Rewound (Drarry)

I Love You

Draco had been on the grounds when he'd felt it.

He'd needed a break - some time to think, maybe.

Except, he hadn't gotten it.

He'd been sat by the Black Lake, a book open in his lap, but he wasn't reading. The grounds were calm at this time of day; quiet. The weeks were growing steadily warmer, but not tonight. Tonight a chill worthy of winter was settled across the grass, and the evening air was cool and crisp. It was a good thinking atmosphere, to be perfectly honest, but Draco thought that even snow couldn't cool his burning skin while he thought of Harry.

Merlin, Harry.

Harry with his radiance. His fiery heart, his soul. Fuck it if Draco didn't love him. He loved him so terribly, it was consuming. He'd lie awake at night, dreaming up fantasies of delusion, but nothing like he'd ever done before.

He didn't fantasise about fucking Harry, or the other way around, or dropping to his knees and making Harry breathe love and his name, or anything else like that. At least - not much, anyways.

Not as much as he dreamed of simply being with Harry. Dreamed of the domesticity that comes with long-term affection. He wanted to be the person who Harry turned to after a long day. He wanted to be the one Harry longed for at night. He wanted to be the one to leave him notes with his lunch, and kiss away his frown, and do all those things that couples got to do when they had no other priorities but each other.

He wanted Harry to be his boyfriend.

And - okay - maybe he did dream about those other things, too. About hands curling in sheets, and panting breath and soft groans of 'you're doing so well'. He just wanted all of it, he wanted all of him. Even the rough edges, the sharpness Harry had been forced to show because if he'd been soft then life would've crushed him.

He was so in love, he was sick with it.

But he knew, deep down, that he couldn't have it.

Harry didn't love him, but even if he could, it'd be wrong. To be with Harry now, in this fucked up time turned version of the past, would be to rob him of his real life. The life he deserved, with Ginny Weasley, or whoever else he desired. Who he belonged with. Not with Draco, who he was simply stuck with out of mutual necessity.

The wind was chilly, blowing back his hair and making Draco pull his cloak tighter around him. It whipped his face, making him grimace, until it didn't.

All at once, it seemed to just... stop.

It stopped, but something else took over.

It was cold. Colder than it should ever be this close to summer. It was cold, and fog was creeping in, and should it be this dark? It was like something was snuffing out the light, not only from the sky but from his mind itself. Flashes of Voldemort in the Manor. His father in Azkaban. The bathroom floor.

That was when Draco realised. He looked up.

His blood curdled at the sight, hairs rising on his neck.

A sweeping, black cloud was approaching the school.

Dementors.

He stood, abandoning his book, racing towards the castle and shouting at the top of his lungs.

"DEMENTORS! DEMENTORS IN THE CASTLE! GET UP! WAKE EVERYONE UP!"

There was no one on the grounds, but the few first years huddled by the Entrance Hall looked up, eyes widening at the impending swarm in terror.

"GET INSIDE! GO, GO!"

Several screams started up, shrieking as more and more people began to realise what was going on. Remembering the Comminuball in his inside pocket, Draco fished it out. He gripped it in his palm tightly, and at once it swelled with a deep, red smoke. It tingled in his grip, and Draco shoved it back in his pocket, praying to Merlin and Circe and whoever else that Harry would have it on his person.