Drarry One Shots

The List

Inspired by Arya Stark's 'list' in Game of Thrones.

This story deals with depression and anorexia, if you may find this triggering, then please skip.

I should add that I wrote this when I was feeling very sad, our youngest cat had just been diagnosed with irreversible lymphoma cancer and he'd lost half his body weight in a very short space of time. Having to say goodbye manifested itself in this story (at least this has a happier ending). I guess I just needed a hug! This story's for you, little one!

Draco watched the raven-haired man as he meandered once again slowly down towards the Black Lake. Tonight, the moonlight reflections flitted across the cusps of gentle ripples which a balmy September breeze stirred up. He doubted Potter saw the reflections of the galaxy of stars above which wrestled uneasily on the inky veneer. He doubted Potter saw much, especially considering the man had walked within a hair's breadth of Draco and not noticed the blond man standing in the shadows.

Draco sighed, it hurt to watch him. It hurt so much. And yet he could not help it. He chided himself. It was supposed to be Potter who was obsessed with him, not the other way around. That was the running-joke of the Slytherin common-room over the past few years: that Draco had an admirer in the Golden Boy, 'Potter fancies you...' they used to chant, 'Potter lurves you...' and Draco would assume his stock Malfoy sneer.

But no, Potter showed no interest anymore, not in Draco, not in his friends, not in Hogwarts, not in himself, not in life.

He supposed Granger had made him come back to do his eighth year. Rumour was that Kingsley Shacklebolt had offered him a position in the Auror's Department without qualifications or training but Draco supposed that it probably didn't appeal greatly after what they had been through the previous year. He supposed that Harry was not interested in that either. He just robotically finished his schoolwork and came and sat by the lake at night until the sun rose, then he went to bed and slept for a few hours before repeating the routine.

Draco followed quietly as Harry made his way along the shore to a secluded beach that sat beneath the dark canopy of the Forbidden Forest.

He worried again, for the umpteenth-time since they'd come back to school, that the man was too thin; his jeans hung so low on his hips and his black hoodie swamped him. Harry's thinness was hidden really, under that great hulking sweatshirt, but even so, Draco saw it in his face, in his hollow cheeks, his angular jawline, in the dark shadows under his dull eyes, the translucency of his skin, in the boniness of his hands and wrists when he actually pushed back the bagginess of his sleeves and temporarily exposed them – an action rarely seen as he tended to twitch nervously at the cuffs of his sleeves, hiding within the protection of the black material. He wasn't eating enough and Draco was worried. Every meal time he watched him pick at his plate of food as they sat at the year-eight table, he saw the glazed eyes, the distancing from the conversations that flowed around him. Draco was worried.

He watched as Potter carefully climbed up onto a low flat rock which protruded above the waterline. This was his spot, where he would come to every night. He would sit here, hugging his legs that were pulled into his chest and his chin resting on his knees as he stared unseeing across the water. It made Draco's heart break a little bit more every time he saw Harry sitting there alone and lost.

He looked so alone.

He looked so lost.

Draco wasn't sure when he started caring. Perhaps it had always been there. He knew the other Slytherins were wrong and that it was Draco who had always had feelings for Potter; it was Draco who stoked the fire between them because it kept Harry's attention focused on him, maybe not in the most ideal way, but something was always better than nothing. He thought back to his own obsessing over the boy, like making those bloody 'Potter Stinks' badges during the Triwizard Tournament. He had certainly put a lot of effort into making the badges and learning the right spells to charm them, it had taken weeks! He wondered why no one saw that maybe it wasn't normal behaviour to invest so much time into one's supposed arch-enemy. 'Know your friends,' his father had taught him, 'and know your enemies better.' He mentally rolled his eyes. Potter was never his enemy. He was never someone to hate. Hate was reserved for people like Voldemort, like his aunt, like Fenrir, like his father. No, Potter was just someone who turned away from his brattish childlike behaviour, from his cruelty and his ignorance, and he didn't blame Potter for that, how could he? He would do the same now, if faced with the same arrogant, contemptuous offer of a handshake. No, the raven-haired man was not to be hated, especially as he'd had been there when it really mattered: when Draco had held out his hand in desperation and Harry had clasped it firmly, securely, unthinkingly, and pulled him from certain death in the Room of Hidden Things. Perhaps that was when he really acknowledged his true feelings for Harry. Or maybe it was when he saw Harry in Hagrid's arms: the broken boy who had gone to face Voldemort alone, who had so selflessly sacrificed himself for the good of the Wizarding World. Or maybe it was when he saw Harry's distress after he nearly killed Draco in the sixth year, when Draco knew, in his heart of hearts, that he was never truly a Deatheater, despite the mark on his arm, despite what was being asked of him, despite the threat on his mother's life.