at the man in front of him, whose hair was still as unmanageable as ever, whose glasses were slightly askew and clothes were slightly rumpled. He had a smudge of ink on his nose and a day’s growth of beard on his face and Draco broke down into desperate sobs and flung himself into Harry’s arms. The shorter man stood in shock for a second before returning the embrace with as much enthusiasm. After a minute Draco pulled away.
“I didn’t bring overnight things,” he choked. Harry smiled and held up a tote bag.
“I grabbed some things on my way home.”
The wedding was held a week after Harry’s book hit the Wizarding Best Seller List. Both boys got the ending they wanted.
PS#1 I have nothing against Cornell. It’s better than my University.
PS#2 Leo Evans: Leo for lion, ie: Gryffindor; Evans, being Lily’s maiden name