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He\'s Not Worth It	By : Closet Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 5474 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-He's Not Worth It
- 1
I so do not own Harry Potter. I am borrowing him and Draco Malfoy only for my own nefarious
purposes and curiosities.

~+~+~+~+~+

            “He’s not worth it.”

            How many times had Harry heard that one? Muttered by himself, Hermione, sometimes
Ron, sometimes even Neville or Dean or Seamus or one of the twins, once or twice he’d even heard
Remus mutter the words, and always, always in connection to one certain individual.

            One blond prat who almost always heard them, and after a few years, started smirking
whenever they said it. The backwards insult couldn’t really hurt him anymore, not when he’d heard
it a million and a half times. Or maybe more. It became his own private joke with them, almost.
He’d insult them, one of them would invariably want to attack him for it, and invariably would be
slowed up by one of the others hissing “He’s not worth it!”

            Which made him wonder.

            What ‘it’ was he not worth? Detention? Hexing? Death? Attention?

            And was he really not worth it?

            That had been something Harry had been thinking about at the end of fifth year. End of fifth
year, when Draco Malfoy had snarled, “I’ll get you yet, Potter.”

            And Harry had wondered, are you all sure he’s not worth it? He would have very much
liked to make Draco worth it, to make the little prat feel the pain Harry had felt when his godfather
was killed by that same prat’s aunt. To make him realize that his idiot father was a right bastard,
and that he was following well in the man’s footsteps. He had thought that maybe, for that little bit,
maybe Draco would have been worth it.

            Whatever ‘it’ was.

            But really, all in all, after fifth year had ended and he’d gone back to the Dursley’s, he
hadn’t really thought about the prat and his hissed warning all that much.

            That is, until two days into sixth year.

            It was evening, after classes, just ten minutes into dinner or so, and Harry had been running
late. Alone, he had been hurrying to the Great Hall, when just at the entrance, Cho Chang had
stopped him. Turning on the charm, she had practically draped herself all over him, and in a
simpering voice, asked him if he would go on a date with her.

            Harry had stared at her for a moment, then politely refused.

            “Excuse me?” She had gasped, agape.

            Scenes of their last disastrous date had flitted through his mind, and Harry winced a little,
really really hoping that she wouldn’t start crying, but said, “I’m sorry, I don’t think it would work.”

            She had gaped at him for a moment, then lifted her pretty chin, set her jaw, and looked at
him firmly, dark eyes aglint. “Just you wait. I’ll get you yet, Potter.”

            That had made Harry think again.

            Malfoy’s threat, repeated to him, only in a different tone. A different meaning.

            Well, it had to be a different meaning, didn’t it? He didn’t think, from the determined look
on Cho’s face on the days that followed, that she meant to kill him, nor did he think that Draco
Malfoy in any way intended to make him ‘his’.

            Well, he had hoped not, anyway.

            That would have been a little creepy, he had figured.

            So he didn’t think about it again, until the next week, and their second double potions with
the Slytherins of the year. Snape had paired him and Draco up - again - and when he’d looked over
at the sharp-featured blond’s table, he had been sitting there with arms crossed, jaw set, mercury
eyes dark.

            So Harry had scooped up his things, and moved to sit beside the other boy.

            Class was surprisingly quiet, if very cold, until with speed that surprised Harry to this day,
Draco had reached over, yanked off Harry’s glasses, pointed his wand at his face, and snapped,
“Oculus reparus!”

            Harry had had his wand out in an instant, and was pointing it at Draco before he realized
that he could see. Like, as in I-no-longer-need-my-glasses-because-everything-is-perfectly-clear-and-man-is-this-weird-I-haven’t-seen-like-this-in-almost-a-decade.

            He blinked.

            Several times.

            Then...

            “You fixed my eyes.”

            “Mr. Malfoy,” Snape had said calmly, looking almost bored. “What are you doing?”

            “He’s always pushing the infernal things up. They never stay on his nose. And they’re
always smudged with fingerprints all over them.” Draco had sniffed. “They were annoying me.”

            Snape had given him a look that clearly said I’d-roll-my-eyes-if-I-weren’t-afraid-of-what-it’d-do-to-my-cold-bastard-reputation. “Please get back to work, boys.”

            Draco had smirked, folded the arms on the glasses, then calmly slid them into the front
pocket of his crisply ironed white Slytherin crested shirt.

            “Um...” Harry had hesitated, wand still pointed at the prat. “Those are mine.”

            “You don’t need them anymore,” Draco had said smugly, then swatted at the wand. “Put
that thing away will you?”

            Harry had stared at him, frowned, then put that thing away.

            He had officially dubbed the incident ‘glasses-gate’, and after a moment’s notice, had added
‘get-you-gate’ to the list of issues to be considered. He couldn’t understand why Draco would have
done that, except that maybe he really had been annoyed with Harry’s glasses, and after all, Draco
really was that arrogant that he would fix whatever annoyed him. He wasn’t really sure why he’d
want to keep the infernal things, though, until it occurred to him that maybe Draco had really done it
all because he needed the glasses for some nefarious scheme he had plotted for Lord Voldemort.

            A little panicked at that idea, he’d sought out Hermione, unsurprised to find her curled up in
the corner with a book. After explaining glasses-gate to her, he’d waited impatiently for her
response.

            Then he started telling her again, because he was pretty sure she hadn’t been paying
attention the first time, until she finally looked up from her book, tutted to stop his recital, then
asked, oddly, “Did you buy them yourself?”

            Harry had given her an odd look. “No...”

            “Were they bought specifically for you, or were they hand me downs?”

            Harry had flushed a little. “Hand me downs. Uncle Vernon found a program through work
that people hand in their old glasses, and he found a pair close enough to my prescription that...”

            Hermione had interrupted him. “Did they have your name on them?”

            “No.”

            She shrugged. “Then you don’t have to worry, there’s no magical way they can be
specifically linked to you. Had it been a part of you like your hair or something, or something you
bought or that was specifically bought for you, then you’d have to worry. But because it wasn’t....”
she’d shrugged, already returning to her book.

            So Harry was no closer to an answer, although Lavender did tell him that he had really
incredible green eyes that looked much better without the glasses.

            Harry was going to ignore it all - he really was - until Draco Malfoy actually paid him
compliments - two of them - about his new glasses-less look. Granted, they were both concealed in
insults ((“Well, what do you know, the glasses weren’t really there to hide glasses shaped
birthmarks.”; and “Now if only that hideous fringe of yours didn’t hang where the glasses used to
be, Potter.”)) but they were still compliments.

            Which was weird enough, but when Draco gave him another one when he decided to grow
his hair out instead of cutting his fringe ((“Congratulations, Potter. The rats in your hair have
apparently chosen to flee.”)) he thought something surely must be going on. Not that he’d grown his
hair out because Draco commented on his fringe, or anything. It was just annoying. And Lavender
had informed him that now it looked like he’d just had the best shag of his life.

            But when they were standing outside the paddock by Hagrid’s cottage waiting for the half-giant to return from his wild goose chase of trying to retrieve the Lethifold that had slunk under the
paddock door when he wasn’t looking, Harry had nearly chocked with he heard another backhanded
compliment coming from Draco.

            “Well, granted the hair looks a little better, but Potter would look a hell of a lot more
civilized if he wore clothing that didn’t look like castoffs from the giant git.”

            Harry had pretended not to hear him, but the next Hogsmede weekend, he had practically
begged Hermione and Lavender and Parvati to help him, so that the Sunday morning after, he went
down to breakfast wearing fitted black pants and a black turtle-necked sweater that was actually
fitted to cling to his torso.

            Lavender informed him that he actually wanted to have that shag of his life, it could be
found in the sixth year Gryffindor girl’s dormitory.

            Harry had the disturbing feeling she had been trying to get him to have sex with her.

            He’d been sitting at the table with Ron and Hermione, eating, when Draco made his
sauntering way over to the Gryffindor table, smirking. “Well well,” he’d purred. “Look what the cat
dragged in.”

            Harry had felt rather indignant, until Draco continued. “Mudblood and the Weasel. And the
cat that did the dragging, apparently.” His silver eyes had lingered on Harry, then his smirk grew.
“Too bad you have no outstanding OWLS to go with your new look, Potter.”

            Ron had spluttered indignantly, but Hermione had rather taken the wind out of the redhead’s
sails when she pointed out, “He’s right, Harry.”

            Grumbling, Harry had stomped back to the Gryffindor tower, and hauled out the Potions
essay he’d written the night before. It was due in the morning, and true to his usual form, it had been
written haphazardly and half-assed at the last minute. So now he had hauled out a new roll of
parchment, his textbooks, and started over.

            When Hermione and Harry arrived half an hour later, they had been utterly shocked.

            “But you wrote that essay yesterday, mate,” Ron had protested.

            “Rough draft,” Harry grunted, searching for the properties of wormwood.

            Hermione had looked rather pleased, as though it had been her years of attempting to pound
good study habits into Harry’s head that had made him revise the essay, and not Draco giving him a
weird backwards compliment. “Would you like some help?”

            “You never help me!” Ron had wailed.

            “You never earn it.”

            “Yeah. Can you check those books for what happens when you add wormwood to the
Draught of Living Death?” Harry had waved distractedly at his small pile of books, rather absorbed
in the writing.

            A week later, when the essay was being handed back, Snape had paused besides Harry’s
desk, and did not hand him his scroll back. “Would you see me after class, Mr. Potter?”

            Snape had thought he cheated, but once he’d drilled him with Veritasum and could only get
Harry to admit that he’d actually rewritten the essay and checked his grammar three times, he’d
finally grudgingly handed the paper over.

            Harry had swallowed when he saw the symbol at the top of the page. “Sir.... is that a zero?”

            “No, Potter. I realize you see pitifully few of them, but that is an ‘O’. Outstanding, Mr.
Potter. Do ask Miss Granger, I’m certain she can tell you what that means.”

            Hermione and Ron had been waiting for him outside Snape’s office, along with a small
group of Slytherins just down the hall, all trying to look like they weren’t really listening in.

            “What did he do, Harry?” Hermione had asked with concern.

            “He didn’t fail did he, mate?” Ron had demanded. “Cause I saw you write that stupid thing,
and if he did, he’s just being an ass. Yours was actually five inches longer than it had to be! I saw
we go to Dumbledore with it, he’s such an ass...”

            “Outstanding.”

            “What was that, Harry?” Hermione had asked, obviously not sure she had heard him.

            Harry had handed her the scroll, and a moment later, she had squealed. “Outstanding! Harry
that is wonderful...! I don’t even get outstandings in his class...”

            “Woah, I’m so copying your essay next time,” Ron had enthused, leaning over to see the
page. “Never heard of a Gryffindor actually getting one of them in his class...”

            Harry had glanced down the hall, and saw Draco standing among the crowd of Slytherins.
Draco had smirked, then mouthed, “Congratulations.”

            Harry had felt ridiculously happy, and in a fit of good mood, mouthed back, “Thank you.”

            Draco two years before would have clamped his face down, grit his teeth, turned and stalked
away, perhaps shooting off a scathing insult before doing so. That day, however, his smirk grew,
until it was almost a smile.

            Almost.

            Not quite, but it was a start.

            Although that did lead to two days of Harry musing heavily in an attempt to figure out why
he cared. After all, Draco Malfoy was his enemy. Still his insult-compliments led to him trying to
change in response. Was he trying to prove something, he wondered?

            Three days later, Harry had been rather pleased with his growing success in school
((McGonagal had absolutely stared at him when he’d managed to turn his apple pie into a bird on
the first try, and he hadn’t even turned it into a boring song bird like the others did, but into a talking
myna. He hadn’t felt it necessary to inform her that he could do it because he’d actually bothered to
read the chapter the night before like they were supposed to.)) and didn’t even mind that Lavender
was sitting beside him, really closely sitting beside him, like she could absorb some of his new found
intelligence through osmosis, or something.

            Then Draco had been standing on the other side of the table, one foot resting on the bench,
arms crossed and leaning on his knee, all casual like.

            “Absolutely bloody amazing, Potter. I admit it. Now all you need is a better choice in who
you date... and you might not be such a pathetically lost cause, after all.”

            “He’s not worth it,” Hermione had muttered distractedly, not looking up from her book.

            Harry had paused, trying to think of who he was supposed to be dating, until he realized that
Lavender was practically turning herself into a porcupine, the way she was bristling, and he nearly
jumped away from the girl.

            Nearly.

            But not quite. He was supposed to be trying to show a more collected image now.

            Two could play at Malfoy’s game, after all.

            Giving Draco the smirk he had practiced for secret hours in the prefect bathroom on nights
when he could sneak out with his invisibility cloak, Harry had asked, “And do you have any
suggestions for me, Malfoy?”

            Draco had looked pleasantly unsurprised that Harry was answering.

            After all, Harry had been playing his game for the last three months quite pleasantly.

            “As a matter of fact, I do.” Draco had lifted a single hand, examining his flawless
fingernails. “I’m sure you are aware my father is in Azkaban.”

            Harry had nodded.

            “And I do have reason to believe he’s not coming back.” Draco had looked up then, smirk a
little more devious than normal. “I warned you, Potter.”

            “Did you?”

            Harry had to fight to keep the smirk. It had wanted to turn into a full blown grin.

            “I did.”

            “How so?”

            “He’s not worth it.” Lavender hissed.

            Draco had leaned forward over the table a little. “I’ll get you yet, Potter.”

            “Oh yes, so you did,” Harry had nodded, forcing himself to look thoughtful. Like this was
some demented play they were acting out. “Guess you made good on that promise, did you?”

            Draco always shrugged like that, like it was effortless, like he could care less. “I try.”

            “Hmm...” Harry had nodded, aware of the confusion of his dorm mates, then stood,
shrugging as well, though his shrugs never managed that casual effortlessness that Draco’s head.
“Alright. Where to now?”

            “I believe the exact line is ‘your place or mine’,” Draco had pointed out, stepping back to
pull his foot off the bench, putting his hands in his pockets.

            “You’re right, of course,” Harry had nodded, distractedly. “Well then. Your place or mine?”

            “You’re kidding, right? Degrade myself to lurking in the Gryffindor tower?” Draco had
raised a single brow. “Mine, obviously. I am appalled that you felt the need to ask.”

            “Well, I did think it was proper protocol,” Harry had grinned then, unable to hold it in.
“Now, then?”

            “Sounds capital,” Draco had nodded, and they had both started walking to the front doors,
on either sides of the Gryffindor table.

            “What are you doing, Harry?!” Ron called after him.

            “Won’t be in class this morning, Ron,” Harry had called back. “Do take notes for me, won’t
you?”

            Because Harry was right.

            He had not been in class.

            He had been rather tied up ((Literally, between 10:26 and 11:03. With his and Draco’s ties,
actually. Apparently the blond Slytherin liked the idea of Harry’s wrists pinned to the headboard.)),
what with having Draco’s cock up his ass and his lips on the blond’s.

            For that matter, he wasn’t in class that afternoon, either.

            He’d been experimenting in the afternoon, even had his cock up Draco’s ass once, though
the blond complained very prettily when he was forced to bottom, so Harry had agreed that he’d
take the sub position most of the time. He didn’t really mind all that much - Draco was hung like a
draft horse.

            He probably would have continued on in the same exact way for the evening, too, had
Draco’s head of house not stormed into the Malfoy bedroom and started screaming for Harry to get
out of there.

            Fortunately, Draco decided that he was fiercely protective of what was his ((Although Harry
had protested the first time Draco had growled “Mine” in his ear, the clever way Draco had slid
down his body to deep throat him a moment later soon had Harry screaming that he belonged to the
blond in any way he wanted him.)) and threw the potions master out.

            He had then proceeded to prove to Harry that he really owned the emerald eyed Gryffindor.

            Harry hadn’t minded in the slightest.

            Not in the slightest.

            Hermione and Ron had been rather put out when Harry informed him that he was essentially
moving out of Gryffindor tower, though technically he still lived there, and was only creeping out
with the invisibility cloak. The cloak was absolutely essential, as Snape was determined to catch him
sneaking into Slytherin. ((Harry was fairly sure by the mad glint in those dark eyes that Snape had a
fate planned for him that involved unforgivable curses, thumb screws, and fire. And perhaps
Erumpents. Who knew what one of those exploding horns could do a human body when in Professor
Snape’s possession?)) Hermione hadn’t really seemed surprised, though.

            Harry was rather proud of Hermione for shaking hands with Draco and accepting his
apology. ((Granted, he was rather more proud of Draco for having offered said apology.)) Ron
didn’t really accept it, but Harry had somehow been expecting it.

            Just as he was expecting, in some little way, what Ron said at the end of seventh year.

            “He’s not worth it.”

            And Harry had gripped his wand so tight in his fists it almost broke, and in fact, the arm
chair he had been gripping with his other hand had broken.

            And then it had started to burn.

            Then Ron had started to burn.

            Hermione had screamed, then Ron had screamed, frantically trying to put the flames on the
top of his head out, then Harry had screamed.

            Then everyone else in the Gryffindor common room started screaming when the windows
started shattering and the chairs and rugs had lit on fire and Harry Potter had started screaming even
louder, fury and rage pent up from years of injustice breaking out of him.

            He screamed for James Potter.

            He screamed for Lily Evans Potter.

            He screamed for Mrs. Norris.

            He screamed for Colin Creevey.

            He screamed for Nearly Headless Nick.

            He screamed for Hermione Granger.

            He screamed for Penelope Clearwater.

            He screamed for Moaning Myrtle.

            He screamed for Ginny Weasley.

            He screamed for Bertha Jorkins.

            He screamed for Barty Crouch.

            He screamed for Cedric Diggory.

            He screamed for Arthur Weasley.

            He screamed for Sirius Black.

            But most of all, he screamed for Draco Malfoy.

            And it was the last one that made him break through the Hogwart’s anti-apparation fields
((“But Harry, you can’t apparate on Hogwart’s grounds, it’s in Hogwarts: A History!”)) and
appear, still screaming, in the middle of Malfoy Manor and in the middle of a gathering of death
eaters and dark lord and battered blond lover bound and thrown to the marble floor in front of the
shell of a man that had destroyed everything for Harry.

            It was for Draco Malfoy that Harry released the biggest wave of magic any of those gathered
had seen, throwing everyone and anyone back and away, but sparing the beaten boy on the floor.

            It was for Draco Malfoy that Harry screamed Unforgiveables at fleeing death eaters, and it
was for Draco Malfoy that they fell to the floor themselves, clawing at their masks and screaming
and screaming and screaming.

            It was for Draco Malfoy that Voldemort found himself being hauled up by the front of his
robes, a wand jabbing painfully into the underside of his chin, nearly gagging him, with a blazing
green eyed Harry Potter snarling at him with more power and frightening strength than the decrepit
man had ever given him proper credit for. It was for Draco Malfoy that the Boy Who Lived
muttered a curse that made Voldemort’s eyes melt. It was painful, and the Dark Lord screamed.

            Screamed for nothing more than pain.

            Harry killed him.

            He killed Voldemort.

            He over-killed him, actually. Most people stop after one Adeva Kedavra.

            Harry gave him one for himself.

            One for Hagrid.

            One for Hermione.

            One for Ron.

            One for Ginny.

            One for Charlie.

            One for Bill.

            One for Percy.

            One for Fred.

            One for George.

            One for Molly.

            One for Arthur. One for Remus, one for Dumbledore, one for McGonagall, one for Snape,
Flitwick, Tonks, Mad-Eye, Kingesly, Shacklebolt, Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, Dudley, Mrs. Figg,
Lavender, Dean, Seamus, Parvati, Padma, Hannah, Luna, Cho, Colin, Dennis, the Fat Lady, Sir
Cadogan, the drunk lady in the painting who overheard the Twiwizard Tournament news, Victor,
Fleur, Gabriel, Dobby, Winky, Ludo, Rita, the Wiznagot, then he gave him one for every fucking
person in the fucking wizarding and muggle worlds!!

            Harry didn’t even realize that he was sitting there slumped on the floor, front of a pair of
wizard’s robes clutched in his white-knuckled hands, wand pointed at a smoking pile of ash,
whispering “Adeva Kedavra, Adeva Kedavra, Adeva Kedavra...” over and over like a prayer until a
hand touched his arm, pulling his wand down.

            Harry didn’t fight.

            Why should he?

            Voldemort was dead, the death eaters were gone, and there was only one other living person
left in the room.

            Exhaustion running through his system, Harry’s muscles went limp, and he collapsed to the
floor, lying on his back, barely having the energy to turn his head to look into the mercury eyes of
one Draco Malfoy.

            Draco smirked faintly, ignoring his own bruises and injuries to raise a hand to stroke over
Harry’s cheek. “Was he worth it?”

            Eyes half closed, Harry considered this, then achingly slow lifted an arm to stoke his
knuckles across Draco’s cheek, careful to avoid the purpling bruise on his cheek. “No,” he
whispered.

            Draco looked surprised.

            Harry smiled faintly, then pushed his head forward to gently press his lips to Draco’s.

            “But you were.”

            Because he’d been right along.

            Draco was worth it.

            And ‘it’....

            ‘It’ was ‘it all’.

            Draco Malfoy was worth it all.

~+~+~+~+~

Yeah. No idea where this came from, just started writing one night when it occurred to me that the
characters like saying “He’s not worth it” in reference to Draco Malfoy a hell of a lot. So the story
begged to be written.

Decent attempt for my first story on this site? Do let me know what you think, please.
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He\'s Not Worth It