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Chapter Text

All Harry sees is blood. So much blood.

There’s blood on his hands and on his clothes and dripping down his forehead into his eyes, spattered across his glasses. His hands shake as he stumbles forward in the dark, searching for something, anything to hold onto. Anything solid, anything real . It’s so eerily quiet. He’s wading through a shallow pool of water, his wet footsteps the only sound. The stench of something putrid and rotten engulfs him and he gags, tugging his shirt up over his nose and mouth like a mask.

A splash sounds from not too far away. Harry stops, his breathing shallow. He reaches for his wand, but his hand grasps thin air. Harry feels pure, unadulterated fear consume him. His wand is not there.

Then someone lurches forward out of the darkness, and Harry falls backwards, landing heavily on his backside, panting, shaking. It’s a man. He’s tall and thin with dark, shaggy hair, and Harry can barely make his features out in the gloom but he thinks it might be—

“Sirius.”

The man laughs, loud and dry, and Harry knows for certain that it’s his godfather.

“Sirius,” Harry repeats, heart thudding painfully in his chest, hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. “Why are you— Where am I?”

“Oh, Harry. My dear boy.” Sirius’ tone is cold, condescending, unfamiliar. He takes several steps towards Harry.

Then out of the shadows behind him stagger Lupin, Tonks and Fred Weasley. Lupin is dragging his right leg behind him, his face caked in fresh blood. Tonks cradles her arm to her chest, nursing a gash oozing thick, viscous liquid the colour of bile. Fred limps behind them, his shirt torn wide open, blood pouring from a fatal wound right over his heart. His eyes are hollow, soulless. Empty. So, so empty.

Harry scrambles to stand up, his vision swimming, breathing laboured. He feels his back hit something hard, and is knocked back to the floor, winded.

“Where do you think you’re going, Harry?” Sirius laughs, the harsh sound echoing all around. Harry turns and to his horror, Mad-Eye Moody is towering over him. His eye patch is gone, his damaged eye an open wound so deep that Harry can see through to his skull. On either side of Moody stand Snape and Cedric, their faces pale and zombie-like, and at their feet, Dobby. The elf looks at Harry with eyes so large and so pained, and Harry sobs when he sees the knife protruding from his stomach. He struggles, trying to claw his way through the water.

“You can’t run away this time, Harry,” Sirius continues. His voice is not his own anymore. “You can’t run away and leave your friends to die. Not again. How many people died for you, Harry? How many people died for The Boy Who Lived?”

“Shut up!” Harry screams, thrashing as he feels several pairs of hands grab at his shoulders, at his face, at his hair. His glasses are too dirty to see through. He’s blind, kicking and shouting and completely defenceless. “Shut up!”

“I think he deserves to feel the same pain he brought upon us all,” Moody grunts, and thrusts his wand in Harry’s face. It’s tip digs into his cheek and he winces, still fighting against the hands forcing him down into the floor.

“No, Alistor.” This voice is familiar; chillingly so. The hands pause momentarily, and Harry feels the way they burn into his flesh, ice cold. “Allow me.”

Someone knocks Harry’s glasses off his nose, and all at once, his vision is back, albeit blurred. The feeling that sweeps over him at the man looking down at him cannot possibly be described in words. Harry’s entire being feels like it’s being turned inside out, his chest ripping open, heart spilling out onto the floor.

“Crucio,” Dumbledore says, and instead of excruciating pain, Harry is swallowed in black.

-

When Harry opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is Seamus Finnigan, and he screams.

Seamus jumps, startled, then he straightens himself up and stares at Harry in concern and something akin to horror. Harry glares right back at him, eyes wide. 

“You… Uh, I think you were having a nightmare, mate.” Seamus’ fingers pick at a loose thread hanging from his pyjama shirt. “You were tossing and turning and shouting and all that shite, so I shook you a bit ‘til you woke up.”

Harry looks down at himself, his trembling body tangled between the sheets and shirt plastered to his torso with sweat. He swallows thickly, glancing at Seamus, then back at his own disheveled form lying spread-eagled on the bed, trying to grasp his surroundings. 

Okay. He’s in his bed. He’s in his bed in the eighth year dormitory, in his shared room with Seamus and Neville and those two Hufflepuff boys who he can’t remember the names of for the life of him. Harry scrabbles for his glasses on his bedside table and balances them haphazardly on his nose. It’s his first night back at Hogwarts. He knows that much, at least. For once in his life, he’s safe here.

The nightmares can’t hurt him anymore.

“Where’s—” Harry clears his throat, pushing himself up into somewhat of an upright position against the headboard. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Gone down to breakfast already. It’s half eight.” Seamus shifts from foot to foot uncertainly. He looks like he wants to say something else, but decides against it, and chews on the inside of his cheek instead. Harry frowns.

“Well, shit,” Harry deadpans. Seamus is still silent. “I’m gonna get dressed.”

Seamus nods and hurries for the door, seemingly relieved at the opportunity to escape. Harry sighs heavily.

He shimmies to the edge of his bed and stares at the wall.

-

Harry still feels rather unsettled when he takes a seat at the eighth year table at the rear of the Great Hall. Not only is it entirely unusual to be eating breakfast with his fellow classmates instead of the other Gryffindors, but there’s still an unpleasant nausea settled in his gut that threatens to climb up his throat and spill from his mouth every time his mind wanders back to the nightmare.

Ron is saying something, but Harry’s ears feel like they’ve been stuffed with cotton wool.

“What?”

Ron rolls his eyes, leaning closer to Harry so he can better hear him over the din of the other students’ chatter. “I said, you have no idea how much I’m going to suffer this year.” He shovels a spoonful of beans into his mouth and Hermione watches him distastefully when he continues, mouth full. “Bunking in with three bloody Slytherins. McGonagall has it in for me, I’m sure of it.”

“At least you have Dean,” Harry tries. Ron just scowls at him, biting far too aggressively into a piece of bacon.

“Still bloody unfair.” 

Hermione places a hand on his shoulder and flashes Harry an amused glance, which he returns with a grin. She moves her hand up and down Ron’s arm slowly, stroking him like a cat, and leans in close to him. “Think on the bright side, Ron. You didn’t get put with Draco.”

Harry doesn’t hear what Ron says in retaliation because he feels all of a sudden like his brain has begun melting out through his ears. Draco Malfoy’s name was not one he had been expecting to hear within the first twenty four hours of returning to Hogwarts. In fact, it was not one he had been expecting to hear at all, particularly not in this context.

Clearing his throat, Harry nudges Hermione. “Draco? He… he’s here? He came back?” He doesn’t mean to sound so incredulous, but what with Draco’s family name being dragged through the dirt following his father’s arrest, Harry had been sure he’d never show his face here again. “Why?”

“That’s my question exactly, mate,” Ron says through a mouthful of toast. Crumbs spray across the table and Hermione flinches.

“Oh for god’s sake, Ron, you have the table manners of a troll!” Hermione crosses her arms over her chest and Ron goes very still beside her. “Anyway. Harry, yes, I thought you would’ve known.”

Harry shakes his head no. Draco’s very distinct blonde hair and icy eyes are quite impossible to miss, so he’s rather surprised he hasn’t spotted him yet. 

“Look.” Hermione gestures loosely over Harry’s shoulder. “He’s been staring at you ever since you sat down this morning. It’s a bit creepy, to be honest.”

“What?”

Harry snaps his neck around almost fast enough to break it and looks where Hermione is pointing. Sure enough, Draco Malfoy is huddled at the very end of the table, nose pressed into a heavy, leatherbound book, silver eyes darting away from Harry’s when he notices him looking. He is somehow even thinner than usual; dark robes swamping his frail shoulders, cheekbones sharp, face sallow. If it weren’t for his characteristic white-blonde hair falling over his eyes, Harry is sure he would barely recognise him. He feels a tug of sympathy deep in his stomach.

“All his friends are gone, you know,” Ron explains, lowering his voice. “Half the Slytherins didn’t even bother showing up this year. Surprised he isn’t one of ‘em, with his father in Azkaban and all.”

Harry nods half-heartedly, but his mind is somewhere else entirely. As his eyes rake shamelessly over Draco’s gaunt form, he can’t help dwelling on the many times the boy has actually saved his life. Of course, he’s saved Draco’s a number of times as well, but Draco had risked everything that day in the Malfoy Manor when he refused to identify Harry. Harry can still feel the way Draco’s grip on his own wand weakened as Harry had tried to force it from his hand. He thinks about it now, and knows that Draco had let go of it on purpose. He had barely even put up a fight.

He had wanted Harry to succeed all along. He never wanted to work for Voldemort. He never wanted to venture so far into the Dark Arts, and that is exactly why he’s sitting at the eighth year table at Hogwarts today.

“His wand,” Harry says absentmindedly, and Ron makes a noise of confusion. Harry shakes his head, snapping himself out of his trance and turning to face his friends again. “I still have his wand. From the Malfoy Manor. I think I want to return it to him.”

“Harry, you’re not serious?”

Harry is very serious. He pushes himself to his feet before Ron and Hermione can pull him back down, and makes a beeline for where Draco is huddled at the end of the table. Draco’s gaze lifts and his eyebrows fly up as he spots Harry marching towards him. He looks an odd mixture of stunned and terrified, so Harry isn’t really surprised when he slams his book shut, stands, and with an elegant swish of his robes, hurries from the room. 

Harry almost goes after him, but now people are looking, and he certainly doesn’t need half the school thinking that Harry Potter has finally gone mental and plans to murder his arch nemesis Draco Malfoy in the boys’ bathroom. So he stops and watches as Draco rounds a corner and disappears from sight, book still wrapped in his spindly arms.

The bell rings for first class, startling him out of his daze.

-

Harry dreams of blonde hair and silver eyes.

He awakens in the too-early hours of the following morning, gasping and heaving, thrashing against the sheets, having just watched himself in his escapade to save Draco from the Room of Requirement. Flames had licked at his toes as he guided his broom down to zoom overhead Draco. The boy’s eyes had been wide and terrified, silently pleading with Harry, hand outstretched in a desperate attempt to cling to him. But, unlike in reality, it had been too late.

Harry stares at the ceiling, heart pounding out of his chest, and tries to forget the image of Draco losing his grip and plummeting down to drown in a sea of fire. He feels sick to his stomach.

He decides that he has to confront Draco today.

It doesn’t actually take Harry too long to find him, however, the circumstances they meet in are perhaps not the greatest.

Harry spots Draco on his way to his first class that morning, being forced against a wall by a gaggle of seventh years. They’ve somehow managed to corner him and are holding him at wand-point, and Draco doesn’t even try to fight back as they spit ridiculous names and insults at him. His head is bowed, his hands curled into feeble fists at his sides. He looks entirely helpless. 

Harry’s legs carry him forward before his brain has a chance to react, and the group immediately falls silent as he pushes his way past them to stand beside Draco. The frail boy glances at him with furrowed brows and a miserable frown, bottom lip wobbling. He looks so unlike the fiery, sneering Draco that Harry is used to, and it unsettles him to no end.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The words come out harsher than Harry had intended, and he sees Draco flinch in his peripheral vision. The group of seventh years whisper among each other. Harry hears his name hissed under somebody’s breath. Then one of the boys steps forward. He’s about as tall as Harry, with black hair and striking blue eyes, and Harry might have been intimidated for a moment had he not defeated the most dangerous Dark wizard in existence just last year.

“He’s a Malfoy,” the boy — a Gryffindor, much to Harry’s disappointment — says definitively, as if it should be self-explanatory as to why they’re targeting him; as if Harry doesn't already know who Draco is. He has to forcibly stop himself from drawing his wand. The little shit.

The boy is glaring at Harry, so Harry glares right back at him. “Has he done anything to you? Or are you just being a fucking arsehole?”

Taken aback by Harry’s questionable choice of language, the boy hesitates for a moment. Then, glowering, he shakes his head. “He didn’t do anything.”

Another boy pipes up now, shorter than the last, but expression equally as fierce. “He’s a Malfoy and a Slytherin. That’s reason enough to be an arsehole to him, don’t you think?”

Harry scoffs. Although their actions against Draco are cruel, he’d be a hypocrite if he blamed them for their hatred. Harry is sure that he would have wholeheartedly agreed with them a couple of years ago. So he settles for snapping, “Get lost, okay? The lot of you. Surely you have something better to do.”

The first boy glares at Harry, and for a moment Harry thinks he might actually draw his wand and declare a duel right then and there. But then he’s grabbing his friend’s shoulder and yanking him forcefully in the direction of the Great Hall, the rest of their gaggle scurrying behind them.

Harry feels oddly proud of himself.

“I don’t think they’re a part of your little Harry Potter fan club.”

Harry turns and watches curiously as Draco gathers a pile of books from the floor, supposedly having been knocked out of his hands earlier. He straightens himself up and brushes a stray strand of hair from out of his eyes. Harry can’t help but take note of the quiet, almost timid persona he seems to have taken on. 

“I don’t have a Harry Potter fan club,” he retaliates dumbly. Draco rolls his eyes.

“Tell that to the group of first years making googly eyes at you from across the Hall this morning.”

Harry chooses to ignore that comment. He is well aware of his so-called ‘admirers’, but it feels far too peculiar to acknowledge them as that. 

“A ‘thank you’ would be nice, by the way,” he says, changing the subject. “You know, for helping you out just now.”

Draco hesitates, shifting slightly where he’s standing, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t need you to help me, Potter.”

Harry’s sigh is laced with sarcasm. “Yeah, I know, whatever. I suppose I should have just left you to be tortured by the seventh years.”

An impressive flush creeps its way up Draco’s neck and dusts his cheeks a rosy pink. He opens his mouth, then closes it, and swiftly turns on his heel.

“Wait, Draco!” Harry hurries after him, struggling to keep pace with his long strides. Draco is several inches taller than him, and his legs are noticeably longer, so Harry almost has to jog to keep up with him. He peers up at Draco’s pointy face, all pinched with an emotion that Harry can’t quite place.

“Were you going to tell me that we’re on a first name basis now?” Draco fires at him. He makes no move to slow down. 

“Oh, don't be ridiculous. We aren’t eleven anymore.”

“You’ve hated me for years,” Draco spits.

“Who says I don’t still hate you?”

Draco makes a sound similar to a snarl. “What do you even want, Potter?”

And Harry blurts without thinking, “You saved my life, Draco.”

This is what finally has Draco coming to an abrupt halt, eyebrows furrowed so firmly it looks painful, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He rounds on Harry, backing him against the wall of the empty corridor, and Harry lets him. There’s a distinct glint of pain in Draco’s eyes and a tremble to his lips that assures Harry he’s not going to hurt him. He doesn’t say anything; just stands there with his knuckles turning white where they grip his pile of books, looking utterly bewildered. They’re both going to be late for class, but Harry can’t bring himself to care.

Harry takes a deep breath, and then exhales slowly. “I still have your wand, you know.”

Something flashes across Draco’s eyes at that; a kind of nostalgic sadness that only appears for a moment before dissolving into an unreadable frown.

“Oh.”

“I’ll let you disarm me for dramatic effect, if you like. Make it more of a heartfelt reunion for you.” Harry grins meekly, and he doesn’t miss the way Draco’s face lights up for just a fraction of a second.

“You're… giving it back?” He sounds far too incredulous. Harry’s stomach churns.

“Of course I am,” Harry replies firmly. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s yours.”

Draco clenches his jaw. “Not anymore.” His tone is somber, verging on resentful. “You disarmed me. Its loyalty is with you now.”

“It’s still your wand.” And it’s the truth. Now that Harry has his own wand back, he has no need for Draco’s. It served its purpose when he required it, and now it resides at the bottom of his trunk, its smooth, hawthorn exterior left untouched for many weeks. Honestly, he hadn’t considered returning it to its rightful owner until a few days ago, especially with his previous assumption that Draco wouldn’t be coming back to Hogwarts. But now he’s here, and Harry finds himself thinking quite a lot of things that would render his past self horrified. 

“The wand chooses the wizard, Mr Malfoy,” Harry adds in his best imitation of Ollivander the wandmaker, and he sees the corners of Draco’s lips twitch upwards.

“I liked ‘Draco’ better.”

Harry allows his grin to stretch even wider, beaming up at Draco with all the amusement of a five year old. “Brilliant. Me too. Now let’s get to class before McGonagall expels us both.”

They walk to Potions together in a comfortable silence. Harry thanks Merlin for Professor Slughorn’s favouritism.

-

“It’s quite messy,” is the first thing that Draco says once he’s trailed behind Harry to the eighth year dormitory after class. He’s lingering in the doorway, arms folded and sharp nose turned up at Harry’s unmade bed. Harry should have guessed he was still as snobbish as ever.

“Do you want your wand back or not?” He falls to his knees and rummages through his trunk, which he has told himself he’ll ‘unpack later’ several times in the past forty eight hours, but has somehow never quite gotten around to. He can sense the subtle roll of Draco’s eyes without needing to see it.

Harry’s fingers brush something velvety, and he hums in success. “Found it.” He turns around, lowering himself to his backside on the hardwood floor. When Draco just stares at him, obviously unsure of what to do, Harry sniggers. “Come here, then.” He pats the floor beside him. Draco’s eyes widen for a moment, then he blushes, and shuffles over to where Harry is now unwrapping the wand from its cloth confinements.

“Get yours out.”

“Huh?” Draco looks vaguely horrified, crossing his legs beside Harry.

Harry chokes on a laugh. “Your wand. The one you’re using now.”

Draco’s cheeks are glowing. Harry has never seen him this flustered, and it’s really quite amusing. “Oh. Right. Yeah.”

While Draco fishes around in his robes, Harry lets the velvet cloth fall from his left hand to the ground beside him, and clutches the warm wood of Draco’s wand in his right. It feels familiar in his grasp; heavy, but not quite as sturdy and powerful as his own. A chill shoots down his spine.

“Um…” Harry looks up, and Draco is gazing at the wand in Harry’s hand, his own bony fingers curled around one that Harry has never seen before. Draco’s expression is solemn, nostalgic. A dull ache spreads throughout Harry’s chest. He is familiar with the feeling of being without his wand, and knowing that he was the reason Draco had lost his own makes guilt gnaw at his gut.

“Disarm me.”

Draco blinks. “Seriously?”

“It’s only fair,” Harry says, shrugging. He holds Draco’s wand out towards him. “Go on, then.”

Draco fumbles with the foreign wand in his clutch, presumably bought for him after his own was taken, and points it shakily at Harry’s hand. He holds his breath, then lets it back out in a hushed murmur of, “ Expelliarmus .”

The force of the spell knocks the wand from Harry’s grip, sending it spinning through the air, until it lands with a clatter on the floor beside Draco’s bent knee. He drops the wand he’s holding into his lap and reaches for his own on the ground, eyes wide. Draco’s expression softens when his fingers graze the familiar object, turning it over in his hand, breathless. His silver eyes glow with a kind of joy that has Harry fighting back a grin. It’s like watching two best friends reunite for the first time in years. It’s almost mesmerising.

Draco looks up at Harry now, his mouth open in the beginnings of a sentence, but he’s interrupted before he can get anything out.

“What the bloody hell is Draco Malfoy doing in your room, Harry?”

Harry looks over Draco’s shoulder to see Ron standing stiffly in the doorway, looking absolutely flabbergasted. Maybe even horrified; Harry can hardly tell. As if upon instinct, Draco moves to stand up.

“I was just leaving—”

“No, it’s okay,” Harry finds himself protesting, a hand shooting out to tug on Draco’s robes. Both Ron and Draco look down at him strangely.

“Am I missing something here?” Ron is fuming, flaming cheeks complementing his fiery hair. “Are you and Malfoy mates now, or something?”

Harry grimaces. “We’re not mates, Ron. I was just giving him back his wand, honest.”

Draco frowns, and Harry pretends not to notice.

“I’ll just go.” Draco clears his throat, and Ron glares at him as he adjusts his robes and tucks his wand away. “Uh… thanks, Harry.”

Then Harry blinks, and Draco is gone. 

He feels an odd squirming sensation in his stomach, but doesn’t have much time to make sense of it before Ron is pouncing on him.

“Harry? Harry?” Ron shakes him by the shoulders, exasperated, strands of disheveled hair flying every which way. “He called you Harry? First it’s the two of you turning up late to class together, and now it’s… this! Bloody hell. I might vomit.”

Harry groans and shoves at Ron in a halfhearted attempt to ward him off. “Stop being so dramatic. He’s just trying to be nice.”

“Nice?” Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen Ron so utterly bewildered. His eyes are as wide as saucers, eyebrows almost skimming his hairline. “Mate, do you hear yourself? This is Malfoy we’re talking about. Draco Malfoy. The same guy who made your life hell for seven years. Former fucking Death Eater. He’s the furthest thing from nice.”

Harry supposes Ron isn’t wrong. Who in their right mind would believe that malicious, pureblood Slytherin, Draco Malfoy, has miraculously evolved into a decent person? Apparently not many, judging by the incident Harry had had to rescue him from just this morning. And this is only the second full day back at school. Things will surely only get worse for him from here on out.

But those people have never looked into Draco’s eyes and watched him lie right to his father’s face to save them, have they?

The thing is, Harry knows something is different about Draco this year; something that has him building up walls around himself and shrinking into the background, instead of holding his head high in that snide, arrogant way that he always used to. It’s almost as if he’s finally gained the freedom he’s craved for years, but has lost part of himself in the process. Harry isn’t sure how it makes him feel, but he can say for certain that Draco would not have returned to Hogwarts if he wished to follow after his father. He would not have spoken to Harry with such tentative benignity if he was as evil as people still believe him to be.

So Harry simply says, “People change, Ron,” and prepares himself for the onslaught that is to follow.

-

Harry dreams about Draco again that night, but this time, he hardly thinks it’s a nightmare.

He’s standing, enveloped in a wispy whiteness, cloud-like gases swirling all around his body and tickling the backs of his hands and neck. He’s cold and wet, his clothes damp, his hair plastered to his forehead by the condensation. It all feels oddly peaceful; strangely comforting, in spite of the contrastingly uncomfortable way his shirt is clinging to his body. He traces a finger through the mist and marvels when the fog twirls around it, as if it’s dancing. 

Through the peculiar haze, Harry makes out a pair of icy eyes, and his heart immediately leaps up into his throat.

“Draco?”

The mist parts enough to give Harry a clear view of the boy, dressed only in a crisp white button-up and black trousers, leaning against a metal railing. Droplets of condensation cling to his eyelashes like dew. His pink lips are turned downwards, eyes pools of gloom, and his delicate form is hunched, melancholy. Harry is quite unable to look away.

The fog clears a little more and it becomes obvious that Draco is leaning against the railing of the Astronomy Tower. His hands clutch the cool metal, bony knuckles turning white. Harry can’t breathe.

Draco raises his head. His crystal eyes bore into Harry’s and his mouth opens in a silent formation of his name, just as Harry’s vision goes blurry around the edges and he feels himself fade away as easily as mist.

Harry jolts awake, shivering. His bed is ice-cold.

Without thinking too much about what he’s doing, Harry drags himself out of bed and drops to the floor. Neville Longbottom snores soundly in the bed beside him as he rummages quietly through his trunk, and he thanks Merlin that his roommates are all heavy sleepers. Harry tugs his invisibility cloak from where it’s lodged somewhere beneath his crumpled dress-robes and the silky material tumbles through his fingers. Pulling it snugly around his shoulders, Harry hurries from the room.

He knows, realistically, that the dream could have been nothing more than that: a dream. He doesn’t have to worry about his nightmares working their way into reality anymore. Those days are over. He’s safe now. But in the back of Harry’s mind, there is always a nagging ‘what if?’. There is always the question of whether or not he should trust his instinct, and whether doing so will bring him more harm than good.

This time, however, Harry doesn’t think twice — he doesn’t even check the Marauder’s Map to be one hundred percent certain — and climbs the steps to the Astronomy Tower quickly and quietly.

Harry sees Draco’s hands first, gripping the metal railing, and his heart doesn’t know whether to soar or to sink. Draco is here. He’s here in the Astronomy Tower, standing precariously close to the edge, all pale skin and jagged edges, and as Harry moves closer, he notices that Draco looks every bit as miserable as he had in Harry’s dream.

“Draco.”

Harry unwraps himself from his cloak at the same time Draco startles and whips his head around. His expression is bewildered, scared, eyes wide and blonde hair tousled. He’s wearing the same clothes that Harry had dreamt him in. He looks disheveled.

“Potter.” Draco’s voice is weak. “How did you know I was here?”

Harry hesitates for a moment. What would Draco think if he knew Harry had been dreaming about him? Surely he wouldn’t be too pleased. So Harry settles for, “I didn’t. I just couldn’t sleep, and I guess I had the same idea as you.” He drops his cloak to the floor and moves to stand beside Draco. The boy’s frightened eyes scan the rolling fields and forests beyond the grounds of Hogwarts, stars speckling the night sky above them like flecks of paint on a black canvas. Perhaps under different circumstances, Harry would allow himself to admire the view, too. Now, his eyes are trained only on Draco.

“What are you doing up here?” Harry says carefully. Draco’s expression hardens.

“What do you think I’m doing up here?” 

He somehow sounds more genuinely inquisitive than mocking, which rattles Harry a little. He peers down over the railing, feeling dizzy with how far away the ground is. “Hopefully not anything stupid,” he concludes honestly, and Draco glares at him.

“You don’t really think I’m planning on pitching myself off the Astronomy Tower, do you?” Draco scoffs, but his words hold a kind of quiet dejection that makes Harry glad he’d listened to his gut. “If I was going to off myself, it wouldn’t be like this. Not at Hogwarts. Could you imagine the headlines?” Draco smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I don’t think I want to imagine that.” Harry’s tone must be far too serious, because Draco turns away from him with his jaw clenched tight. Harry clears his throat and tries again. “Why are you up here, then? If not to gracefully hurl yourself off?”

Draco’s eyes flit downwards, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I dunno. Felt like it.” The way he says it makes Harry feel like he definitely has a reason for climbing the Astronomy Tower in the ungodly hours of the night, but he decides not to push the subject.

A beat of silence passes, in which Draco stares down at his feet and Harry wraps his arms around himself in an effort to ward off the cold. It had been quite foolish of him to come up here in just a t-shirt and thin cotton trousers, however, Draco’s attire isn’t considerably more appropriate for the occasion. Harry is beginning to wonder if the guy is just always dressed to the nines, even while he’s sleeping. Or perhaps it’s more so because he simply doesn’t sleep. The thought sends an odd pang of empathy through Harry’s chest. 

“I didn’t want to do it, you know.”

Draco’s timid words cut through the serenity of the night like a Howler opened in the middle of a library. Harry jumps, then looks over at him, and after a lingering glance at his face, he notices moisture glistening in the corners of his eyes.

“Do what?” Harry asks him, although he thinks he knows well enough.

“I wasn’t going to do it.” If Draco even realises he’s crying, he makes no move to cover it up. A single tear forges a path down his cheek, and Harry is struck with the urge to wipe it away. He doesn’t, of course. “I wasn’t going to kill him.” Draco sniffles and stares intensely at Harry, eyes wild. “I couldn’t have. Even when he threatened to hurt my family. I couldn’t have done it, Harry.”

Harry doesn’t say anything; he just listens to Draco’s quiet, sniveling sobs and watches him lift trembling hands to his face to palm at his tears. He looks broken, so terribly broken, and Harry can’t do anything but watch, each shaky breath sending sharp jolts of pain through his chest.

“Well, fucking say something,” Draco shoots at him, his expression so twisted with agony that Harry thinks he probably should say something before the poor boy really does hurl himself over the railing.

But Harry’s mouth is dry and his throat feels as though it’s closed over, and he doesn’t think he could form a coherent sentence if he tried. So, instead, he does possibly the most peculiar thing he’s ever done.

He steps forward and hugs Draco Malfoy.

He doesn’t really think about it as it happens, acting only on instinct, and apparently his instinct is this, so that’s a revelation and a half. However, Draco doesn’t shove him off and growl at him in disgust, nor does he draw his wand and curse Harry to smithereens, as would have been a fair reaction. Instead, Draco lets his gaunt form collapse into Harry’s arms and buries his face in Harry’s neck, warm breaths setting his skin alight. So. That’s that.

Harry is quite bewildered.

They stand there like that for what is probably far too long to be considered normal, but then again, Harry Potter hugging Draco Malfoy does not even begin to border on normal. Draco cries softly, and Harry holds him while simultaneously feeling like he’s about to explode, and everything is very still. It’s as if the world around them has paused in motion, the stars and the moon gazing down at the pair in wonder. Harry makes note of the fact that Draco smells distinctly of cinnamon and green apples, and he isn’t sure how to feel about it. Strands of blonde hair tickle his nose.

When Draco steps back, he looks significantly more relaxed than before. His eyes, however, are still frightened and now almost regretful. He isn’t crying anymore though, which makes a sort of breathless satisfaction settle in Harry’s stomach.

“I’m sorry.” Draco’s eyebrows are pulled into a worried frown. He’s been doing that an awful lot lately — frowning. Harry feels his heart sink and his expression soften. 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Harry replies firmly, and Draco blinks at him. If anything, Harry should be the one to apologise for practically assaulting him.

Draco lifts his left arm to brush his hair out of his eyes, and Harry decides not to comment when his sleeve falls down to reveal just a glimpse of the Dark Mark inked into his forearm. It’s faded, yet still so noticeable against the stark white of his skin, and Harry imagines it’s part of the reason Draco prefers to cover himself up in layers of long-sleeved shirts and sweeping robes. Perhaps it’s for the best that he does.

“There’s a lot to be sorry for,” Draco says, and it’s so small and so faraway that Harry doubts he can even hear his own voice.

The silence that follows is uncomfortable, but only because the chilling wind is relentless and Harry is positively freezing his arse off. The cold had seemed to dissipate before, when he’d had the heat of Draco’s body against his own, but now Harry is shivering like a fool in his thin pyjamas. He rubs his hands together in an effort to warm them.

“I think everyone has something to be sorry for.”

Draco is silent, staring at Harry with those wonderful silver eyes, flickering with a burning intensity that almost has flames licking at Harry’s ankles. Then his eyes flit downwards and his shoulders slump, the fire extinguished nearly as fast as it had burst to life. Harry’s heart thuds in his ears.

“We should probably go back to bed,” he suggests reluctantly, and Draco hums his agreement, eyes very intently focused on his shoes. He looks like he’s bursting to say something else, but Harry doesn’t push him. “Goodnight, Draco.”

Draco chews on his bottom lip, thoughtful. “Goodnight, Potter.”

“I don’t mind when you call me Harry, you know.”

Draco hesitates, and something unreadable flashes across his eyes as he lifts them for a moment. “Right. Uh… ‘night, Harry.”

Then he’s hurrying past him, away from the railing and down the winding stairs, lean legs taking them two at a time. Harry watches him, then when he’s disappeared from sight, he watches the stars instead. They wink at him. Harry thinks they look smug.

When he eventually curls back up in his bed, he doesn’t sleep. His thoughts are far too loud.

Chapter Text

Almost a week goes by following the Astronomy Tower ordeal, and it’s quite uneventful. Harry doesn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

His dreams are settling down a little now. He still has the occasional nightmare, but when he’s not reliving the war or his parents’ deaths or being tortured by his own friends, he sees blonde hair and silver eyes. He can’t help it, obviously. It isn’t like he can control his dreams. Sometimes Draco isn’t even technically in his dream; he’s just an odd, ghostly presence, or a pair of shining eyes, or rose-pink lips, or porcelain skin. And no, Harry doesn’t think that even counts. Maybe he’s just seen too much of Draco lately, in an explicitly different way to any of the previous years, and somehow the bastard is working his way into Harry’s every waking — and sleeping — thought.

Well, if it means the nightmares are less frequent, then he supposes there’s no harm in it.

He hasn’t actually spoken to Draco since the Astronomy Tower. The boy shoots him the odd expressionless glance in class and in the corridors and from across the Great Hall, but more often than not, he keeps to himself. Draco spends most of his time with his head buried in books and his eyes trained on his feet, and either Harry is imagining things, or he’s becoming impossibly thinner as the days drag on. 

The issue is, Harry can’t not care about Draco now. He can’t simply go about his day after having witnessed Draco cry so openly and vulnerably, and after holding his warm, trembling body against his chest until his sobs had subsided. It might seem ridiculous, but Harry can’t help it if his brain decides to take great interest in the life of his former arch nemesis. Because maybe back then — when Draco had taunted him and teased him and broken his nose, and when the unintentional force of Harry’s Sectumsempra had left Draco almost bleeding out on the bathroom floor — the thought of being anything other than Draco’s most hated enemy had seemed utterly preposterous. But that was before the war, and before Harry had watched Draco’s facade start to crack. That was before Draco had saved his life.

So Harry manages to convince himself he’s not crazy, and Ron and Hermione are, of course, suspicious. But when are they not?

“I think you’re obsessed with him again,” Ron declares one afternoon when the three of them are curled up by the fireplace in the eighth year common room, and Harry feels his stomach drop right down into his toes.

An unwanted flush creeps up his neck and onto his cheeks, but he refuses to look up from the Potions textbook on his lap. “I’m not obsessed with anyone, what are you on about?”

Hermione swiftly casts a Muffliato around them and turns to Harry, frowning. “Harry. You asked us just yesterday if we thought Draco looked, and I quote, ‘especially miserable today’.” Hermione makes air quotes with her fingers.

There’s a bitter taste in Harry’s mouth and his heart starts to speed up its rhythm in his chest. “And how does me asking you that have anything to do with whether I’m apparently obsessed or not?” 

Ron and Hermione glance at each other, and Harry rolls his eyes to disguise the dread settling in his gut. His friends are far too perceptive for his liking.

“Mate, you care about him too much,” Ron says carefully, which is quite odd for Ron, seeing as he rarely ever says things carefully. Hermione must have talked some sense into him. “Don’t act as if we don’t see you checking that bloody map every five minutes. It's like sixth year all over again. It’s getting ridiculous.”

Harry feels the hair on the back of his neck bristle. He doesn’t check the Marauder’s Map every five minutes — perhaps it’s closer to every hour — and it’s purely out of curiosity, anyway. Maybe Harry just wants to make sure Draco doesn’t run into any more trouble. That isn’t a crime. So far, Draco has been doing a good job of avoiding any unwanted run-ins with those blasted seventh years, as well as staying far away from any dangerously high places, and Harry is happy about it. It’s a win-win situation.

“I seriously don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Harry says dumbly, and Hermione huffs out the most exasperated sigh he’s ever heard. 

“I love you, Harry, but sometimes you really are a blundering idiot.”

Harry glares at her indignantly, although her words may hold just the tiniest bit of truth. “I am not .”

Ron’s pat on the back is more painful than it is reassuring, and Harry winces. “We’re just trying to help you out, mate.”

“Well, you’re not helping, you’re meddling. And I don’t need you to meddle.” Harry rises to his feet, head held high, and drops his pile of books into the armchair he had previously occupied. Then, because he feels a pang of guilt for being such a twat, he adds, “I don’t mean to offend you, I just… I can look after myself, okay?”

Hermione surveys him with sad, worried eyes. Harry isn’t sure why she’s so concerned. Surely caring about Draco isn’t such an awful thing? “Yes, of course you can. I’m sorry, Harry.”

Harry hesitates, then nods curtly, and strides for the door. He isn’t sure where he’s going, or why, but the common room suddenly feels all too suffocating. His best friends feel too suffocating. Merlin, Harry is an arse.

Mindlessly, he pulls the folded map from his pocket while he walks, and mutters for what could very well be the thousandth time that day, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

-

It’s the same group of seventh years who have Draco cornered this time, except they seem to have gathered more of an audience, and it takes longer for Harry to push his way to the front. 

As expected, the crowd parts just slightly for him, some of the younger students gazing up at him with wide eyes, whispers of his name floating through the air and making his skin prickle. And then there’s Draco, staring at him in terror, looking utterly defeated. Harry’s heart sinks just a little bit lower in his chest.

The tall Gryffindor with the dazzling blue eyes is standing by Draco’s left side, and his cronies have Draco pinned to the wall with their wands. Blue Eyes is clutching Draco’s left wrist in one hand, while the other yanks at his sleeve. Draco’s eyes flash with a sort of seething horror when the Dark Mark on his arm is put on display, and a cacophony of insults and — to Harry’s alarm — several hexes are hurled his way. One of them hits him square in the stomach, and he cries out, eyes squeezing shut. He tries to struggle free, but that only makes Blue Eyes dig his fingernails further into his wrist. Draco winces, and Harry positively explodes.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Blue Eyes turns, and for a moment, he looks scared, but then his eyes settle on Harry and his lips pull into a smirk. “Golden boy Harry Potter. Come to save your Death Eater boyfriend again, have you?”

“Let him go, or you’ll regret ever touching him.” Harry draws his wand, pushing it menacingly into Blue Eyes’ sneering face. A few of his cronies shuffle backwards, intimidated, and Draco’s right arm is freed. He immediately clutches at his stomach, and Harry can see him holding back tears of pain. Harry feels a fresh rush of red-hot anger coursing through his veins. “I mean it,” he snarls. “Back off. Now .”

“What’re you gonna do?” Blue Eyes grins patronisingly, but he lets go of Draco, only to draw his own wand. “ Expelliarmus me?” he mocks.

There are a few short chuckles of amusement, but then silence falls like a blanket over the crowd when Harry really does disarm him, wordlessly. Blue Eyes stares at his now empty hand, then across at Harry’s, where his wand has been caught effortlessly. His expression is one of shock and anger, and Harry feels far too pleased with himself.

“Now,” he begins, feeling a smug smile stretching his lips. “I’ll snap it in half if you and your lot don’t get lost.” Then, when Blue Eyes simply continues to stare at him, stunned, he adds, “And if I catch you laying a hand on Draco again, maybe I’ll snap you in half, too.”

And that pretty much does it.

Blue Eyes falters, his eyes flicking to his wand still clutched in Harry’s hand, then wisely decides that his most sensible option is to flee. He turns on his heel and scampers away after the rest of his already dispersed group. Harry reluctantly flings the wand in his direction, and Blue Eyes fumbles with it, cheeks burning red.

Harry notices Draco has slid to his backside on the floor, and he squats down beside him, heart drumming against his ribcage. Draco looks hurt and exhausted, his arms folded over his stomach, teeth clenched together in agony. Harry frowns.

“What did they do to you?”

“It’s not that bad.” But even speaking seems to send a stab of pain through Draco’s body, and he grimaces. Harry itches to soothe him, maybe by touching his shoulder or his hand, or even hugging him again. But, of course, he doesn’t dare.

“Don't be daft. Let me help you up to the hospital w—”

“No,” Draco interrupts fiercely, wincing through the pain. Harry is taken aback at the ferocity of his tone. “Definitely not. Pomfrey will ask what happened and I…” Draco trails off, lashes fluttering against his prominent cheekbones. “I don’t want McGonagall to know,” he finishes softly, and Harry looks at him as if he’s entirely insane.

“You’re not reporting it?”

Draco shakes his head firmly.

“But… Draco! They hurt you!”

“I can Heal it myself. I just can’t have this all turning into a big deal.”

“It’s already a big deal,” Harry insists, hand now flying out to clutch Draco’s elbow. Draco’s eyes widen just a little at the contact. “What? Do you think it’ll get turned on you? McGonagall wouldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t let that happen.”

Something strange swirls in Draco’s eyes, which in turn makes something strange swirl in Harry’s stomach. Draco sucks in a sharp breath and blows it out slowly. “Why do you keep helping me, Potter?”

The question is genuine, inquisitive, even a little timid, as if Draco suspects there’s something more sinister lurking behind Harry’s good intentions. But, no, Harry won’t let him think that.

“Because, believe it or not, I care about you, Draco.”

At that, Draco looks like he’s just been punched in the face. His mouth falls open a little and his eyes grow large, his body stiffening up while a range of overwhelming emotions flicker like a film across his irises. 

Harry continues, “And if you won’t let me bring you to the hospital wing, then that’s fine. But at least let me help Heal you.”

Draco doesn’t say anything for several agonising seconds, in which Harry feels his hands twitching and his forehead beading with sweat, because holy shit, had he just openly admitted to caring about Draco Malfoy? As if it wasn’t obvious enough already… 

“Fine.”

Harry raises an eyebrow, and Draco avoids his gaze, cheeks dusted pink. 

“I’ll let you Heal me.”

And then he’s somehow managing to haul himself to his feet, biting back a groan and limping in the direction of their dormitory. Harry positively beams. He bounds after him like some kind of overexcited puppy.

When Draco pushes open the door to his room, Harry notices that it looks almost identical to his own, except the window is on the right side instead of the left, and the floor isn’t cluttered with clothes and books and discarded pieces of parchment like Harry’s is. It hardly looks lived in. There’s only one bed, pushed up against the open window, and a maroon rug on the floor that Harry thinks looks too distinctly Gryffindor to have been chosen by Draco himself. Golden afternoon sunlight streams in onto the white silk duvet and makes sunspots dance across the walls. It’s smaller than all the other rooms, seeing as apparently only Draco resides in it, but it’s nice. It’s peaceful.

Draco senses Harry’s questions before he even opens his mouth to begin asking them. “McGonagall thought it would be better for everyone if I roomed alone. Safer.”

Harry adjusts his glasses on his nose. “Is it?”

“Better or safer?” Draco smirks somewhat sadly and averts his eyes to the floor. “It’s both, I suppose.”

“Doesn’t it get awfully lonely?”

Something darts across Draco’s eyes at that, and then he’s walking swiftly across the room and settling himself on his bed. He doesn’t answer Harry’s question, but Harry takes his silence as answer enough.

“So are you going to fix me, or what?” Draco says after a moment, and he’s now looking across at Harry expectantly.

“Well, you’re going to have to take off your fifty layers of robes first,” Harry says sarcastically, expecting Draco to scoff at him, but instead the boy nods obediently and begins tugging off his robes with care. Harry manages to compose himself and not choke on his own tongue when Draco slips off his tie and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

“Think you can mend this?”

Draco pulls back his shirt to reveal a horrifying red scorch mark the approximate size of a dinner plate stretching across the pale expanse of his stomach. Harry’s eyes widen and he takes several shuffling steps towards Draco.

“Well?” Draco says impatiently, although his face is stiff with pain. “Come here.”

So Harry crosses the room and crouches tentatively beside Draco, squatting so he’s at eye level with the injury. He raises his hand and, blushing, looks up at Draco for permission, before he lets his fingertips graze over the irritated skin. Draco winces a little and his stomach tenses but he doesn’t complain.

Harry can feel most of the blood in his body rushing up to his face and he really doesn’t have time to think that over or even acknowledge it, so he chews the inside of his cheek and lets his hand drop to his knee.

“Looks like a particularly aggressive Stinging Jinx,” he announces. Draco quirks an eyebrow. “It’s really quite bad, actually. I don’t know how the hell a student managed it.”

“Can you Heal it?”

“Of course. Should be fairly easy.”

“ Fairly easy?” Draco’s eyes go wide and a bit alarmed, and Harry has to hold in a giggle. “Potter, I’m going to need a little more reassurance than that.”

“Call me Harry and I promise I won’t cock it up.”

Draco rolls his eyes as if calling Harry by his first name is the most strenuous task in the world, though there’s a sort of fond grin tugging at his lips. “Harry. Sweet, darling Harry. Pretty please would you carefully mend my stomach so that it stops burning everytime I fucking breathe? And do try not to kill me in the process.”

So with an amused snort, Harry draws his wand and hovers it delicately over the wound. Draco grimaces and gives a little whimper as the scorch mark starts to fade into the cream of his stomach as if it had never been there in the first place. His hand flies out to clutch Harry’s wrist, his palm cold and clammy, and Harry’s breath catches in his throat. He pushes himself to his feet at lightning speed and takes a very large step away from Draco, whose hand drops to his side.

“All done,” Harry says, and prays Draco doesn’t notice the wobble in his voice or the horrible, patchy flush creeping over his cheeks.

But Draco is too busy sulking, to Harry’s relief. “Well, that bloody hurt,” he grumbles, peering down at his newly mended stomach and pressing a few cautious fingers to it. Harry turns away entirely. “But thank you for not murdering me, Harry. Appreciate it.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” 

Draco looks up at him strangely, and for a moment Harry is worried he’ll ask what in the world is wrong with him, but then Draco sighs and gets heavily to his feet. “Now you can sod off. I’ve got homework to do.”

And Harry very obligingly sods off, his heart running circles around the inside of his chest and his mind swirling with a hurricane of rather humiliating thoughts.

-

Harry thinks about Draco. A lot. Like, a lot more often than is probably healthy or normal.

Harry has had crushes before, obviously. He’s an eighteen year old boy, not at all innocent-minded, and also very much not opposed to the idea of a girlfriend — or, he supposes, boyfriend. He’s never had a lot of trouble figuring out his preferences, and he can’t imagine anyone at Hogwarts giving half a shit, anyway.

Harry thinks about Cho and Ginny and even Cedric, to his embarrassment, and feels a tug of dread in the pit of his stomach. He’d really liked Cho. She was sweet and pretty and cared for Harry a lot, but it hadn’t seemed like something that could have lasted. He’d fancied Ginny too, in the very beginning, but then his feelings for her had sort of spiraled into something more sisterly, and they’d both come to the mutual decision that they were better off as friends. With Cedric, Harry honestly doesn’t know if it can even be counted as a crush. His feelings had mostly been built from admiration and also the fact that Cedric was, undoubtedly, fit. But it's not as if it could have gone anywhere, seeing as Cedric was several years older than him and also sort of not alive. Okay, yeah, Harry really doesn’t want to think about that.

With Draco, though, it feels different than it had with Cho or Ginny or Cedric. He doesn’t know how, exactly, but it’s definitely a foreign feeling. He wants to spend time with Draco, and he wants to get to know him, and he wants to see that brilliant smile lighting up his brilliant face much more often. He wants to wipe away his tears when he cries, and perhaps hug him again, winding his fingers into his silky hair and stroking a thumb over the smooth skin on his hand. Maybe it’s the thrill of having his most despised enemy evolve into someone he might call a friend that’s making Harry doubt his entire existence, or maybe it’s just the fact that Draco is blatantly fit. Either way, Harry feels funny when he looks at Draco, and he thinks that’s a good enough answer to all of the pestering questions floating about in his head.

And now, Harry is planning something; something that he doesn’t think Ron and Hermione would take too kindly to. So, naturally, he decides not to tell them. 

It can be a kind of horrifying surprise , he tells himself uneasily as he shuffles out of the eighth year dormitory far too early in the morning.

The Marauders Map had shown him Draco’s footprints wandering around in the kitchen — the fact that he’s up and about so early really shouldn’t come as a surprise to Harry — so that’s exactly where he heads, after haphazardly tugging on his uniform and giving himself an awkward once-over in the bathroom mirror.

Harry slows when he hears a rather loud crash, followed by a tinkle of bemused laughter. He lingers in the doorway of the kitchen, eyes immediately falling onto Draco’s thin form, clad in his grey school jumper and trousers, green Slytherin tie loosely hugging his neck. He’s doubled over and is clutching his sides as a particularly scrawny house-elf prances about in front of him, attempting to balance a stack of porcelain plates double the size of her head in one hand. She has obviously been unsuccessful, and several of them lay shattered at her feet on the tiles. Draco is watching in delight, the corners of his eyes crinkled and his brilliant pink lips pulled into the widest grin Harry has ever seen him wear. The sound of Draco’s amused giggles has Harry’s stomach tying itself in knots.

Harry almost feels guilty interrupting the moment, but he’d probably feel even guiltier if he were to just watch like a creep from the doorway. So he calls, “Having fun?”

And Draco starts, hand flying to his chest. “Fucking hell, P— Harry.” He catches himself before he spits out Harry’s surname, blushing. Harry smirks. “You really need to stop creeping up on me. It’s borderline stalkerish.”

Harry laughs, and Draco’s eyes soften. “I only need to ask you something.”

“What is it?” Draco asks, and turns away from Harry, back to the poor house-elf Levitating broken shards of porcelain towards the bin. He shoots a few quick, wordless mending charms at the pieces still scattered on the ground, and Harry’s eyebrows quirk in surprise. He really shouldn’t be this impressed that Draco is so effortlessly talented in non-verbal magic.

Harry takes a deep breath that he hopes Draco doesn’t hear. “I was wondering if you wanted to come to Hogsmeade with me this weekend.” 

Draco tenses, and the plate he had been mending crashes back to the floor. The house-elf mutters something irritably under her breath and hurries forward to clean it up.

“I— what?”

Harry grins timidly, meeting Draco’s eye. “You heard me.” Then, when Draco does nothing but stare at him in that odd, emotionless way, Harry continues. “I just thought you might be quite lonely, is all. What with… everything being the way it is.” And I also sort of want to hang out with you some more, he thinks, but doesn’t dare word aloud.

Draco’s eyes widen, then narrow, then he’s glaring at Harry like he wants to curse the very hair off his head. “Are you making fun of me, Potter? Or is this some pathetic attempt at sympathy?” he spits, “Because I don’t want your sympathy.”

Harry feels a pang of something painful in his chest, and then his mouth is opening without his permission. “You seemed to very much enjoy my sympathy when you snivelled all over me on the Astronomy Tower, Malfoy ,” Harry shoots back at him, and Draco clenches his jaw, infuriated. Great. Just wonderful. His plan is backfiring terribly.

“If I find out you’ve told a soul about that, I’ll singe your stupid fucking eyebrows off while you sleep, Scarhead.”

And at that, Harry almost guffaws. Because, in spite of his cruel tone, the corners of Draco’s lips are now twitching upwards involuntarily; perhaps at the pure absurdity of his words, or at the mere thought of Harry without eyebrows. It is unclear which.

Either way, Draco’s indignant resolve is melting away, and it’s making Harry shake his head and grin.

“You’re a git, you know?” he snickers, and Draco rolls his eyes, quickly turning to hide his face.

“I still don’t want your sympathy, Potter.”

“Harry,” Harry corrects, and Draco glowers over his shoulder at him. “And I swear I’m not trying to offend you. I just think it must be awfully shitty with your friends gone and half the school basically plotting to kill you.” He tries to keep his tone lighthearted and joking, and he must be succeeding, because Draco snorts as he squats down to meld together two particularly stubborn bits of porcelain. 

He huffs, flicking his wand, then mumbles, “Yes, I suppose it is a little shitty.”

Harry can’t stop himself from grinning like a moron. “So will you come to Hogsmeade with me to make things less shitty?”

Draco stands and brushes his hands over his trousers, looking directly at Harry now. “If you’re that desperate for my company, I guess it wouldn’t hurt. But don’t flatter yourself.” Draco smirks and rolls his eyes at the same time, somehow. “I’m only doing this because I know you’ll be an insufferable twat if I say no.”

Harry beams. “Brilliant!”

Draco tries to scowl at his enthusiasm, but his eyes are still shining.

“Oh, and by the way, Ron and Hermione are coming too,” Harry announces, and he just catches Draco’s eyes widening in horror before he turns on his heel and almost skips from the room.

“What?! Harry!” he hears Draco squawk, but he’s already rounding a corner.

Chapter Text

“What the fuck is he doing here?”

Draco hovers awkwardly beside Harry, his cheeks extremely red and his expression utterly mortified, and Harry thinks this is all a little bit unbelievable. 

Just a year ago, Draco would have scoffed right in Ron’s face for saying something like that, perhaps even hexed him, and marched off arrogantly. Now, Harry thinks the way Draco is winding unsure fingers into the front of his suit jacket is irritatingly adorable. That, and the fact that he’s wearing a bloody suit as casualwear in the first place. The pretentious twat.

“Ron, please. There’s no need to be so hostile.” Hermione, forever the voice of reason, takes Ron’s arm gently and looks over at Draco. “I do trust Harry’s judgement, Draco. If he’s made amends with you, that’s all well and good, although it doesn’t excuse any of the things you’ve done in the past.”

Draco’s eyes widen and he swallows thickly. “Uh. Yes. Of course not.” Harry clears his throat and Draco shifts beside him, cringing, well out of his comfort zone. “Um… I know it probably doesn’t mean much to you, but I am sorry. For everything.”

As Ron opens his mouth to likely snarl at a very bewildered Draco, Hermione squeezes his arm tightly. Her gaze is firm, yet somewhat forgiving, trained on the fidgeting boy in front of her. “Thank you, Draco. Believe it or not, it does mean something.”

Draco averts his eyes to the floor and nods sheepishly, and Harry feels himself grinning.

“Isn’t this nice,” he sighs, mostly to ease the tension, and Ron glares between him and Hermione as if the pair of them have sprouted horns. Hermione just cocks her head at him, effectively making him melt under her gaze, so he looks back at Draco instead.

“Harry and Hermione might be able to tolerate you, Malfoy, but I still don’t trust you.” Ron narrows his eyes, and Harry tries his hardest not to laugh at his attempt to appear intimidating. Tufts of ginger hair curl around his pink ears like flames, his freckled nose all screwed up in disdain. Draco chews his bottom lip, probably to contain his own amusement.

“Nobody said you had to trust him, you nonce,” Harry says, and that earns a small giggle from Hermione and a muffled snort from Draco. “I didn’t invite him so we could stand about and do trust-falls like a couple of first years. I want to get him absolutely plastered .”

Draco perks up at that, eyebrows flying skyward. “You… what?”

“We’re legal now. No more wretched Butterbeer!” Harry practically hollers, and Hermione grins fondly at him.

“Butterbeer isn't wretched,” Draco says, sounding insulted and slightly alarmed, but Harry has already grabbed his elbow and is beginning to yank him down the path into Hogsmeade before he can sneak off back to his dormitory like the slippery bastard he is and ruin Harry’s spectacular plan.

And, much to Harry’s delight, the evening goes splendidly. Well, as splendidly as an evening can possibly go with the peculiar mix of three Gryffindors, a sulky Slytherin and more alcohol than anyone is keeping track of.

Harry watches happily as Hermione actually engages in civil yet extremely awkward conversation with Draco, made slightly less awkward by several glasses of Firewhisky and Hermione’s exceptional social skills. He’s especially pleased when Ron only scowls at Draco over his drink a grand total of twelve times, and Draco only retaliates twice — yes, Harry is keeping count. 

For the most part, Draco glues himself to Harry’s side and stares down into his glass, eyes a little glazed over and shoulders tense. He hasn’t had nearly as much to drink as the other three, and his obvious sobriety is making Harry feel a little bit like he’s failed his plan. But all hope is not lost. He thinks that getting Draco to voluntarily remain in the same room as Hermione and Ron for an extended period of time and make reluctant conversation with them is a big step in the right direction.

After a while of discussing the history of Polyjuice Potion with Hermione while Ron watches the two of them like he’s planning a double homicide, Draco moves to a far corner of the Three Broomsticks and perches himself on a rickety wooden seat. He smiles meekly up at Harry when their eyes meet, but otherwise, his expression remains blank, watching Harry and Ron and even Hermione take too many shots and shout obnoxiously over each other. Every now and then, Harry catches Draco while he’s sipping his Firewhisky with lips that are so pink it should definitely be illegal.

Oh. His lips.

Harry finds himself staring at Draco’s lips whenever they linger on the side of his glass, or whenever he licks over them carefully, or chews on them anxiously, or as they stretch into a halfhearted grin when he meets Harry’s watchful eye. At some point, Harry thinks Draco must be wearing lipstick, because how else could his lips be such a brilliant, rosy pink? It’s ridiculous. It’s tantalising. Harry feels butterflies swarming his stomach, but that might just be from the alcohol, so he tries not to pay it any mind.

Ron and Hermione get up to leave first, their cheeks flushed and warm grins lighting up both their faces. Even Ron looks rather chuffed, and worryingly green, as he nods goodbye to Draco after Hermione waves at him from across the room.

“You’re not too bad, mate,” Ron calls to him, then promptly leans over and proceeds to empty the contents of his stomach onto the floor. Draco winces and Harry shoots several hasty vanishing charms at the mess, missing the first few times, while Hermione rubs Ron’s back tenderly. She leads him to the door, flashes an apologetic smile, and then drags Ron away by the elbow.

Harry grimaces once more at his shoddy cleaning attempt, then refocuses his attention on Draco. And Draco’s lips. Fuck. He needs to stop with this. It’s getting embarrassing.

Harry stumbles his way over to Draco, bumping shoulders with several people in his drunken haste, but ignoring their grunts of annoyance. He hovers over Draco, Firewhisky sloshing over the edges of his glass, hair falling into his eyes and glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. Draco looks up at him, then back down at his lap immediately. His cheeks are tinted pink. Almost the same shade as his wonderful lips.

“Hello, Draco.”

Draco smiles somewhat shyly. “Hello, Harry.”

“I am drunk.”

Draco scoffs, still smiling. “I can see that, you great oaf.”

Harry leans further into Draco’s space, inhaling discreetly when his nose brushes the top of Draco’s hair. He smells good. Well, he always smells good, but tonight he smells especially exquisite. Almost like he’s put on extra cologne or freshly washed his hair or something. Harry sways a little on the spot. “Whatcha doin’?” he slurs.

Draco looks extremely, unmistakably red now. He flicks the side of his half-full glass timidly, gazing right back into Harry’s eyes. Harry can't quite read his expression. “Trying not to get drunk.”

“What a wanker.” Harry grins, all teeth, and Draco’s eyes flash with something akin to fondness. Or maybe Harry is just really, really pissed. And slightly infatuated.

“I’ll hex you, Potter.”

Harry laughs and mindlessly reaches forward to tuck a strand of Draco’s disheveled hair back behind his ear. Draco’s eyes widen and he licks his marvelous lips, and Harry’s heart turns several somersaults in his chest. He leans a little closer. Draco doesn’t move away, or shove him off, or hex him. So that’s entirely brilliant. Harry can feel Draco’s shallow breaths against his face and he watches his expression morph into one of… fear? Bewilderment? Or perhaps it’s something else; something distinctly darker that is tying Harry’s stomach in knots and making his foggy brain just a little more clouded. Fuck, Harry is so very drunk.

Someone shuffles past Harry from behind, knocking into him roughly, and he lurches forward, hands flying to Draco’s bony shoulders. Draco yelps in surprise as Harry’s body falls against his own, his fingers clutching at Harry’s shirt to keep himself from being squashed.

Harry blinks, but doesn’t move. “Sorry.”

“You don’t sound very sorry,” Draco says, almost entirely breathless. Their chests are pressed together like they had been that night in the Astronomy Tower, except this time it feels so very different. This isn’t Harry holding a shaking and vulnerable Draco against him while he cries; this is warm and intimate and has a tingling heat flooding Harry’s body from his cheeks down to his toes. Harry thinks he can feel Draco’s heart beating as fast as his own through their layers of clothes.

He notices, with a rush of adrenaline, that he could lean forward and press his lips to Draco’s quite easily if he wanted to. Their mouths are less than an inch apart. He doesn’t know why that thought crosses his mind, or where it even came from. Except. Maybe he does, and maybe it’s not just the alcohol in his system that’s making him feel dangerously intoxicated.

But then Draco clears his throat and makes to stand up, and Harry shuffles backwards, clambering off him reluctantly. Draco hesitates for a moment, looking from Harry to the floor and back up at Harry, before he reaches out and takes Harry’s warm hand in his.

“Come on.”

Harry swallows thickly. Draco’s hand is cold and clammy and his skin tingles against Harry’s. “Where are we going?”

Draco doesn’t answer, merely tugging Harry up to the bar and murmuring something unintelligible to the bartender. Then he’s being slid a glass of clear liquid, which he passes straight to Harry, expression still irritatingly blank.

“Drink this.”

“What is it?” Harry asks, but he’s already lifting the glass to his mouth, not even pausing to consider that this is the perfect opportunity for Draco to poison him.

“Water,” Draco says plainly. “You’ll thank me later.”

Harry downs the glass of water like a shot, then wipes his mouth and collapses back onto the stool behind him. Draco is watching him carefully, eyebrows knitted together, silky hair flopping over his incredible eyes. Oh, his eyes too. His eyes are nice. Very silver, very bright, like diamonds. And his lips. His lips are also nice. Pink like candy floss, and probably just as sweet.

“How do you feel?”

It takes Harry’s brain a few seconds to process the fact that Draco is speaking to him. “I feel brilliant,” he grins, and leans forward to poke Draco in the stomach. Maybe it’s to try and loosen Draco up, or maybe it’s just for the sake of touching him. Draco only squirms and scowls at him, but Harry doesn’t miss the affectionate twinkle in his eyes. He pushes his empty glass towards Draco, who mindlessly flicks his wand, filling it to the brim with more water. Harry can feel his gaze burning into his throat as he gulps it down in two very clumsy swigs.

“We should go back,” Draco suggests, voice low and slicing through the din of the pub like a razorblade. “You’re out of it.”

“But I haven’t even got you drunk, silly,” Harry pouts, slamming his glass down too hard on the countertop. Draco furrows his brow.

“Why are you so set on getting me drunk?”

“Because it’s my plan.” Harry says it as if it’s entirely obvious, and Draco just frowns at him.

“Your plan is to drug me up, and then what?” He crosses his arms over his chest and peers down at Harry through the strands of hair insistent on falling into his eyes. “You’re going to take me into the Forbidden Forest and murder me, I presume? Push me into the lake? Get me expelled for breaking curfew?”

“Those are all very excellent suggestions, Draco, but no. None of the above.” Harry grins playfully, and he can almost hear Draco’s internal groan.

“Then why?”

“I want you to have fun. Let loose.” Harry smooths his hands over his thighs, itching to lean in and tuck that irritating strand of hair behind Draco’s ear once again. “Stop looking so… so miserable and… so tight for a moment.”

“Tight?” Draco repeats exasperatedly, and before Harry knows what he’s doing, he’s reaching up to loosen Draco’s tie and undo the first few buttons of his shirt. Draco swallows hard.

Harry’s palms are sweating when he lowers them back to his sides. “There. Not so tight.”

Draco looks like he isn’t sure whether to sprint in the opposite direction or curse Harry right in the face, so Harry doesn’t give him the opportunity to do either. He gets to his feet and grabs Draco’s arm, who flinches but makes no move to struggle away. He allows Harry to tug him away from the bar, nibbling on his lip in a worried kind of way, but letting Harry lead him out of the Three Broomsticks without protest. They tumble out into the dark, the crisp air sending shivers down Harry’s spine and cooling the sweat on his forehead. Draco hasn’t shaken him off yet, instead choosing to entwine their fingers. Their hands slide together easily, falling into place as if they’ve done so a thousand times before.

“I thought you wanted to get me drunk.”

Harry doesn’t reply. He can think of several things he’d like to do a whole lot more right now than get Draco drunk, none of which he can initiate with others around. So he continues to drag Draco along until they’re well out of view of any prying eyes, stepping off the path and letting himself collapse back onto a patch of grass beneath the stars. Draco peers down at him curiously. He shakes his head, lips twitching into a smile, and Harry has to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment to let the overwhelming dizzy sensation pass. Stars dance behind his eyelids. 

When he opens them again, Draco is hugging himself around the middle. “Let’s go back to the castle. It’s fucking freezing out here, Harry.”

“I don’t want to go back yet.” Harry starfishes his limbs like he’s making a snow angel in the grass. He thinks he hears Draco snort. 

“You’re an absolute nightmare when you’re drunk, did you know?”

Harry ignores him. “Come lay with me. The sky is lovely. There are so many stars.”

Draco blinks down at him in disbelief. “You want to stargaze with me?”

“Well, when you put it like that, it sounds a bit pathetic, doesn’t it?” Harry grumbles, though he can’t help the delirious smile that carves itself into his lips. He pats the ground beside him. “But yes, I do. Lay down.”

“I’ll get grass stains on my suit.” Draco toes at the offending grass dubiously.

“Your suit will survive. Don’t be so difficult, Draco.”

“Haven’t heard that one before,” Draco jokes sourly, but he gives in nonetheless and lowers himself to the ground beside Harry, who immediately shuffles closer to him, seeking his warmth and proximity. Draco inhales sharply as Harry lets his head fall against Draco’s shoulder, his hair brushing up against the crook of Draco’s neck. Harry watches their chests rise and fall in sync. Their breath mists and dances past their parted lips, forming a hazy cloud above their heads that dissipates into the night as quickly as it is formed. It reminds Harry all too vividly of the dream he’d had about Draco, when he’d stood in the midst of a swirling fog and gazed into a pair of intense, silver eyes.

He says it before he can even process the words leaving his mouth. “I dream about you sometimes.”

And Draco immediately goes rigid beside him. “What?”

“They’re quite odd dreams, most of the time,” Harry babbles, and Draco shifts the slightest bit away from him.

“What… what kinds of dreams?” His voice is a little hoarse, bewildered. If this goes as terribly wrong as Harry is predicting, he can always blame the conversation on alcohol later.

“Like, I dreamt you were in the Astronomy Tower, and I got a really bad feeling about it, and then you were actually there.” Harry lets out a cackle, and Draco flinches. “And then the other times, all that really stands out is your eyes, and sometimes your hair. And your lips.” Fuck, Harry shouldn’t even be thinking about his lips, let alone confessing that he dreams about them. “And then other times, you just talk to me,” he finishes quickly.

“Oh yeah?” Draco says, voice as thin and wispy as the clouded breaths spilling from his mouth. “What do I say?”

“I don’t know. Just the usual insults, and some very unfunny bits about my glasses and my apparently ridiculous hair.” Harry runs numb fingers through his hair self-consciously, frowning.

Draco’s laugh is hesitant, as if he’s teetering on the edge of a precipice in the middle of nowhere, and Harry has no clue how to find him, let alone how to yank him back to safety. “Well, your hair is quite ridiculous.”

Harry scoffs indignantly, pushing himself onto his elbows and glaring down at a timidly smirking Draco, because apparently his smirks can convey a colourful array of different emotions, and Harry is endlessly intrigued by this revelation.

But then Draco brings a tentative hand up to twirl a strand of Harry’s dark hair around his pale finger, and Harry forgets everything he’s ever known.

Draco is looking him right in the eye, head still resting back against the grass, crystal eyes glittering. Harry simply cannot function under his intense gaze any longer. There is nothing he can do but stare, lips slightly parted, back down at Draco as the boy rakes his lithe fingers through Harry’s nest of hair. The world fades away around them until there’s nothing else left in the universe but the pair of them. And Harry can’t stand it.

So he leans in, not expecting Draco to reciprocate.

And Draco cranes his neck to meet him halfway.

Their noses bump, and Harry drowns in sweet cinnamon and silver eyes, but then Draco’s lips brush up against his own, and they’re so soft and so gentle and so warm that his eyelids flutter shut of their own volition.

Harry soars.

Draco kisses him slowly at first, the hand that isn’t still carding through Harry’s hair coming to rest gingerly on his waist. His mouth is so gentle and his touch so soft, and Harry feels like this might be everything he’s ever needed. No kiss has ever felt like this, he’s sure of it. Draco presses their lips together carefully, over and over, and Harry dissolves away into the night with the overwhelming sensation of warmth and closeness and the distinct, sweet apple scent of Draco. He’s everywhere all at once. Harry is drowning in it. Draco nibbles on his bottom lip and Harry groans involuntarily. They pant against each other, breaths mingling into one.

“Fuck, Draco,” Harry gasps, and Draco shudders. Right now, trapped beneath the weight of Harry, face flushed and pupils blown wide, he has never looked more beautiful.

Harry clutches at Draco’s hot cheeks, angling their faces so that he can more easily part his lips and slip his tongue into Draco’s waiting mouth. Harry feels like they’re floating. In fact, they very well might be. He can barely feel the solid ground beneath him when Draco groans into his mouth and brings his other hand up to tangle in the back of Harry’s hair. His grip is rough, and Harry absolutely cannot hold himself up above Draco any longer without collapsing, so he lowers himself to Draco’s chest, never separating their lips. Their bodies are flush together, legs tangled, hands clutching and tongues searching. Harry’s head and heart feel close to exploding. An aching heat swirls in his stomach. 

“Harry,” Draco murmurs against him, and Harry kisses him harder in response. But then Draco’s hands are on his shoulders and he’s tilting his head away, and Harry would argue that the sound he makes as his lips fall away from Draco’s is definitely not a desperate whimper. He tries to press soft kisses to the underside of Draco’s jaw, but Draco shrugs him away.

“What? You don’t want to?” Harry can’t help the pang of hurt and confusion that pulses through his chest as Draco refuses to meet his eye. He remains pinned beneath Harry’s body, breathing heavily, lips swollen and bitten red.

“I… I do. I want to.” There’s a desperation in Draco’s voice and a darkness in his eyes that convinces Harry he isn’t lying. “I just… you’re drunk. I can't… do that with you.”

“We’re just kissing.” Then, when Draco opens his mouth in protest, Harry insists, “Sober Harry wants to snog you too, trust me. Ask him tomorrow.”

“That’s not the point, you twat.” Draco’s eyes are set on Harry’s lips, his own curling into a doting smile. “I just don’t know if I can— fuck.” One of Draco’s hands settles absentmindedly in Harry’s hair once again, and Harry swears he almost purrs.

“You don’t know if you can what?” he breathes.

“I just can’t.” Then Draco adjusts himself, cheeks burning, and Harry peers between them at what is quite blatantly an erection straining against the black fabric of Draco’s trousers. A dangerous heat surges low in Harry’s gut and he resists every urge within him to lean down and kiss the fuck out of Draco all over again.

“Oh,” he croaks instead. “Shit.”

Draco’s face is an alarming shade of scarlet. “I can’t bloody help it. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.” His voice is unsteady, eyes dark with what is now unmistakably arousal. Harry licks his lips.

“You have?”

Draco nods. “For years.” Then he flinches as if he’s just been hexed and squeezes his eyes shut. “I cannot believe I just admitted that to you.”

Harry grins weakly, swallowing down his utter bewilderment at Draco’s earth-shattering confession. “You just keep on surprising me, Draco Malfoy.”

“You’re a git and I hate you, Harry Potter.”

“Your cock certainly doesn’t hate me.”

That comment earns Harry a mortified hiss and a punch in the shoulder, and he giggles madly as Draco rolls them both over and pins him down against the grass.

“You prick.”

“I think your prick—”

Draco silences him with a rough kiss, and Harry almost loses himself in it, but then Draco pulls away too soon and gets unsteadily to his feet, holding a hand out to help Harry up. They intertwine their fingers once again, swinging their linked hands between them as they walk, a comfortable silence settling over the two of them. Harry’s lips tingle and he brings the hand that isn't clutched in Draco’s up to run a gentle thumb over them. He feels like he’s floating a foot above the ground. He feels euphoric.

After climbing the steps into the eighth year dormitory, Harry finds himself being ushered past his own room into Draco’s. He doesn’t complain or ask questions, too exhausted and giddy with infatuation to think straight anymore, just allowing himself to be pushed gently down onto white silk sheets. He closes his eyes and lets Draco slip off his shoes and his glasses and pull the blankets up to his chin.

The last thing Harry remembers before sleep finally drags him under is Draco’s frail body curled up against his own, warm breaths burning into the side of his neck and sending sparks of electricity down his spine.

For the first time in years, Harry sleeps soundly.

Chapter Text

Harry wakes up alone in a foreign bed, draped in white silk sheets.

A migraine pounds against his skull, threatening to tear his head in two. He blinks up at the ceiling, letting his eyes adjust to the morning light streaming into the room through the gap in the curtains, and takes a moment to make sense of his surroundings.

Ah. Right. He’s in Draco’s room. In Draco’s bed. Totally not incriminating at all.

He remembers the night before. He doesn’t think he could forget it if he tried. He remembers Ron and Hermione and the alcohol and the awkward conversations, his peculiar fascination with Draco’s lips, then the rising tension between the two of them after Ron and Hermione had left. He remembers holding Draco’s hand and laying with him on the grass and bony fingers carding through his hair, and he remembers kissing him so hard that he’d seen stars behind his eyelids a thousand times more brilliant than the ones in the sky. 

He remembers it all; that isn’t the issue. He is, however, having a difficult time fathoming if it had actually been real. He still feels in a dream-like, hazy state. His brain may as well be made of cotton wool.

He’d snogged Draco Malfoy. And Draco Malfoy had snogged him back.

Harry wants to leap up and click his heels in delight, while simultaneously wishing he could launch himself out of the window.

He’d actually kissed Draco. Like, a proper kiss. A kiss that had made Draco hard and would have done the same for Harry, if it hadn’t been for the liquor in his system. No kiss with Cho or with Ginny had ever left him reeling, seeing fireworks flash across his vision, drowning him in warmth and sweet, sweet cinnamon. 

Harry is completely and utterly fucked.

Just as he’s contemplating whether or not it’s worth aggravating the throbbing in his head to roll over and scream into a pillow, he hears a gentle click of a door opening. Draco freezes in the doorway, wearing nothing but a fucking towel around his waist, hugging his slim hips, positioned scandalously low. His damp hair droops over his face and falls into his wide eyes. He looks entirely terrified, a little nervous, and very, very red. Harry swallows and definitely does not sneak a lingering glance at his bare chest, eyes only briefly darting to the faded Dark Mark on his forearm.

Draco’s jaw clenches and unclenches, then he steps carefully into the room, closing the door behind him. “You’re awake.”

“No shite,” Harry croaks.

Draco stares at him strangely. He combs his hair back from his face with an unsteady hand. “I left a pain potion for you. It should help with the headache.” He gestures loosely to the bedside table, on which sits a rather putrid looking vial of something lime green and bubbly. Harry glares at it and scrunches his nose. 

“I know it looks foul,” Draco continues, and Harry looks back at him. He’s fidgeting with his spindly fingers, twirling them in front of his chest, cheeks and the tips of his ears tinted pink. “But it’s amazing for hangovers, honestly. Speaking from experience, of course.”

Draco smiles shyly, genuinely, and Harry is stunned into a few extra seconds of silence. Is this Draco’s way of showing that he cares? Is he trying to express his gratitude for Harry helping him all those times, or is he genuinely just being a decent human without reason? The fog in Harry’s brain swirls into a hurricane.

“I’m not drinking that. You’re probably trying to poison me.”

Draco’s expression turns bewildered, as if he’s desperately trying to decipher whether Harry’s words are sarcastic or if he’s genuinely concerned for his safety. He eventually frowns and gives a helpless shrug.

“I didn’t…” Draco furrows his brow and looks at his feet. “I didn’t, like, drug you and kidnap you, you know.”

“I know,” Harry responds earnestly.

“I’m just trying to help you.” The words sound like they take far too much effort to force out.

“Well, that’s nice of you then.” Harry sighs and stretches his arms out above his head. If he lets his shirt ride up a little on purpose just to catch Draco’s flustered reaction, that’s irrelevant. “I suppose I should ask why you took me to your bed last night instead of my own,” he says, and watches a very flustered Draco pull his towel tighter around his waist.

“Um… seemed easier.” Draco curls his supple fingers into his sides, squeezing himself hard. “Didn’t want your roommates to think I’d captured and drugged their precious saviour.”

That is a good point, actually. Harry doesn’t know if Neville and Seamus would react too kindly to Draco Malfoy breaking into their room after curfew to tuck an inebriated Harry into his bed.

“Fair,” Harry says, and scratches at the light stubble on his jaw.

Draco shifts a little where he’s standing, eyes flickering from Harry’s face to the floor and then back up again, before eventually meeting Harry’s eyes directly. “Uh, how much do you actually remember from last night?”

Everything, Harry wants to say. “Enough,” he settles for instead.

Draco’s chest falls as he lets out a long, heavy breath that he must have been holding for a while, and Harry is reminded harshly that he is still dressed only in a towel. Draco’s torso is slim and ever so slightly muscled, practically hairless save for the light dusting of hair trailing downwards from his navel, dipping somewhere below his towel. Harry swallows. He wishes he was wearing his glasses. 

“Do you…” Draco starts weakly, but trails off, frowning.

“Do I what? Want to talk about it? Not necessarily, no.” Harry raises his eyebrows and tries to seem totally cool and collected so as not to give away the wild thumping in his chest. “You could come over here, though.”

Draco’s eyes fly wide open and he takes a few shuffling steps forward. “I— Okay.”

The world moves in slow motion for the few painful seconds it takes Draco to cross the room and settle himself at the foot of the bed. Harry immediately leans over to comb a hand through Draco’s hair, still wet from his shower. Draco’s lashes flutter against his rosy cheeks.

“Harry,” he breathes, with an air of desperation. He shudders as Harry brings his fingertips to Draco’s mouth and grazes a tentative thumb over his bottom lip, brilliant and pink.

“Can I kiss you again?”

Draco doesn’t even hesitate when he nods and tilts his head to meet Harry’s lips, their mouths sliding together easily, tongues exploring familiar territory. Draco shuffles up the bed on his knees, careful not to jostle his towel too much. He hovers over Harry’s lap, legs on either side of Harry’s waist, hands cupping Harry’s cheeks then moving down to settle on his shoulders. Harry pulls away and bites his lip to hold back a groan, headache momentarily forgotten.

Draco takes the opportunity to nip at Harry’s jaw, his tongue darting out every so often to soothe the light marks his teeth are undoubtedly leaving behind. Harry’s breath is coming short and sharp, his hands clutching at Draco’s back, shoulders, then at his hair, tangling into the damp strands. Draco presses soft kisses along his collarbone and Harry thinks he actually moans, though he can’t be sure, since the thundering in his head and Draco’s mouth on his skin is making it very difficult to concentrate on anything else.

“Is this okay?” Draco breathes against him.

Harry nods vigorously and tilts Draco’s head up with rough fingers to slide their lips together once again. Draco whimpers into his mouth. He lowers himself onto Harry’s lap properly, and Harry feels his cock stirring in his pants. Draco’s arse is in an extremely compromising position, pressed flush against Harry’s crotch, and Harry doesn’t know if he can take the teasing any longer.

“Draco. What do you want?”

Draco leans back, shifting in Harry’s lap, sending sharp spikes of arousal shooting through Harry’s body. “Anything,” Draco says, his voice hoarse and his eyes dark, and Harry simply can’t resist anymore.

Their lips crash together again, and Harry’s hands find Draco’s delectable arse, squeezing him over his towel. Draco hisses and scrambles to tug Harry’s shirt off over his head. He marvels at Harry’s chest, smoothing his palms over it, flush blotching his neck.

“Why am I not surprised that you're so bloody fit under these godforsaken rags?” Draco waves Harry’s tattered shirt in his face, before flinging it across the room carelessly. Harry chews on his lip.

“Have you really fancied me for years?” Harry finds himself asking, words entirely not his own. Draco stiffens against him for a moment, then lets out a fond laugh and drapes himself over Harry, arms winding around his shoulders.

“Was it not obvious?” Draco smirks and nips at Harry’s neck, startling the breath out of him in a sharp gasp. “Potter did this, Potter said that. Poor Pansy and Blaise were sick to death of hearing about you.”

Harry thinks he sees Draco’s lips curl a bit wistfully at the mention of his friends, but then he shakes his head and he’s back to swirling his tongue against Harry’s neck.

“I just wanted to be your friend at first, you know,” he mumbles into Harry’s skin, shivers coursing down Harry’s spine. “I didn’t always want to pounce on you and fuck the living daylights out of you.”

“You…” Harry swallows. “You wanted to what?”

Draco flicks his hand dismissively, sitting back in Harry’s lap, arse still firmly pressed to Harry’s rapidly hardening cock. “Irrelevant.” Harry thinks it’s quite relevant, actually, but he keeps quiet. “I was so offended, you know. When you declined my friendship. You humiliated me.”

“Well, you were a dick.”

Draco snorts and raises an eyebrow. “They say you are what you eat, right Potter?”

Harry hates that he finds that so fucking attractive. He twitches his hips up against Draco, creating a lovely friction between them that has Draco gasping. “Why don’t you use your arrogant mouth for something other than talking nonsense, Malfoy?”

Draco practically convulses at that, eyes widening and cheeks glowing. “Fuck,” he breathes, and immediately fumbles for the button on Harry’s jeans. Harry’s breath stutters out of him when Draco’s elegant fingers dip below the waistband of his pants.

“Merlin, Draco.”

Draco’s fist curls around Harry’s cock, stroking him firm and slow, the drag of his warm hand sending Harry into a different dimension entirely. He wriggles out of his jeans and pants with the help of Draco’s unoccupied hand, sliding them down to his knees. Draco’s eyes are hooded, trained on Harry’s cock, glittering with arousal. His wrist flicks in just the right way over the head and Harry moans low in his throat.

Then Draco does something absolutely fucking spectacular. He shimmies down Harry’s body and gives Harry’s cock an experimental lick, and all the breath in Harry’s lungs is knocked out of him in one overwhelming whoosh.

“Fuck,” Harry pants, grabbing fistfuls of Draco’s hair. Draco groans and sinks his mouth down onto Harry’s cock all at once, and Harry positively melts back into the mattress.

It’s unbelievable. Harry’s whole body is buzzing, burning, tingling with a fiery heat that shoots bolts of lightning up his spine and down to the tips of his fingers and toes. He definitely hadn’t expected his first blowjob to be from Draco bloody Malfoy, but here he is, in Draco’s bed, with Draco’s wonderful lips wrapped around his aching cock, and he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Draco’s technique is practised, precise — quite perfect, actually — and Harry aches to know just how many times he’s done this before, and with who. Draco sucks Harry’s cock like he wouldn’t want to be doing anything else; like he’s hungry for it, his fingers pressing bruises into Harry’s hips to keep him anchored against the bed.

Harry moans as Draco hollows his cheeks out, bobbing his head faster. “I’m… fuck, so good. I’m close.”

Draco lifts his head, swirling his tongue once more against the head, before moving away entirely. Harry pants and grips the sheets in shaking hands. Sweat pools on his chest and his forehead, and he hasn’t done anything but fucking lie there and let Draco suck him off. Draco smiles down at him affectionately, brushing a hand through his dark mess of hair, dishevelling it even more. Harry blinks, his eyelids heavy, his cock still throbbing against his stomach.

“You okay?”

It takes Harry a moment to comprehend what Draco is asking him, and when his brain finally catches up with his dick, he croaks, “Very okay.”

Draco smirks, smoothing his clammy hands over Harry’s chest, breathing heavily. His lips are red, spit-slick and swollen, and Harry really wants to kiss them, dick-breath be damned. So he does.

Draco makes a little noise of surprise when Harry slides his tongue into his mouth, likely not expecting Harry to want to kiss him anymore. But who is Harry kidding? He’d snog Draco if he’d just had a mouth full of dragon balls. His lips are utterly irresistible. It’s embarrassing, honestly, how obsessed Harry is.

Harry’s hands find Draco’s waist, and he tugs at his towel gingerly. “Can I take this off?”

“Please,” Draco breathes in response, so Harry tears the towel from around Draco’s hips, tosses it somewhere across the room, and marvels down at Draco’s cock as it bobs up against his stomach, hard and leaking. 

“Merlin’s tits.”

“Don’t talk about tits while we’re shagging, Harry.”

Harry laughs despite himself. “We aren’t shagging.”

Draco raises a challenging eyebrow at him. “Not yet.”

And Harry’s stomach contracts painfully. “Are we… are we going to do that?” 

“Only if you want to.” Draco’s eyes flash thoughtfully, then he brushes a few wayward strands of hair from out of Harry’s eyes. “You have had sex before, Harry? Right?”

Harry simply does not reply, feeling his entire face light up like a Christmas tree. Oh, sodding hell. He’d hoped he could have avoided this whole conversation with Draco, but he supposes it was inevitable. He squirms under Draco’s inquisitive gaze.

“Oh christ. You’re a virgin.” But Draco doesn’t sound at all condescending or disgusted like Harry had expected. He just sounds incredulous and fascinated and possibly even more turned on. Harry licks his lips. “Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World,” Draco continues, “The bloody Chosen One. A virgin. You know you could have whoever you wanted, right?”

Harry makes sure Draco sees his gaze rake up and down Draco’s naked body, taking in the sharp angles of his jaw and shoulders, and the curvatures of his arse cheeks settled against Harry’s thighs. “Well, maybe I don’t want to fuck just anyone,” Harry says, tone low, and Draco shivers.

“Have you ever done anything like this?”

Harry hesitates, then, feeling Draco’s reassuring hand settle over his stomach, he shakes his head.

Draco bites his lip. “Not even with Weasley’s sister?”

“Ginny? Merlin, no.” Harry cringes a little at the thought. “She was… we weren’t ready for that. She’s younger than me, anyway. It would have just felt wrong.”

Draco deliberates this for a moment, stroking a teasing finger down Harry’s chest and circling the head of his cock, making him gasp and writhe. “Would it feel wrong if I had you fuck me right now?”

Harry chokes on air. “No, I think that would feel quite the opposite,” he forces out, voice strangled.

Draco chews on his lip some more and wraps a hand back around Harry’s cock, giving it a couple of firm tugs, reducing Harry to a panting mess in only a few seconds. Draco murmurs a spell under his breath and Harry hisses as cool, thick liquid seeps from Draco’s fingers down the length of Harry’s prick. He grabs Draco’s wrist, gazing in wonder down at himself.

“Did you just… conjure lube? Wandlessly?”

Draco shrugs nonchalantly, as if the fact that he can do wandless magic is not incredibly impressive. “It’s a useful spell.”

Harry blinks, slightly dazed. “It’s hot.”

Draco chuckles at that, removing his hand from Harry’s cock. He shimmies forward a little so that their dicks shift together, and they both groan, clutching each other. Draco reaches down to stroke himself for a moment, Harry watching him in awe, then he props himself up on his knees and drags two slick fingers down past his balls. Harry’s eyes widen as Draco pushes both fingers into himself with ease, moaning, sinking down onto them with his lips parted and lashes fluttering.

“Holy fuck. Did you already…?”

“In the shower,” Draco answers, his words just breathless syllables as he fucks himself on his fingers right above Harry, head thrown back, blonde hair now damp with sweat as well as water. Harry runs his hands up Draco’s thighs, mesmerised. He hadn’t really pinned Draco as the kind of guy who fingers himself to get off, but that was before today. That was prior to Harry having this gorgeous scene on display above him, with Draco making these little whimpering noises as he fucks himself. It’s all too much, but entirely not enough. Harry needs to touch; needs to be the cause of Draco’s noises and in control of the way his face scrunches up in pleasure like that. 

So before Draco can add a third digit, Harry lets his own hand wander over to where Draco’s fingers are disappearing inside of himself, applying pressure with one finger experimentally. Draco’s eyes fly open and he falls forward, clutching at the sheets on either side of Harry’s head.

“Harry. Oh Merlin, please.”

Harry doesn’t have to be told twice.

He pushes his index finger past Draco’s rim, relishing in the obscene moan that falls from his mouth, swallowed by Harry’s lips. Their kiss is more of a clash of tongue and teeth and saliva than anything else, but it’s still just as hot and just as brilliant, and Harry doesn’t think he’s ever felt so giddy in his life.

Draco is noisy. That part doesn’t come as a surprise to Harry. He whimpers obscenities with every thrust of their fingers inside of him, and cries out when he hits his own prostate, biting down hard on Harry’s bottom lip.

“Harry, I’m gonna come,” he babbles, burying his face into Harry’s neck, and oh, that sentence makes something hot and dangerous stir deep in Harry’s gut. 

But no. Harry can’t have that. As beautiful as Draco looks all spread out and fucked open above him, he simply can’t ignore the aching of his own cock anymore, painfully hard against his stomach. So he removes his own finger and grabs Draco’s wrist to still his movement. Draco whimpers, attaching his teeth to Harry’s collarbone and biting down lightly.

“Why did you stop, you git?” Draco pants against Harry’s skin, and Harry grins dotingly.

“Still want me to fuck you, Draco?”

Draco’s silver irises drown in the black of his dilated pupils as he rests his forehead against Harry’s, their breaths mingling, warm on each others’ lips. His response to Harry’s question is to lift his hips and wrap a hand around the base of Harry’s cock, lining himself up without any hint of a warning. Harry’s breath stutters out of him.

“Sweet fucking shit,” Draco moans as he sinks down, Harry’s cock stretching him impossibly wider, though he barely seems to notice the burn, if there even is one. His face is contorted in pleasure. Harry’s brain is melting out through his ears. Draco is hot and wet and fucking tight, and oh lord, Harry has never felt anything like this before. Nothing could even remotely compare to this sensation. It’s like a switch has been flipped in Harry’s brain, and all of a sudden he wonders why in the word he likes girls at all when fucking boys feels as good as this.

But perhaps it’s just Draco, and the humiliating effect he has on Harry. At this point, he has simply learnt to accept it.

Draco allows himself some time to adjust as he bottoms out, breathing heavily, digging his perfectly manicured fingernails into Harry’s shoulders.

“How does it feel?” he asks, voice trembling. Harry doesn’t think there are any words in the English language that could accurately describe the sensation of his cock up Draco’s arse, but he gives it a go.

“Feels brilliant.”

Draco hums, the sound strained but content. “Yeah? Feels brilliant for me too.”

“Pass me my glasses.”

“What? Why?” Draco splutters and squirms a little where he’s still seated on Harry’s cock. 

“I want to see you properly,” Harry answers truthfully.

Draco inhales sharply, but reaches across to the bedside table to retrieve Harry’s glasses, positioning them carefully on his nose.

“Alright. How do I look?” Harry can tell Draco means it as a joke, but he can’t help the sincerity of the first word that springs to his mind and rolls off his tongue, its taste pleasant in his mouth.

“Beautiful,” Harry breathes, and it’s the fucking truth. Harry looks up at Draco with a huge, dopey grin, and Draco snorts with a kind of fond amusement, leaning down to capture Harry’s lips with his own.

“Idiot,” he murmurs, then starts to move, and Harry loses every last shred of sanity that he has somehow been clinging to.

Draco lifts himself off Harry’s cock and then snaps his hips back down, hard, and Harry cries out and grinds his own hips up reflexively. Draco’s grip tightens on Harry’s shoulders. He looks like he’s having a difficult time staying upright, sweat beading on his forehead and across his chest like dewdrops. Harry can feel it pooling on the small of his back as he runs his hands up and down Draco’s body, mapping out his bony hips and thin waist with his fingertips. Draco rides his cock, whimpers turning into harsh pants, pink lips parted and eyes glazed over with lust. 

Harry is so close already; he can feel it. It brews in his gut and swirls down into his groin until he’s seeing fireworks flash across his vision and he squeezes Draco’s hips hard enough to leave bruises for days.

“Fuck, fuck, Draco, I can’t—”

“Fuck me, Harry,” Draco hisses, sensing the urgency in Harry’s tone, and hooks his legs around Harry’s waist, flipping them over. Harry is still buried deep inside Draco and he cries out as he finds himself on top of him, Draco already fucking his hips back, fingers curling around Harry’s biceps.

Harry slams into him, their bodies sliding up the bed as Harry throws all logical thought aside and pounds Draco right into the mattress until he’s moaning and scratching at Harry’s back. His fingers thread in Harry’s hair, pulling him down and connecting their lips in a deep and desperate kiss. Harry licks into his mouth and brings a hand down to stroke Draco’s neglected cock.

“Please Harry, just like that,” Draco babbles, letting his body go limp against the sheets. “Don’t stop. Oh fuck. Fucking hell, ahh—”

Draco’s moan is loud and beautiful, resounding in Harry’s ears as Draco falls over the edge and spills across his stomach and into Harry’s hand. Harry looks down at him, utterly spent, head thrown back and eyes scrunched up, and that does it. A delicious heat explodes inside of Harry, his orgasm hitting harder than any he’s ever had before. He keeps fucking into Draco, jaw clenched, riding it out until he’s drained what feels like every fluid in his body out through his dick and Draco is whining softly from the overstimulation. 

Harry’s soul feels as if it has ascended from his body. He pulls out carefully, rolling onto his side next to Draco on top of the destroyed silk sheets, flinging an arm out over his sticky chest. Neither of them bother with a cleaning charm just yet. Draco looks as thoroughly fucked as Harry feels. His dark lashes fan out over pink cheeks, the morning sunlight illuminating his pale skin and rosy lips, his hair glowing soft and golden. Harry cards his fingers through it.

“That was…” Draco begins, then trails off, either too exhausted to continue or simply unable to find the right words. Harry nods without really knowing what he’s agreeing to.

“Perfect?” he suggests. Draco turns and smiles into his neck.

“Better than perfect,” he mumbles.

“That’s impossible.”

“Not with you, apparently.” Then Draco blushes at the sappiness of his own words, while Harry feels his heart soar. “Really, though. That was the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me. What they say about you in the Daily Prophet is true.”

Harry grimaces. The whole Saviour of the Wizarding World thing sure comes with its downsides, including but not limited to the highly exaggerated and often entirely fabricated newspaper articles about him. “You read about me in the Daily Prophet?”

“Only the interesting parts.” Draco puts far too much emphasis on ‘interesting’, wiggling his eyebrows. Harry laughs into his mouth, capturing his wonderful lips in an even more wonderful kiss. Draco pulls away to whisper, “I didn’t know you were such a slut, Harry Potter.”

Harry gives him a good poke in the side, Draco makes a noise that sounds suspiciously close to a squeal, and they fall against each other, buzzing with the high of sex and adoration.

Chapter Text

“Harry James Potter! We’ve been searching everywhere for you!”

Harry has barely taken two steps into the Great Hall before he’s being smothered by his friends’ floundering limbs and worried frowns, Hermione grasping his shoulders and shaking him roughly. Her face is pinched with concern and, to Harry’s vague horror, anger.

“Harry, what on earth were you thinking?”

Harry flinches, entirely unaware of what he has done so terribly wrong to earn himself a scolding from a very flustered Hermione far too early in the morning. He cowers slightly under her intensity just as Ron comes to stand beside her, his expression equally as bewildered. 

“Neville and Seamus told us you didn’t come back last night, mate,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, and Hermione nods vigorously. “And you weren’t there in the morning, either.”

Oh. Right. While he had been busy shagging Draco Malfoy into next week, Harry may have entirely forgotten how overprotective his friends can be. Perhaps getting smashed on Firewhisky and then mysteriously disappearing for several hours wouldn’t be as big of a deal if it had been anyone else, but Harry isn’t just anyone else; he’s Harry sodding Potter, and his name alone ensures that things are never normal for him, whether he bloody well likes it or not. He’s the Boy Who Lived, the sodding Chosen One, the wizard with a shiny, red target on his back and the Dark Lord after his blood since before he could wipe the drool off his chin. Even with Voldemort now vanquished for good, he thinks his friends’ paranoia is quite justified.

So he mutters, “I didn’t mean to alarm anyone,” but nobody seems to hear him over the commotion they’ve stirred up amongst themselves.

“We thought you might have been in trouble, Harry,” Neville prattles on from where he’s perched beside Ron, looking worried but mostly relieved. “Thank Merlin you’re back. Hermione was seconds away from going to McGonagall, and Ron started going on about Malfoy for some reason.” Neville frowns and Harry feels his blood run cold.

“Malfoy? Ron, what—” he starts, but then Hermione is reaching up to poke him in the neck, and all the aforementioned blood drains from Harry’s face.

“Is that a hickey?” Hermione’s mouth is agape with disbelief as her nimble fingers skim the bruises on Harry’s skin that he had entirely forgotten to Heal in his post-sex haze. In fact, he hadn’t even realised they were there. Draco must have made a right mess of his neck this morning, judging by Hermione’s horrified expression. But, then again, when is Hermione not horrified by Harry’s idiocy?

“That’s not just one hickey, mate.” Ron steps forward to inspect Harry’s neck, eyes wide and impressed, and Harry feels an unwanted flush lighting up his cheeks. “Bloody hell! Fancy telling us who did this to you?”

Harry shrugs his friends off and pushes past them to finally take his seat at the eighth year table. Frustration prickles in his gut as the pair of them slide in either side of him, still ogling him as if he’s come down to breakfast in just his pants. Harry clears his throat.

“You guys are being ridiculous. It’s nothing, really.”

“Nothing? That doesn’t look like nothing, mate.” It’s Seamus this time, tucked into place beside Dean opposite Harry, one eyebrow raised. Harry resists the very compelling urge to hex his mouth shut. “You look like you’ve been mauled by a bloody hippogriff. Whoever did that is an animal.”

Harry feels something curl deep in his stomach. He risks a glance over at the end of the table and just catches a pair of grey eyes darting away from his, glinting with amusement. The worst part is, Draco has this irritating smirk on his face that he’s trying (unsuccessfully) to hide behind his Transfiguration textbook. It makes him look all smug and pleased with himself and Harry wishes he could march right over there and throttle him, or perhaps snog him senseless; he’d be quite satisfied with the result of either. 

Draco knew. He knew, and he didn’t think to remind Harry to Heal the sodding bruises. Fucking bastard.

“Harry! Eyes over here.” Hermione snaps her fingers and Harry scowls at her. 

“I’m not a dog, Hermione,” he grumbles, reaching for the pile of toast on the table in front of him and pretending not to feel the intense, silver gaze on the side of his face. “And it was nobody, anyway. Didn’t mean anything.”

The words feel thick on Harry’s tongue, lies clinging to the roof of his mouth with a sour tang. 

“So, like a one-night stand?” Dean chimes in, grinning, and Harry shrugs. He flicks his wand lazily at his plate and his toast begins to butter itself.

“That is ridiculously careless of you, Harry. I hope you used protection.” Harry grimaces and opens his mouth to snap something back at Hermione, but she cuts him off. “ And you were intoxicated, too! Drunken consent is not consent, you should know this. I just hope the poor girl wasn’t drunk as w—”

“Hermione, would you please calm down?” Harry slams his palm down onto the table a little too hard and several pairs of alarmed eyes turn his way. He thinks he sees a head of blonde hair lift curiously out of the corner of his eye, but he might only be imagining it. “I already said it was nothing. It didn’t mean anything, okay? It was just some silly messing about. And even if it was more than that, it’s really none of your business.”

Hermione falls silent and Harry glares down at his freshly buttered toast, suddenly feeling entirely not hungry. Ron mutters something that Harry can’t quite hear over the thrumming of his heart.

A flash of white in Harry’s peripheral vision catches his attention, and he whips his head around in time to see Draco hurrying from the table, textbook abandoned beside his untouched breakfast. He’s wearing just his white shirt and tie, as per Harry's earlier request, after he’d spent about ten minutes convincing Draco that it does look hot on him and no, he’s not just trying to humiliate him. Draco had shoved him and rolled his eyes and then kissed him until Harry had seen sparks dance behind his eyes. But he’d worn the bloody shirt. He’d worn the bloody shirt without his robes because Harry had told him to. And now Harry has gone and complicated things like he always manages to, and Draco might never kiss him like that again.

His stomach sinks as Draco pushes through the heavy wooden doors, rounds a corner, and disappears from view entirely. Surely Draco understands why he’d said all those things? Harry can’t imagine him wanting word to get out about the two of them. But then why had he stormed off after hearing Harry spout such obvious lies? He’s never been much good at lying, but maybe Draco isn’t quite as perceptive as Harry had thought him to be. Or maybe…

Harry swallows down a bout of nausea and his chest flares with the kind of pain that simultaneously soothes him and lights his very core on fire.

Maybe Draco trusts him.

“I’ll be right back,” Harry blurts, without any intention of returning, and promptly ignores Ron and Hermione’s questioning murmurs as he gets to his feet and very nearly sprints towards the door. 

Draco’s stupid long legs have likely carried him halfway across the castle already, so Harry breaks into a run once he’s rounded the corner and jogs off down the corridor. Years of playing Quidditch and vanquishing Dark Lords has assisted in piquing Harry’s fitness, but he still doesn’t have the greatest endurance in the world, so by the time he’s caught up to Draco and his huge, sweeping strides, he’s quite out of breath.

“Draco,” Harry pants, and Draco very pointedly does not look back at him.

“Potter.” The way he says Harry’s name is cold and cutting and entirely too calm. Harry had expected Draco to blow up at him and shout at him a bit about what an arse he is, and then Harry would have shoved him against a wall and snogged him in front of whoever had the pleasure of passing by at that very moment, just to prove that what they have is not nothing.

But Draco glides around another corner in a manner that would be far more elegant if he was wearing his robes, and doesn’t give Harry the time of day.

Harry tries again. “Draco.” And again. And again. He tries several more times to irritate Draco into talking to him, even if it’s just to tell him to piss off or to go fuck himself, because any acknowledgement is better than this blatant disregard for his existence. Yet still, Draco walks on, unresponsive to Harry’s presence at his heels.

With a great, heaving sigh that is just as much to alleviate the burning in his lungs than it is to outwardly express his exasperation, Harry tries one last time. “Draco, come on. Why are you so offended?”

And, by some miracle, this makes Draco stop dead in his tracks. He turns, eyes glinting with something that Harry despairingly realises looks a lot like hurt, and before Harry can even think about drawing his wand in defence, Draco is rounding on him and forcing him back against the cobblestone wall.

“What the fuck,” Harry wheezes, winded, but Draco only scowls and presses his wand into the side of Harry’s neck. Harry certainly doesn’t miss the way his gaze is drawn to the lovebites still scattered across Harry’s skin, and he also doesn’t miss the way Draco’s eyes darken and his tongue darts out briefly to lick over his pretty lips. But then the Malfoy-mask is firmly back in place, and the tip of his wand at Harry’s neck is beginning to dig in uncomfortably.

“What could possibly lead you to assume that I’m offended, Potter?” Draco snarls, although he manages to regain most of his composure and smooth out his features, feigning indifference. Harry can see right through it, and he thinks Draco might know that, too.

“You can’t actually think—”

“What? That our messing about meant anything significant to you?” Draco scoffs somewhat dejectedly. “Of course it didn’t. I’m glad that we are in agreement. Only a fool would think otherwise.”

Harry clenches his jaw. “Draco, you know that’s not what—”

“I suggest you shut it, Potter, before I transfigure those remarkably hideous things you call glasses into a serpent and let it have at you.”

“You will be doing no such thing, Mr Malfoy.”

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen Draco move so quickly in his life. He immediately drops his wand to his side and takes a hasty step away from Harry, eyes wide with the kind of unadulterated fright that Harry has only ever seen plague his face a handful of times in all the years he’s known him. There is a small crowd gathered around them, one that Harry hadn’t even noticed forming, and apparently neither had Draco, judging by his mortified expression.

At the very centre of their little audience stands Professor McGonagall, an alarmingly disappointed frown stretching out her thin lips. Draco visibly gulps.

“Profes— uh, Headmistress. I’m… I wasn’t going to hurt him.” Draco’s voice trembles, and Harry can only watch on in a stunned silence.

“I do hope that you weren’t planning on hurting him, Mr Malfoy, because if you had, we both know that would not end pleasantly for you.” 

McGonagall’s expression is grim, and Harry furrows his brow, a little confused by her words. Surely nothing would come of Draco actually hexing him other than a few harmless detentions. McGonagall is a kindhearted woman and a fair disciplinarian, firmly enforcing house unity among the eighth years and ensuring her opinion on those left in Slytherin house remains unbiased. So what in the world does she mean? 

Harry opens his mouth to ask as much, but McGonagall cuts him off, eyes flickering between the two of them solemnly. “Follow me to my office please, gentlemen.”

And with a quick, sideways glance at each other, Harry and Draco fall into step behind her.

Harry feels a wave of nostalgia at climbing the great spiral staircase and stepping into the Headmaster’s — no, Head mistress’ — office for the first time in far too long. McGonagall gestures for the pair of them to take a seat in front of her desk on the rather cosy looking garnet-red couch, one of her few new additions to the old Headmaster’s office. As if on cue to his thoughts, a single, loud snore echoes throughout the room, and Harry watches fondly as Dumbledore snoozes in his frame above McGonagall’s head. 

“Professor, I really wasn’t going to hurt him. I swear.”

Harry turns to stare at Draco, surprised by his sudden outburst. He’s sitting, rigid, at the very edge of his seat, hands clenched into fists that rest carefully on his knees. His pink lips are drawn into a frown, pointy face almost sickly pale in colour. McGonagall looks over at him too and her own lips quirk into a small, sad — albeit knowing, to Harry’s further confusion — smile.

“I know, Mr Malfoy.”

Draco sinks back against the couch and lets out a shaky breath, his tense form visibly relaxing. Harry watches him thoughtfully.

“But what I would also like to know, gentlemen,” McGonagall begins, smile fading from her face and leaving her stern features creased and sharp in the cool light of the office. “Is what in Merlin’s name provoked Malfoy to round on you in the middle of the corridor in the first place, Potter.”

“What?” Harry splutters, entirely unprepared for McGonagall’s interrogation. “I didn’t do anything.”

Draco scoffs, too quiet for McGonagall to catch, and Harry very nearly rolls his eyes.

“Alright. Well. Maybe I did.” Harry clears his throat. “But with all due respect, Professor, it’s sort of a… well, a personal matter.” He winces as McGonagall’s gaze rakes over him soberly, reminding Harry all too harshly of the marks still littering his neck. He brings a hand up in an attempt to cover them, then promptly realises that would only draw more attention to them, and lowers it back to his lap. Draco shifts uncomfortably on the sofa beside him.

“And what kind of personal matter would this be?” McGonagall clasps her hands on the desk in front of her and leans forward, gaze now growing softer but remaining inquisitive. “Should I be concerned about the way in which you are hoping to resolve it?”

Harry chances a glance over at Draco, only to find him already staring right back at him. They both blush and look away.

“No, Professor,” Draco says to the floor, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m fairly certain we can resolve it ourselves.”

“Civilly,” Harry adds.

“Civilly,” Draco agrees.

McGonagall gives them one more long, scrutinising glare, before placing both her palms flat on her desk and nodding. “Very well. I trust there won’t be anymore incidents similar to that of today. You are dismissed.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Draco says politely, his voice quiet and eyes trained on his shoes. He stands alongside Harry, and the two turn for the door, but not before McGonagall calls, “Potter, my apologies. Just one more thing.”

Harry stops in his tracks and turns on his heel, while Draco scurries from the room, frowning.

“Yes, Professor?”

McGonagall waits for Draco to close the door after him, before standing up behind her desk, hands clasped at the front of her robes. “I’d just like to thank you for your efforts this year to make amends with Draco. Your warmth towards him means more to him than you might think.”

Harry stills, blinking, mouth opening in both astonishment and protest but words struggling to form on his tongue. Where in the world has McGonagall gotten that idea from? Harry is fairly certain he hasn’t shown any obvious warmth to Draco. Not publicly, at least. Not in front of the bloody Headmistress.

“We’re not… I don’t—”

“Whether you’re friends or acquaintances or still adamant enemies, it is very good to see that you’re being civil to one another instead of trying to gauge each other’s eyes out at every chance you get.” McGonagall raises a thin eyebrow. “Aside from today’s incident, of course.”

Harry stifles a snort of amusement with the back of his hand as his heart thumps away loudly in his chest. He isn’t sure exactly how much McGonagall knows of him and Draco’s newly-formed alliance (Friendship? Relationship? At this point, Harry isn’t sure) but he decides it won’t hurt to play along. “I mean, he saved my life, didn’t he? Can't exactly hate him for that.”

“Yes, he did. As you’ve saved his on multiple occasions.” McGonagall smiles. “He’s a very intelligent young man, and I’m sure you’ve noticed how hard he’s trying this year to make up for all of his past wrongdoings.”

Harry frowns. “He’s… I’m sorry, Professor, but what do you mean by that?”

“Hasn’t he told you?” McGonagall walks out from behind her desk, coming to stand in front of Harry. She is several inches shorter than him, and Harry can’t help but think how small and frail she looks when she rests a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Mr Malfoy is on a very short leash this year. One toe out of line and he could be severely punished.”

A swirling dread settles in Harry’s gut. “You mean… expelled?”

“Not expelled, Potter.” Something dark flashes across McGonagall’s pupils and Harry feels himself shiver. “He could be arrested.”

Harry’s eyes widen. He can’t help himself when his voice raises in volume, heart now threatening to leap right out of his throat. “Azkaban? How the bloody hell is that fair? He was cleared of all charges, was he not?”

Harry’s mind drifts back to the front page of the Daily Prophet on the day Lucius Malfoy had been sent off to Azkaban. Draco and his mother had been photographed standing solemnly before the crowd of reporters, their heads held high in spite of the biting insults being thrown their way and the persistent flashing of camera shutters.

DEATH EATER SCUM ROAMS FREE WITHOUT CHARGE, the headline had read in a large, bold font.

Harry had dropped that newspaper face-down onto the counter and busied himself with helping Molly Weasley prepare tea, not wanting to think too much about the way Draco’s broken, silver eyes had flickered with fear behind his impassive mask.

Harry shakes himself from his daze to find McGonagall bowing her head, hand dropping from Harry’s shoulder to her side, seemingly unphased by his previous inappropriate outburst. “Potter, acquitted or not, he was still once a Death Eater. He worked for the Dark Lord. The world doesn’t just brush that aside and move on.”

“He didn’t want to work for Voldemort,” Harry finds himself protesting, despite knowing all too well that McGonagall is right. Rage boils in his gut and bubbles out onto his tongue like firecrackers exploding inside of him. “He was never evil. Not like his father.”

“He was doing evil’s bidding. Perhaps you and I are able to see the young man he truly is, but the Ministry would likely take a little more convincing, especially if he were to set just one foot out of line.” McGonagall’s expression is sympathetic and Harry feels a tad guilty for raising his voice at her. As unjust as the situation may be, Harry knows she doesn’t have the power to do anything about it.

But fucking hell. Azkaban? No wonder Draco had been so quiet and reserved when he’d returned to Hogwarts this year. He obviously knows better than to start any trouble with the imposing threat of ending up in the same place as his father looming over his head like a stark, black stormcloud. The fact that Draco hadn’t made any effort to fight back when he’d been cornered by those seventh years makes a lot of sense now. 

As if reading his mind, McGonagall says, “I am aware that a lot of his peers aren’t particularly fond of him either, and something will be done about that.” She meets his eye and gives a little nod of understanding. “You might be the only person on his side right now, Potter, and I think that means an awful lot to him.”

Harry thinks about that — the way Draco was so hesitant at first to let him help, but had then allowed his mask to slip and for Harry to see the more vulnerable side of him, and just how much trust that must have taken — and he knows that McGonagall is right.

“Thank you, Professor,” he says after a moment, then, softer, “Really. Thanks for telling me this.”

McGonagall gives him a pensive smile. “Of course. Don’t forget that you’re welcome in my office anytime, Harry.”

“Anytime, Harry,” Dumbledore murmurs in his sleep, and shifts in his armchair behind his golden frame.

-

Harry finds Draco in the Astronomy Tower, and to be perfectly honest, he isn’t even sure why he thought to come up here in the first place. Perhaps his feet had carried him here of their own accord, drawn to Draco like a moth to a flame. He certainly feels drawn to Draco, especially when his heart swells and aches against his ribcage at the sight of him crouched on the ground behind the railing, hugging his knees to his chest while his blonde hair whips wildly around his face, jostled by the icy wind.

Harry lets himself watch for a moment. He just stares, captivated by the way Draco’s crisp shirt and light hair and pale skin melt together until he's merely a smudge of white against the horizon, and Harry thinks he looks quite like some kind of beautifully disheveled angel. Harry watches for a moment longer before realising he's been holding his breath, and lets it back out heavily. Draco hears him, turning to look over his shoulder, eyes widening for a moment before returning to their usual silver slits.

“Potter,” Draco greets him, and it’s with none of its earlier coldness. In fact, he sounds surprised and just the slightest bit apprehensive. “Fancy seeing you here. Didn’t dream about me again, did you?”

Draco looks away from him, back out over the breathtaking, green landscape, and Harry can almost sense the smirk on his lips. Harry shuffles forward.

“Are you going to let me explain myself now?”

Draco just barely flinches as Harry lowers himself to the ground beside him.

“No need.” Draco lets his knees fall from his chest, eyes now trained on his lap. “I know that I overreacted before. I've thought about it, and I understand. I guess I just wasn’t expecting it to hurt that much.” Draco laughs dryly, and Harry’s brain feels like it’s being turned inside out because what the fuck?

“What are you on about?”

Draco shrugs dismissively, as if the answer is obvious. “Well, of course you don’t want the whole school knowing you shagged a bloody Death Eater.” Draco’s eyes very pointedly do not leave his lap. “And that’s fair enough. I think the way you acted when we were together just threw me off. It felt…” Draco pauses to chew his lip, and Harry wonders how in the world his tongue has become so dry that he can’t seem to force a single coherent syllable from his agape mouth. “It doesn’t matter how it felt,” Draco finishes with a defeated sigh. “I understand now, though. I do. It’s alright.”

“Draco—”

“And don’t you dare recite the whole ‘you’re not a Death Eater’ speech because Merlin knows I’ve heard that one too many times and I think the Mark on my arm can speak for itself wh—”

Draco’s words dissolve into a little “oh” of surprise when Harry grabs hold of his tie and pulls their lips together. It takes a moment for Draco to actually comprehend what is happening, but then Harry feels him melt into it, and his heart soars right out of his chest.

It’s probably one of the softest kisses they’ve shared; just as passionate as any other, but the physical press of their lips so tender and gentle and feather-light, as if they’re both equally as afraid of scaring away the other.

When Harry pulls back, his hand remains settled on Draco’s cheek, and Draco blinks at him, dazed.

“I… I don’t understand.”

“What’s not to understand?” Harry smiles, and he hopes it comes across as fond and not utterly terrified, but by the way Draco is staring at him, he can tell that he just looks like an idiot. He gathers his thoughts into a somewhat decipherable blur and presses on. “Draco, those things I said at breakfast weren't true, and I’m surprised you haven’t realised that yet, you daft dimbo.”

Draco huffs indignantly, but softens a little when Harry strokes a thumb over the side of his jaw. “Do elaborate, Harry.”

Harry’s heart jumps at Draco’s use of his first name. “There’s hardly anything to elaborate on,” he says truthfully. “I lied to my friends because, first, it seemed the most effective way to shut them up. Second, they don’t know I’m into blokes. And third, I imagined you’d hex me if I told them.”

“Hex you? Why would I hex you?” Draco’s eyes are wide and genuinely shocked, his soft hair falling over his forehead and sweeping the pink of his cheeks. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever looked prettier.

“Well, I suppose you would have hexed me either way. McGonagall really saved my arse back there.” Harry chuckles, and Draco gives him a shove, the hand cradling his face falling back to Harry’s side. 

“I wouldn’t have hurt you,” Draco says earnestly, and Harry’s heart floods with warmth at the fond sparkle in Draco’s eyes. “I just assumed… well, I assumed you were ashamed of what we did. It was foolish of me to think anything else would come of it.”

“That isn’t true at all.” Harry runs a hand through his hair, but he can tell he’s only messing it up even more because Draco tilts his head endearingly at him. “What we did meant a lot to me.”

“I’m ever so glad that we’re on the same page,” Draco says faintly, eyes never leaving Harry’s.

So Harry continues, because the way Draco is looking at him makes him want to lasso the sun and the moon and all of the stars and weave them into Draco’s hair. 

“You mean a lot to me, Draco.” Draco’s eyes go wide. “I want you, and I know that you want me. And I know it’s me and it’s you and we’ve always been a bit complicated but I think it will work.” Harry sucks in a breath and reaches across to entangle his fingers with Draco’s. “I want it to work.”

Draco doesn’t say anything for a long moment. His crystal eyes glisten and his hair glows golden under the soft rays of the morning sun, and Harry briefly wonders why they’ve wasted so many years hating each other when this feels so much easier.

Just when Harry is sure Draco has entirely lost his ability to speak, he breathes,“I want it to work, too,” and then he’s crashing his lips against Harry’s in a kiss that is far more ardent and desperate than their last.

Draco somehow makes his way into Harry’s lap, letting their tongues explore each other, his fingers winding into Harry’s unkempt hair. And when Harry can’t take the teasing anymore, he hauls them both to their feet and drags Draco back to his room.

Harry fucks Draco for the second time before midday, although he doesn’t think it’s really fucking as much as it is making love. And if that’s the sappiest thought Harry has ever had in his life, then good Merlin, sue him, because the only thing he can bring himself to care about right now is the head of blonde hair nestled to his chest and the pale hand dragging soft nails up and down his stomach.

They lay, entangled, as morning melts away into afternoon, and for once, Harry feels as if everything will be okay.

-

“Pass the mash.”

Draco startles for what must be the hundredth time that evening, his tense hand knocking into the side of his untouched plate. Harry raises an eyebrow at him, and Draco very reluctantly flicks his wand at the bowl of mashed potato and hovers it over to Harry. Harry looks at it, then back at Draco’s flushed face, fighting off a smile.

“I meant pass it. Like with your hands.” He gives Draco a soft shove as if to remind him that hands are actually quite useful tools. “I could have done that.”

Draco glowers. “Then why the fuck didn’t you,” he murmurs under his breath, and Harry’s lips betray him, stretching into a very involuntary smile. Draco’s scowl softens.

From across the table, Ron glances between the pair, looking entirely bewildered and just a tad green, then he glares back down at his plate as if it’s the chicken’s fault that Draco Malfoy is eating dinner several feet away from him.

Harry scoops a large helping of mashed potato onto his plate and passes the bowl down to Neville, who is eyeing him warily. In fact, now that Harry is actually paying attention to something other than Draco, he notices quite a few of his peers ogling him as if he’s gone completely mental. Hermione seems to be the only person with an ounce of courtesy and self-respect at the table, because she just fixes him with a shy grin that honestly appears a little too knowing for Harry’s liking, and goes back to eating. Harry is about to internally analyse what that grin could have possibly implied, but then Draco’s elbow knocks softly against his side and his attention is abruptly diverted.

“I think I’m going to go back to my room,” Draco says to him, voice barely above a whisper and trembling just the slightest bit. “I’m awfully tired.”

Harry frowns around a mouthful of potato. “You should eat something first. I don’t think you eat enough. You’re far too thin.”

Draco frowns and doesn’t reply, but he picks up his fork and nudges his vegetables around his plate sulkily. Harry raises his eyebrows, and Draco’s lips twitch. He shovels a small spoonful of peas into his mouth, all the while fixing Harry with those brilliant, silver eyes, and Harry finds himself genuinely unable to tell whether it’s a subtle attempt at flirtation, or if he’s just trying to satisfy Harry’s request so that he can hastily slide away from the judgmental gaze of the entire eighth year table. When Draco carefully licks over his lips and lowers his fork to his plate, still staring into Harry’s very soul, Harry decides it’s a little bit of both.

Ron slams his cutlery down onto the table, effectively severing the tension between Draco and Harry. He leans forward, folding his arms, glaring at Harry as if he’s entirely deluded. “Harry, I have to ask. What the bloody hell is going on?”

Draco swallows down a cough and Harry smirks a little, picturing how red his cheeks are without even needing to look his way. “What do you mean? Nothing is going on.”

Ron gives Draco a very pointed look, and the frail boy cowers back in his seat. “This is just…” Ron trails off, gesturing frantically between the two of them. Harry quirks an eyebrow.

“Would you prefer Draco and I sit somewhere else?”

Ron’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. “Draco and I,” he mimics incredulously, nose scrunching up a little at the use of Draco’s first name. “You two a package deal now or something?”

“Ron, leave it. Please.” Hermione rests a hand on her boyfriend’s shoulder, worrying at her bottom lip. Ron looks down at his plate and does leave it, only because Harry knows he’d do just about anything Hermione asks of him. He thanks Merlin for Hermione’s mere existence, definitely not for the first time.

Draco shifts uncomfortably by his side, and Harry is once again torn from his thoughts.

“Sorry about that,” he says quietly so that Ron doesn’t overhear, not-so-subtly brushing a hand over Draco’s arm. “He’ll warm up to you.”

Draco shrugs and slouches further back in his seat in an obvious attempt to make himself invisible. Harry watches his bewildered features with a kind of amused admiration and wishes he could kiss him right here in front of everyone. He very explicitly remembers Draco’s words about Harry being ashamed of them, and can’t help but wonder if the reason Draco had been so upset when Harry had lied to his friends is because he isn’t afraid of people finding out about them. Maybe he even wants people to know. Harry’s stomach does a peculiar flip. 

Harry can't find it in him to tear his eyes from Draco’s face, pinched with an endearing amount of discomfort and mortification, and when Draco only continues to stare down at his lap, Harry leans towards him.

“You’ve got something right here.”

To Draco’s patent horror, Harry licks his thumb and cups Draco’s cheek to keep his head steady while he swipes his damp finger along Draco’s bottom lip, wiping off an entirely invisible piece of food. Draco goes an alarming shade of red, Ron splutters loudly into his glass, and Harry grins heartily, letting his thumb linger on Draco’s brilliantly pliant lip just to tease him.

“Got it.” Harry winks at a very flustered Draco, then turns back to his food, ignoring the whispers and the stares now burning into him from all angles.

“Bloody hell,” Ron grumbles, and is promptly silenced by a shove from Hermione.

Harry is about to take a rather smug mouthful of mashed potato when he feels a harsh grip on the back of his neck, and all of a sudden his head is being wrenched back around and a pair of sparkling, grey eyes are shooting daggers into his. Harry’s spoon clatters noisily to his plate.

“Draco?” he manages, but then Draco is pressing his lips to Harry’s very softly and very quickly, ruffling his hair a little, and Harry wonders if this is all a strange fever dream after all.

“Still not ashamed?” Draco breathes after he’s pulled away, and Harry is finding it rather difficult to form a coherent sentence in response to Draco’s question. So he ignores his pounding heart and the astounded gasps and shouts from his classmates, and does something that he thinks speaks a lot louder than any of his own words ever could.

Harry kisses him right back.