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Chapter Text

Rarely has Harry thought that he could be more annoyed at someone standing near Draco Malfoy, than at Draco Malfoy himself.

Disdain catches in Harry’s stare as the man across the hall dramatically flicks his hair out of his face. It’s black and it’s clustered with curls, and it’s far too shiny to be natural. Harry hates it. He hates the face it droops onto, the soapy-blue irises unmoving from their target, tan skin adorned with freckles that Harry finds more grisly than endearing. His jawline is sharp, his teeth are perfect, and his hands are slender and large — but his fingernails are too big for his fingers, and that makes Harry feel somewhat better. 

A ridiculous, fat-fingernailed hand lands on Draco Malfoy’s shoulder as the two of them walk into the Great Hall, headed towards the Eighth Year’s table, and far too close for Harry’s liking. The man leans in close to Malfoy’s ear — so close that the blond hair touches his nose, and it almost makes Harry explode.

“You’re staring,” Hermione tells him quietly. 

“I’m not,” he whispers back.

“Quite intensely, actually.”

“Shut up,” he says without malice, and sighs. He rips his eyes away from the two of them, from their grotesque display of public affection, to slam his hands to his face instead. They’re already here, already at the table now, and Harry doesn’t know why — but he hates it. 

There’s something about the pairing that drives him absolutely insane. 

It’s not that they’re both men. Harry has never had an issue with men liking men, or women liking women, not since he knew it was a possibility. He’s been consistently unbothered by the kisses shared between Dean and Seamus, never a thought spared to how inappropriate or revolting it was, because to Harry, it wasn’t. But this — the close, intimate whispers, the familiar shoulder grabs that have been going on for a fortnight now… All of it makes Harry feel physically sick. 

Breakfast has never looked so unappetising.

He pushes his plate away from him, and wonders if it’s because the man is a stranger. And he does mean a literal stranger; it’s been two weeks into term and Harry doesn’t even know the man’s name. He’s quite sure, though apparently trying to convince everybody in the school otherwise, that this random had never been in their year. He likes to think that he could rather confidently name each and every one of their classmates (if given enough time) but he’s never seen this man. In. His. Life. 

It’s keeping him up at night, because nobody else seems to think it’s an issue. When Malfoy and he had walked into the Great Hall on their first day back after Summer, Harry had assumed that he’d found himself a very mature-looking seventh year — but no, he’d even been in the classes that they’d shared together. He’d been spending evenings in the Eighth-Year Common Room, with them, as if it was just a given that he should share the comfortable chair in front of the fire with Malfoy. He’d been sleeping in the eighth year dormitories, for crying out loud, and it hadn’t taken Harry long to discover that the two of them had even been rooming together. How McGonagall allowed it was beyond him. 

“Still staring, mate,” Ron says. Harry only groans in response. He hadn’t even realised he’d been peering through his fingers.

“Perhaps he’s just transferred,” Hermione offers. “He may have done most of his schooling in, say, Beauxbatons. Malfoy can speak French, he may just be helping him settle in; translating, or something.”

Harry turns to look at her. “Malfoy can speak French?” 

She rolls her eyes. “Most of the wealthier pure-blood families can. Parkinson, Zabini and Malfoy all have estates out there. They were talking about going there over the Christmas holidays.” 

“‘Doesn’t matter,” he huffs. “If he’s transferred, then it must have been for a reason. What if he got chucked out? Chucked out for using Dark Magic, or something? And he’s hanging about with Malfoy all the time. They could be…” He trails off. He doesn’t believe it, himself. He knows Malfoy wouldn’t go there again, knows it all too well after seeing his demeanour at his trial. He was done with the Darkness. Mentally and physically.

“I’m sure the Headmistress will be so thankful that she has you to do all of the hard thinking for her,” Hermione says, rolling her eyes. “Harry, I’m saying this because I’m your friend and I love you: leave it alone. ” 

And so, he resolves to. Rarely has Hermione been wrong about anything and he’s smart enough to know that her shortcomings will not start here. He goes about his days, focuses on getting homework in on time, and ignores both Malfoy and the persistent voice in the back of his head telling him not to. 

It’s two weeks into October when for the first time in what feels like forever, Harry sees Malfoy standing by himself. The sun has decided to start setting earlier and earlier, and so the only glow illuminating Malfoy’s face is the fire from the lanterns all along the loggia, the light of the moon hidden away behind the dark clouds. 

Harry’s alone, too. Ron and Hermione had decided to turn in about an hour or two ago, he couldn’t remember, but he had remained in the library until he finished his potions essay. Trying to keep his mind off of the man in front of him had, obviously, completely backfired. 

“Malfoy,” he says, and the man nearly jumps out of his skin. For whatever reason, he relaxes when his eyes land on him and recognition takes their place in them. 

“Potter,” he returns, and folds his arms against his chest. 

Harry could leave it at that. He probably should. But over a month of wondering is piling up all at once and he really just can’t help himself.

He says, “You’re alone.”

It sounds weird. He knows it sounds weird, but he says it anyway, and tries his best to not outwardly cringe afterwards. 

Malfoy rolls his head to look at him. “Yes, I am. Well done, I believe that’s the best observation you’ve made in years.” 

“That’s not true. I've been pretty observant lately,” he tells him. “I’ve noticed you haven’t been by yourself since the start of the year. Where is he?”

The man simply raises an eyebrow. “The lavatory. Is that okay with you?” 

“Er, yeah. I guess. And you’re just standing… Waiting for him?”

“It would hardly be good etiquette to leave when I said I would wait, would it?” Malfoy scoffs. Still irritating, Harry thinks. Still Draco Malfoy. 

It’s that moment that the mystery man returns, eyes narrow and firm on him. He looks… angry, Harry thinks. His mind starts whirring. Is the man just dangerously possessive? He looks towards Malfoy, towards his vaguely uncomfortable expression, and wonders… Is it possible that the man is abusive? 

He decides instantly that any hate he may have held for the man is dissipated. He doesn’t hate him; He despises him. 

“Evening. I’m Harry,” he says to him. He holds out his hand, and the man simply glares at it, his arms remaining at his sides. 

“What do you want with Draco?” he asks him, and Harry can’t help but splutter a laugh. 

“Excuse me? Nothing. We were just talking, if that’s alright with you.” He’s getting worked up, and he’s all too aware of it. It doesn’t help his steadily increasing heart-rate when he sees the man — who still hasn’t introduced himself — take hold of Malfoy’s shoulder and turn him around. The two of them begin to walk away from Harry without another word. 

“You’re a bit old for him, aren’t you?” Harry calls after them. “I don’t know why you’re here, pretending to be in our year, but you look really weird. If, you know, you wanted to know.”

Malfoy keeps walking for a few seconds after the man beside him stops still. He shoots a worried look back at Harry before evidently catching the gaze of the nameless man and shaking his head silently. Half of Harry wants to laugh, wants to dare the creep to turn around and do something to him, say something to his face. The other half of Harry is terrified — though not for himself. For Malfoy. What had he gotten himself into? Would he have been able to prevent this, if he’d said something that first week filled with suspicion?

“It’s none of your business, Potter,” Malfoy tells him. Then Harry sees him step closer to the man again, and he can make out something in his whisper that sounds like, “… not him, Facer! Let’s just…”  

But the man — Facer? — doesn’t seem to want to listen to him. 

“Why are you taking such issue with me, Mr. Potter?” he asks, and Harry can’t help but frown at the formality. He watches Facer turn around, puffing up his chest like he's trying to be some sort of dangerous animal. Harry would find it embarrassing for him, but he’s too busy trying to subtly reach for his wand in the pocket of his robes. Facer continues, “Nobody else in the school has had a problem with my presence. Just you. Although, I’ve been reliably informed that you have a past in following Draco around. Bit of an odd mixture of coincidences there, isn’t it?” 

Harry can only stand and stare at him for a minute. What was he trying to imply? Only one thing comes to Harry’s mind that could make sense of the words, and he can’t even summon the syllables to defend himself properly from it. He can feel heat crawl up his neck to his face, can feel his cheeks begin to glow with shame. It’s one thing for one of his friends to make a joke about it. It’s another for Malfoy’s boyfriend to confront him about it — not that it’s true at all. 

“I…” he starts. His eyes find Malfoy’s, grey and narrowed with confusion, and he can’t seem to find an end to his sentence. 

“That’s what I thought,” Facer grunts, and he’s walking towards him. Harry almost whips out his wand when he hears him say, “We’re heading straight to the Headmistress.”

Harry blinks. “Wait. What?”

Facer takes his arm and starts marching him down the hall, Malfoy stomping along behind them. 

“Let him alone,” he demands. “Facer, would you please be reasonable and listen to me? For once?” 

“Leave it, Draco. The sooner we get him to McGonagall, the sooner I can get out of here.”

Harry frowns at him, yanks his arm out of Facer’s grasp, and withdraws his wand. His aim is purely on the older man, but Malfoy’s expression shows twice the fear. Harry watches him gulp before returning his gaze to the cock-sure man in front of him. He aches for a reason to shoot a spell at him. 

“I wouldn't do that, Mr. Potter,” Facer tells him. There’s a stupid smirk on his stupid face and Harry wants to wipe it off. 

“Tell me what's going on here,” he says, breath heavy with each word. 

“A misunderstanding,” Malfoy answers, his voice somewhat pleading. Harry’s not sure who it’s meant for. “Facer, I told you weeks ago; Potter will have no knowledge of this!” 

“He will, if he’s the one doing it,” Facer spits. “Lower your wand.”

Harry does no such thing. “Doing what? Have no knowledge of what ?” 

“Mr. Potter,” Harry hears from down the hallway, and his heart jumps at once. “Would you please lower your wand?”

Harry does. Not because of any respect for this Facer, but because of his absolute unending respect for Professor McGonagall. He’s sweating as he turns to look at her, his wand now pointed down at his side, but not returned to his pocket. 

“Headmistress,” he says, half in greeting. 

“Headmistress,” Facer echoes. The smirk on his face is gone, replaced by a firm, stern look there instead. “I was just attempting to bring Mr. Potter to you.”

“I can see that,” McGonagall says, stepping closer towards them, a tight anger in her pursed lips and short words. “May I ask you why, exactly?”

“I believe that he —”

“You believe Harry Potter is behind all of this? Might I remind you of all that Harry has done for us, this past year? I might have thought you would give him the benefit of the doubt, at least.”

Facer just blinks at her. “Of course… However, I believed that his behaviour —”

“His behaviour when it comes to our Mr. Malfoy here has never been, what you may call, normal , ” she interrupts, and Harry can feel his face flooding with blood again. Somehow, he still has no idea what’s going on. She continues, “In any case, you have not mentioned anything about Mr. Potter before this. I would have thought you would need more proof than just one night’s behaviour before you could go throwing around allegations like this, Auror Facer.” 

Harry’s head whips around. For whatever reason, he looks at Malfoy first, before focusing back on Facer. “Auror?”

“Headmistress, please, ” Malfoy says, stepping forward for the first time since she’d made herself known. “I told you that I didn’t — I don’t want—”

“I know, Mr. Malfoy. But it seems Mr. Potter has gotten himself involved all over again.”

“Will somebody tell me what’s going on?” Harry asks firmly, meeting Malfoy’s angry gaze.

“You can just never mind your own business, can you?” he hisses. “Why must you insist on sticking your nose—”

“Mr. Malfoy!” McGonagall scolds, and he’s quiet in an instant. She allows a small sigh to escape her lips. “I understand why you didn’t want this. But Mr. Potter has been unfairly accused and I believe he has the right to know what of.” 

Malfoy almost looks like he wants to argue, but doesn’t dare. 

She continues, “We can discuss this, but not here. Auror Facer, Mr. Malfoy, if you would follow me to my office. Mr. Potter, I suggest that you splash your face with some water and calm yourself down. Then, you are permitted to follow us.” 

Malfoy glares daggers at him as the three of them head down the hallway, leaving him by himself. He’s not stupid — he knows that she just wanted an opportunity to speak to Facer and Malfoy alone. There’s so many different questions running through his head that he’s not sure which to wonder about first, but there’s just one thing that keeps rising to the forefront — so they weren’t together? 

Suddenly, Harry’s chest is filled with relief, and it’s the last thing that he should be feeling in this situation but it’s there. It’s there, and he’s furious and confused and he doesn’t know why.

He heads into the bathroom opposite to do as he was told, taking off his glasses before splashing handfuls of water into face. Deep breaths. He can feel the coolness of the water soothe his skin, slowing the rate at which his blood had begun to pump around his body. He stares at his reflection in the mirror and attempts to not worry about why he’s so glad that Facer hadn’t been screwing Malfoy every other night.

When he leaves the bathroom and heads for the office, his skin is dry but his curls are still dripping around his face. He can’t be bothered to spell it away, so he lets it be, droplets trickling onto his temples. Malfoy, of course, notices this immediately. 

“You really had to splash your face, Potter?” he asks as he watches him enter the room. “I don’t understand why you’re so worked up about this.”

“Shut up.” Harry glares at him. At McGonagall’s reproachful look, he adds, “Respectfully.”

Harry elects to stand beside Malfoy instead of Facer, because he’s intent on holding a grudge against him until he finds out what the hell’s going on. In an instant, McGonagall is waving her wand and the rug beneath him turns to an extra seat. He falls into it. 

“Mr. Malfoy has given me permission to disclose the situation to you,” McGonagall tells him, and the begrudgingly is implied. “As long as you give your word that you will not share this with anyone. Not even Ms. Granger, or Mr. Weasley.”

That may be hard. But still, he nods, pretending as if he wasn’t thinking about how to explain everything to the both of them without Hermione shouting at him. 

“Very well.” She clears her throat. Malfoy’s arms are still folded across his chest. “Before term started, in mid-August, I received a rather alarming owl. The contents of the letter it was delivering were, and I do not say this lightly, frightfully violent.”

“Towards you?” Harry gawked. His mind shoots to all sorts of explanations — Had they suspected Malfoy to be the one who had sent the letter? Is that why that had appointed him an Auror, to watch his actions and see that he hasn’t been getting back to his Dark ways? 

With an air of regret, she shakes her head. “Towards Mr. Malfoy.”

He turns to look at Malfoy, who simply shrugs. As if this isn’t a massive deal. 

“As it turns out, I was not the only one to receive a threatening letter. Was I, Mr. Malfoy?”

“No,” Harry hears him answer through gritted teeth. “Though the first of mine arrived later in August. No doubt, they realised they could not get through to the Headmistress and instead went straight to the source.”

“Right,” he says, following so far. “But what were they saying? What did they want?”

“I believe my first letter said that should I return to Hogwarts this year, I should discover the taste of my own larynx,” Malfoy says, and it’s so nonchalant that Harry wants to punch him. 

“Like I said, frightfully violent,” McGonagall hums, worry evident in her furrowed brow. “But Mr. Malfoy was determined to come back to school, despite the threats. I reported it to the Ministry and was able to convince them to allow Auror Facer here to watch over him.”  

“That’s ridiculous,” Harry exclaims. “You had to convince them? There should be a whole enquiry!”

Malfoy snorts. “Why, I never knew you cared so much.” 

“Not because it’s you. Anyone receiving threats like - like that must be properly protected.” 

Facer scowls at him. “He is.”

“What, because you’ve been breathing down his neck every second of the day? To me, it looked like you’re the one he needed protecting from. Talk about bringing more attention to yourself.”

“Oh, and you could do a far better job?” Facer asks, sarcasm leaking through his words. Even Malfoy has to frown at him when he says that, because… Really? Had the man been on a different planet for the last decade? 

“Facer,” McGonagall says. “I would appreciate it if you could show my students some respect. Mr. Potter, the same goes for you. Auror Facer is doing us a favour.” 

“Well, then he doesn’t have to. He’s right. I could do a better job than him.” Harry glares at him, pointedly ignoring the look on Malfoy’s face. He turns to McGonagall. “I mean it, Professor. No offence to the stress Malfoy has been under or anything, but I doubt whoever it is is worse than the Death Eaters.”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “You propose that you take Auror Facer’s position?”

“No,” Malfoy says at once.

“I mean, at least I wouldn’t be throwing accusations about at people for no reason.”

Facer groans. “No reason? You were sniffing about—”

“I was concerned. Not my fault you decided that the best cover was to act like Malfoy’s abusive boyfriend.” 

Malfoy blanches. “ What?” 

“Like I said, bringing more attention to yourself.”

“Oh, and if you were to stay with me just as often, that wouldn’t bring any attention?” Malfoy questions. “If anything, it would bring more. There’s not a chance, Potter.”

“But nobody would think I’d be protecting you. We could just say that… That the Headmistress has decided to make an example of us, for inter-house unity. If we hang around each other, we get a grade boost at the end of the year. Something like that.” 

“Talking of grades,” McGonagall adds. “I am afraid that I must bring up yours. You have been excelling this year, Mr. Potter, but watching over Mr. Malfoy would be a full-time affair. Your grades may suffer. Not to mention the fact that Mr. Malfoy is taking two more NEWTs than yourself; you would be forfeiting your free periods.” 

Malfoy blinks at her. “You cannot be seriously considering —” 

“I don’t care,” Harry interrupts, and points an angry finger at Facer. “And he doesn’t care about doing a good job at protecting Malfoy.”

She releases one long breath. “I must admit, the events of tonight have put me in doubt over how seriously you’re taking this role, Facer. You cannot lash out at each and every person who questions your position here. And to think that Harry would… Well. I would have expected better from you; from a professional.”

Facer stands up, and it’s so quick that it makes both Harry and Malfoy jump. “I understand when I am being dismissed, Minerva,” he says, and it puts a sour taste in Harry’s mouth. “If you think this… Boy can do a better job than myself, then so be it. I will remain a contact at the Ministry for you, and continue the investigation from there. That is, if I’m trusted enough to do so.” 

For a moment, Harry wonders if the Professor is going to ask him to stay. Her wide eyes remain on the man for a few moments before she nods and tells him. “That is appreciated, Facer. Thank you. I shall be mentioning my… gratitude when I next convene with the Minister.”

He nods at her, then Malfoy, and leaves without sparing a single glance at Harry. 

When the door slams shut behind him, McGonagall says, “Well, he was quite rude.”

Malfoy remains in his seat, eyes firm on the desk in front of him, his jaw tightly shut. He says nothing for the rest of the time that they’re in the meeting, offers no commentary on the details of how they’d been intercepting the letters, or examining the handwriting, or why they were so sure it was a student who had been sending them. 

“Oh, of course,” McGonagall says, as their time in her office draws to a close. They're all standing now, heading towards the door. She opens it for them both. “I did mean it when I said that it would be constant surveillance. I imagine that if I tell the elves now, your personal effects shall be moved to Mr. Malfoy’s room by the time you arrive back at the dormitories.”

“Oh,” Harry says, because he had missed that part. Since coming back for their eighth year, students had been sharing a wing all to themselves, on account of how little of them had returned. They had each been rooming with only one other of their classmates, instead of the previous five-to-a-room. Harry had been with Dean, and at least he wouldn’t ask too many questions. Ron would’ve been furious. He clears his throat. “Yeah. No problem. Thank you, Professor.”

“No, thank you, Potter. I think it’s very big of you to put your childhood rivalry aside, like this. We shall use the excuse that you conjured, about inter-house unity. You were right about the attention being brought by the presence of an unknown Auror. Maybe this way, the perpetrator will relax, and you’ll be able to identify them quicker. Really, Harry,” she says kindly. “Thank you. Now, run along, both of you. Mr. Malfoy, look after yourself. I shall see you both tomorrow at breakfast.”

They bid her a polite goodbye and flee her office, walking side by side in silence as they traverse the halls. Once or twice, he debates saying something to the man, maybe even apologising for having to go through this all in the first place. In a way, Harry could understand the anger from whoever it was — Malfoy had done a lot of wrong, and nobody knew that more than Harry. But time went on, and Harry had seen him in those trials. He had seen the regret in his eyes and the tear marks on his cheeks. You couldn’t fake it. Malfoy may be a complete tosser, but Harry would never see him as evil.

He actually goes to open his mouth as they get to the hallway leading to the Eighth-Year Common Room. It’s his last moment to do so before they have to face anyone, or any of their questions. But the breath is taken out of him before he can do so — his back is slammed against the wall, Malfoy’s forearm pinned just beneath his neck. He’s so close — too close, Harry registers blindly, and can’t help but for just a second allow his gaze to dart to the man’s pink lips. 

“I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing here, Potter, but this is my life that you’re doing it with,” he snarls, and he doesn’t let Harry get a word in before he continues. “I don’t care if you’re some kind of junkie for glory, or attention, or maybe just for trying to save people. But I should’ve been the one to decide who was going to do that — not you! You get to decide you’re better than a qualified Auror, and everyone just believes you? The Headmistress thanks you for it?” He shakes his head, malice in his glistening eyes. “If you let me fucking die, Potter, I’m taking you with me.”

If he’d said it nicer, maybe Harry could have seen the error in his ways. If he’d said it nicer, maybe Harry would’ve earnestly apologised. Perhaps promised to do his best to keep him safe. 

Alas, he had said it like a Malfoy. 

Harry scowls, kicks the man in the shin just hard enough to distract him, and flips them around. He doesn’t need to hold Malfoy down, instead slamming his hands on the wall either side of his head. He has no worries about Malfoy fighting him like this, knowing that there’s no fair share of muscle between them. Malfoy’s too thin, anyway — maybe this’ll knock some sense into him to eat more. Besides, the look on his face is filled with enough shock that Harry knows he’s going to stay. 

“Listen to me,” Harry says. “I’m sorry that I didn’t give you a say, okay? But if you think for even a second that I would do this, that I would put your life in danger for some attention?” His stare lingers hard between the two grey eyes in front of him. Malfoy doesn’t avert his gaze, staring right back. “You don’t fucking know me. And you’re not going to die.” 

Harry pushes away from him, heads to the entrance and waits until he hears the sound of following footsteps until he goes inside. The common room is deserted, so he doesn’t have to deal with scrunitising looks or curious questions. When they get to Malfoy’s dorm room — their dorm room, now — his things have indeed been moved in already. 

They don’t exchange another word. They don’t even exchange another look. 

Chapter Text

When Harry wakes up, he forgets where he is. He fully intends on rolling over and saying good morning to Dean, who is usually awake and reading in bed by the time he opens his eyes. That is not what he turns over to find. The bed beside him is empty and aptly made, and when Harry puts his glasses on, he sees a familiar wand laid on the pillow. 

It takes him half a second before the memories flood back, and panic kicks right in. 

“Malfoy?” he calls, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and pushing himself up, his mind still half-asleep, worrying that he’s lost him already. “Malfoy?”

“Here,” he hears, the door to their shared bathroom opening. “Still alive, Potter. That would’ve been your quickest failure yet, wouldn’t it?” 

They lay eyes upon each other and jolt rushes through him; the realisation that it’s the first look they’ve shared since pinning each other against the wall.

“Am I supposed to wake you up before I shower? Or relieve myself?” Malfoy asks, and Harry realises that he’s dressed in his shirt and trousers, only missing his robes and tie, water dripping from his hair onto the white fabric at his shoulders. “Must I ask your permission for every step?”

“What? No,” Harry says. 

It’s only then that Harry notices the pink tinge in Malfoy’s cheeks, probably left over from the shower, when those grey eyes fall down Harry’s body and back again. 

“In any case,” Malfoy says, an odd shake in his voice. “You don’t need my permission to put clothes on.” 

He’d become accustomed, after years of sleeping with just his Gryffindor friends, to feeling unbothered about the state at which he dresses to go to bed. He hadn’t given it a second thought before heading to sleep the night before, either. 

His hands itch to cover himself before he allows himself to wonder what the point would be. It’s not as if he’s naked, after all; just shirtless, his jogger bottoms perhaps a little too low on his hips, but not obscenely so. 

When Harry doesn’t answer, Malfoy adds, “Or to fix the mop that you call hair.”

“Are you going to spend all day staring at me?” he asks, to which Malfoy’s jaw tenses. He stomps over to his bed, his back facing Harry as if to make a point.

When he showers, he accidentally leaves his shirt on his bed so that he has to walk out in just his trousers again. As if to make a point. 

*

“Are we to sit together?” Malfoy asks, the two of them walking down the stairs, again side by side. 

“If we must,” Harry replies. He’s still not sure how to explain the whole situation to his friends. Hermione is always too good at knowing when he’s lying. 

“Well, our table isn’t exactly big, is it? So it’s up to you,” he says. As they reach the entrance to the Great Hall, he adds, “Facer always sat with me.” 

The name, for whatever reason, makes Harry’s blood boil all over again. “Fine. But we’re sitting with my friends, not yours.” 

They’re there before Malfoy has time to argue with him. 

It escapes neither of their notices that the entire eighth year table has fallen completely silent, nor that the majority of the Hall had broken out into whispers as soon as they’d walked in together. The whispers do not begin amongst their own classmates until they’re sitting down together, Hermione on Harry’s left and Justin Finch-Fletchley on Malfoy’s right. Ron blinks at him from across the table and all Harry can do is shake his head, hoping he’ll know that it means it’s all a bit too much for him to explain, right now.

“Morning, Harry,” Dean says from Ron’s right. He spares one curious glance towards Malfoy, before redirecting back to him. “Thought you’d been expelled.” 

“Why would you think that?” Hermione asks.

“Er…” the poor man stumbles, obviously worried that he’d gotten Harry into some trouble. “Well…”

“I didn’t get back to the room last night,” Harry explains. “You’re all going to hear about it sooner or later, anyway. McGonagall has tasked myself and Malfoy with being the face for… Inclusivity, and inter-house friendships.”

Beside him, Malfoy hides a snort. On his other side, he can feel Hermione’s eyes boring into him. 

“You what?” Ron says. “You and him? Friendship? ”

“The appearance of friendship,” Malfoy tells him, lathering a slice of toast with butter. “Don’t get your wand in a knot, Weasley. I’m not going to steal him from you. The Headmistress thought we could inspire younger years to make more friends outside of their own Houses, so here we are. If we do inspire, we get a boost in our grades.” He takes a delicate bite of his toast, chews, and swallows. “Potter is the one who forced me into it, really.”

Harry glares down at him for a moment before turning to nod at his friends. “Seemed pointless not to.”

“And this has to do with you not getting to your room last night, how?” Hermione asks. 

“She told us that we have to room together,” he says, and it doesn’t feel so bad because it’s not really a lie. He looks up at Dean. “Sorry, mate. Fun while it lasted.”

Dean only smiles at him, before his brow furrows, and he asks Malfoy, “Who’s coming to me?”

Malfoy blinks at him. “Sorry?”

“If Harry’s moving to your room, is your roommate not moving to mine?” 

“Oh,” Malfoy says. “No. I wasn’t sharing my room before. Enjoy your solitude.”

Dean’s eyes widen with something akin to excitement before he pushes himself up from the table, mumbling something about having to go and find Seamus at once. 

“Did Mummy and Daddy pay for you to have a private room?” Ron asks, and Harry doesn’t know what to say. That’s not the case, and he knows it — knows that Malfoy wasn’t rooming with anyone because Facer had been in there with him, instead. He opens his mouth to respond, to defend Malfoy because it’s not really fair, even though he doesn’t know what he’s going to say.

But Malfoy beats him to it. “Yes,” he says, and Harry knows he’s lying. He watches Ron sneer before he turns to Malfoy and frowns, a question written on his face. Malfoy simply bites his toast, and doesn’t meet his eyes. 

*

Miraculously, Harry lasts a whole week of both his new sleeping arrangements, and his new schedule. Neither is easier than the other. 

He doesn’t know how the hell Malfoy has been handling it. He’d been struggling enough as it was with his four subjects, let alone six! He’s just lucky that Malfoy had been taking all the same four as he’d been — less lucky that the extra two were Arithmancy and History of Magic. He’d made Malfoy go with him to see McGonagall, begging her that he wouldn’t have to actually sit the NEWTs for them. She’d agreed after an attempt or two at haggling, since he was going to be in the classrooms anyway, but there was no way he’d be able to keep up with it all. 

As a result of the impressive workload, Harry and Malfoy had been spending most of their time in the library. It’s only a benefit in that he doesn’t get behind on his homework, as well as getting Hermione off of his back. Slightly. 

“I just don’t see why you must spend every second with him, Harry,” she whispers to him one afternoon, when Malfoy walks away to find another book. 

“I told you, McGonagall said —” he begins, but she gives him a sharp look that shuts him up instantly. 

“You’re lying! You know I can tell when you lie. Honestly, it’s as if ever since that weird man disappeared, you —” And then she stops, her eyes growing wide. Still too smart for her own good. “The man who was always lingering about Malfoy. You’ve taken over, haven’t you? For whatever he was here for?”

He simply looks at her for a moment, her eyes filled with a mixture of worry and accomplishment — she knows by the look on his face that she’s hit the nail on the head. His gaze slips back down to the half-finished essay in front of him. 

“You’re okay, aren’t you? You’re safe?” she asks. And he tells her most of the truth; it’s a little bit boring, really. 

It’s been the library and bed, and little else. They barely speak to one another in the nights or in classes, and Malfoy has taken to whispering with the Slytherins at mealtimes, the lot of them having to sit a lot closer than the Gryffindors would have liked. There’s little to no interaction between them and Harry’s just fine with that.

It’s Friday when that changes. They’re walking back from another late session in the library, just over a whole week since their arrangement had started. The halls are lonely at this time, practically deserted, and it’s potentially that which makes Harry speak; the complete silence louder somehow than the library had been, no more flicking pages or thumping of books back onto shelves. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Harry asks, and Malfoy actually jumps at the sound of his voice. Again. He needs to stop doing that. 

“Nothing,” Malfoy says. It’s clearly a lie. He’s had a scowl on his face for the last half an hour, and Harry’s bored enough to ask about it. 

“Is it that History of Magic essay I saw you doing?” he pokes. “Looked rough.”

“I’m fine.”

“Oh, yeah. You definitely seem fine,” he huffs. “Come on. I’m meant to be protecting you, aren't I? What if someone hit you with a curse to make you super pissed off, and I missed it? I’d like to know.” 

“Potter, leave me alone.”

“Only if you tell me, Malfoy .”

Malfoy glares at him, but at least he’s looking at him, Harry thinks. He says, “I’ve not been hit with any curse. I have a headache, that’s it.”

Harry squints at him. “Do you want to go see Madam Pomfrey? She’ll give you pain-killing potions.”

“They don’t work,” he says plainly. “I take one, and it just comes back again anyway.”

“Oh,” Harry says. He’s quiet for a moment. Then, “Do you know what causes them?” 

“If they hadn’t begun years before I had you yapping in my ear, I would have guessed you .” He sighs, and a hand goes to his forehead, his eyes closing. “No. I don’t know what causes them.”

Harry frowns at him. “Maybe you just need to drink some more water. Have you had any today?”

Malfoy waves his hand at him dismissively. “It won’t be that.”

“Why? Actually, come to think of it, I haven’t seen you drink anything all week. You barely eat in the Great Hall, too.” 

“Let us not turn this into an intervention, Potter. Besides, I have a cup of tea every morning before you wake up.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “That’s not enough, you know. It’s definitely why your head hurts. Am I going to have to include this in my mission to protect you? Make sure you don’t dehydrate yourself to death?”

“No, and you’re not funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

Malfoy doesn’t reply to that, just slowly rubs his head as they proceed along the corridor. Harry doesn’t suppose he’s helped much with the headache, but he knows he’ll make up for it via forced water consumption. 

“Oh,” Harry says, as they approach one of the men’s restrooms. They’re not far from the dormitories now, but Harry would rather not risk embarrassing himself by sprinting to their en suite. They both pause. “Sorry, I think talking of water… Er, yeah. Just need… Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

Malfoy waves him off and leans against the wall outside the door, as Harry does a weird half-jog to the urinal. He does his business and washes his hands, spelling them dry quickly because he really doesn’t trust the paper towels in the boys’ bathrooms anymore. He looks at himself in the mirror as he turns off the tap, and quickly attempts to flatten his hair at that odd spot in the back. It doesn’t work. He’s quite unsure as to why he still tries. 

He’s just readjusting the way his glasses are sitting on his nose when he hears it; a thud and a gasp, like all of the air has been forced out of someone. For a split second, he thinks he’s just hearing things, but his feet move anyway. His sprint to the door is punctuated with the realisation that it was not just his paranoia playing tricks on him; Malfoy is barely visible when he exits through the door to the toilets, just his vibrant head of hair peeking out above a shoulder. Whoever the person may be, they’re tall, Harry notes, their body covering Malfoy’s entire six foot and, less impressively, skinny stature. They have Malfoy pinned against the wall Harry had left him at, and he’s pulling out his wand before he can think of what to do with it.

“Get off of me!” Malfoy demands, his cheek rubbing roughly against the stone. 

“Not likely,” the person says. He continues to ask, “What right does a Death Eater have to tell me what to do?” and his voice cracks halfway through the sentence. Harry’s been more intimidated.

“You heard him,” Harry says, trying his best at keeping his voice from betraying his anger. “Step the fuck away.”

“Harry Potter,” the boy says breathily — and when Harry sees his face as he turns around, he realises that it really is a boy. A tall boy, true, but still a boy, a Ravenclaw. He can’t be older than fifteen — just with very mighty genes. He hadn’t been holding his wand.

Harry keeps his own aimed at him, and nods. “I said, step away.”

The boy does so, and Harry realises that he’s been bending Malfoy’s arm behind his back. 

“I wasn’t going to actually hurt him,” he says, holding up his hands. “But he can’t just be here! The things that he’s done… Everyone’s thinking it!”

“I’m not,” Harry tells him, and lets his eyes linger on Malfoy for a second. “Are you okay?”

Malfoy nods, but he’s caressing his arm in such a way that Harry knows it’s aching. There’s an echo of nostalgia that comes to the forefront of his mind — the image of a younger him, rolling on the floor in agony, boasting about his injury for days. Now, he won’t even admit a headache. 

“Is it you who’s been sending the letters?” Harry asks, because even though he doubts it, he knows he must. 

The boy’s face twists into confusion. “Letters? No. What letters?” 

And Harry believes his ignorance. He takes a few steps, positioning himself between the two of them, Malfoy behind him. His wand still raised, he asks, “What’s your name?”

“Lucas Quilling,” he says quietly. Then his expression turns once again, glaring at Malfoy over Harry’s shoulder. “His Father Imperio’d mine into signing over my mother’s heirlooms. We still don’t have those back, you know!”

Harry resists the urge to peer over his shoulder and gauge Malfoy’s reaction, but he doesn’t. He has a feeling that if he did, it wouldn’t be malice that he would find, but shame. 

“Get a visiting pass to Azkaban and go break Lucius’ arm, then. Not Draco’s.” He lowers his wand, holding out instead his other hand, palm up and open. He commands, “Give me your wand.”

“What?!”

“Give me your wand,” he demands again. “Or I’ll take it from you. Give it to me, and you can get it back after you take yourself to the Headmistress. I’d take you myself, but I’d like to get Draco to the Hospital Wing.”

It’s with extreme hesitance, but the boy does as he’s told. He places his wand into Harry’s hand and watches with dismay as he pockets it, a collateral that Harry probably didn’t need to take. He’s going to send a Patronus to make sure that he goes, anyway. But there’s another flame ignited in his veins — an anger that seems to only come alive when Malfoy is involved. 

He watches the boy traipse away in the direction of the Headmistress’ office. If not the perpetrator of the letters, which Harry is quite sure he isn’t, because that would be just too easy for him and his difficult life, then he still needs to be punished for attacking a student. He wonders what that stupid Facer would’ve done; shoot first and ask questions later?

He whips around to Malfoy, stepping closer than probably necessary. “Are you okay?” he asks again.

“Fine,” Malfoy lies, but he doesn’t step away. “I don’t need Pomfrey. Let her rest; it’s late.”

“That woman doesn’t know what rest is,” Harry mumbles, putting away his wand and squinting at the small beads of blood pooling up from the grazes on his cheek. Harry moves without thinking, his fingers gently taking hold of Malfoy’s chin and tilting his head to the side for a better look. “You’re bleeding,” he says, and it’s almost a whisper. 

There’s a few beats of nothing but breath between them, and Harry feels a pang of guilt as he sees the aforementioned cheek turn from pale to a dusted pink. He must be embarrassed, what with his new humility and avoidance towards attention. 

Eventually, Malfoy clears his throat and steps away. “I’m honestly okay. Not dead.” 

“Your arm definitely needs looking at. I would try, but I’ve never been great at healing stuff. That was always Hermione’s forte.”

“I believe everything was more Granger’s forte, rather than yours.”

“Hey! Not true,” Harry defends. “I’m definitely better at flying.”

Malfoy chuckles. “Perhaps I could give you that.”

“But seriously,” Harry says, now taking Malfoy’s elbow, watching him wince. “You can’t even — We’re going. Now.”

“No!” Malfoy says quickly. “Please. Let’s not go to Pomfrey. If Granger is as good as you say she is, then- then I will ask her politely tomorrow morning if she can see to my arm. But let’s not go to the Hospital Wing.”

Harry frowns at him, a million questions threatening to spill from his lips. With reluctance, they start walking again, heading towards the Common Room. Malfoy clutches his arm close to his chest, eyes fixated on the ground beneath his moving feet. Harry doesn’t ask any of the questions that he wants.

When they get back, the Common Room is not as deserted as they would have liked, despite the time. A group of the Slytherins jump up as they enter, Pansy Parkinson at the forefront. 

“Draco!” she gasps, as the three of them take in his appearance. Behind her are Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott, all of them displaying nothing but concern in their expressions. 

For a split second, Harry thinks that Malfoy intends to stay hidden behind him, but he doesn’t. He steps towards them with a roll of his eyes, telling them, “I’m absolutely fine. ”

“What’s happened?” Zabini asks. “You’re hurt.” 

Harry can feel Nott’s narrowed eyes hone in on him, and scoffs when the man asks, “What did you do?”

“Potter did nothing,” Malfoy tells them. “It was that gargantuan Quilling boy. You know, Seraphina Fawley’s nephew.”

“That prat!” Parkinson exclaims. “Oh, don’t worry, Draco. I’ll tell my Father, he’ll knock some sense into that family.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” Malfoy glares at her. “That’ll hardly make things better.”

“Why are you back here?” Nott asks. “Potter didn’t have the sense to take you to the Hospital Wing?”

Harry doesn’t see sense in defending himself. He stands back, leans against the wall and simply watches, waiting to hear Malfoy’s excuse. 

“I don’t need to go, don’t be ridiculous.”

“I don’t believe you. You’ve broken your arm, haven’t you?” Zabini says.

“And Draco, your beautiful face… Oh, you’ll bruise.” Parkinson frowns. “You can’t still be avoiding Pomfrey. She’ll have your hide, you know.”

Malfoy scoffs. “Merlin, will everyone please get off my back? It was bad enough when it was just Potter. I’m retiring,” he says abruptly, turning back to Harry. “Are you coming?”

Harry nods, ignoring the scowls from the boys and the concerned quirk of Pansy Parkinson’s brow. He follows Malfoy up the stairs to their room, the girl’s eyes burning a hole into his back as they go. He can’t help but linger on what she had said about Pomfrey, his mind whirring with possibilities and reasons, each as unlikely as the last.

Once they reach their room, they go about their evening in silence. They brush their teeth in succession, Harry taking the time that Malfoy took in the bathroom to send McGonagall his Patronus. By the time he’s done, he’s only just changing into his pyjama bottoms and stripping himself of his shirt as Malfoy leaves the bathroom. They get into their beds, and Harry waves his wand to dim the lights in the room. He’s just laying down into the warmth of his pillow when Malfoy speaks.

“Go on,” he says into the darkness. “You’re itching to ask me. So get on with it.”

Harry stares at the ceiling of his four-poster, his glasses still on his face. He resists the urge to turn his head to peer at the man. “Are you going to answer me?”

There’s a beat of silence. “No. But either way, it may at least stop your obsessing on how to go about it.”

Harry, despite himself — despite the answer he’s given, finds himself laughing. “And what if what I wanted to ask was whether you were having a secret love-affair with Madam Pomfrey?” 

For a second, Harry worries if he’s become too familiar. Then there’s a rustle of sheets, and a pillow hits Harry smack in the middle of his stomach, summoning an “ oof!” sound before he throws it onto the floor. He takes his glasses off and lays back down again, his heart - for whatever reason - thumping in his chest. 

He’s almost completely asleep when there’s another break in the silence of the room. Softly, so soft that it’s barely inaudible, Harry hears Malfoy speak again.

“Potter?” 

Harry subconsciously grasps a handful of the duvet and whispers back, “Yes?”

“I… Appreciate what you did with Quilling,” Malfoy says, an almost imperceptible shake in his voice. “It was… Well executed.”

Harry smiles. “You’re welcome, Malfoy.”

He can’t seem to get to sleep for a long while, after that. 

*

The morning after, Malfoy remains in their room whilst Harry rushes to find Hermione, hoping to have gotten to her before she’d headed down to breakfast. Thankfully, she’s in her room — though she’s less than happy to have to rush to Harry’s bedroom without explanation. 

“Just tell me, Harry,” she complains. “It can’t be that bad, or you’d’ve —”

“Hermione, please. You’re not exactly my first choice, either, but for whatever reason… Listen, he’s being stubborn.” 

They enter the room and lay eyes upon Malfoy, sitting poised at the edge of his bed, his shirt only half-done up. His arm is at an odd angle, but without clothes Harry can see a blossom of bruises that had formed overnight. Here, Harry can see something far more worrying. Something that summons guilt to the back of his throat like bile. 

His chest is only half-visible but there’s enough skin on show to see it; one long, sharp scar turned a dusty lilac through time. Alongside it, other smaller scars from the same making. His breath is caught in his throat. 

Malfoy’s face, when Harry manages to pull his eyes away from his torso, is furious. The glare he gives Harry is thunderous, his brow downturned, as if daring him to mention it. He doesn’t.

“Granger,” he greets, his tone sharp but polite. “Please excuse my state of dress; I couldn’t manage to get into my shirt with my arm.”

“No… Problem,” Hermione says softly. Her wide gaze shifts to Harry for a moment before she closes the door behind them, pulling out her wand. “May I ask what happened?”

“An encounter with a friend of the family,” Malfoy says shortly. “He caught me off-guard.”

Harry finally finds his feet again once Hermione starts to look at his arm, wincing at each hiss of pain Malfoy releases. He clears his throat, rips his eyes away from his chest, and wonders why he can’t feel his hands. 

“I’ll do my best,” Hermione tells him. “I really do recommend the Hospi—”

“I know,” Malfoy interrupts. “But I’ve been reliably informed of your abilities in healing. I needn’t bother them down there.” 

Harry and Hermione exchange a look. He can only shrug, because he knows no more than she does. Reluctantly, she gets to work, finding the breakage and performing the spell to fix it in a far more timely and precise manner than Harry would have managed. Malfoy gasps as it’s fixed and then wastes no time pulling his shirt on, doing his buttons up at once. 

“I suggest not moving it too much,” Hermione tells him. “You should really wear a sling, at least for a few days.” 

“That’s quite alright. I’ll live,” he says, standing up and flattening his shirt. “Thank you, Granger.”

She nods at him, stunned by his words. Harry can’t blame her — He hadn’t even been able to get a thank you for fighting off Quilling. 

“I can tend to my cheek, so we shan’t keep you any longer.” He heads to the door, opening it for her. “I’m sure we’ll see you at breakfast.” 

“Of course,” Hermione responds, catching Harry’s eye again before heading out of the door. 

Harry opens his mouth. To say what, he’s not sure — potentially apologise, potentially tell him he didn’t know that it had scarred. It doesn’t matter. Malfoy shuts the door and takes one step closer to him, eyes alight with fury. 

“Whatever you want to say, I don’t want to hear it,” he tells him sharply. “I don’t want your pity, and I definitely don’t need it.”

He is left standing alone as Malfoy goes to inspect his cheek in the mirror. Any warmth in his chest left over from the night before slowly dissipates. 

Chapter Text

As the week goes by, Malfoy starts to settle again. Once he’s sure that Harry isn’t going to do anything as offensive as apologising, he restarts their short exchanges of friendly conversation in the mornings and evenings, their small talk on their way to classes. 

That is, until Harry gives him a gift. 

“What is this,” Malfoy deadpans one morning. 

“A present,” Harry tells him. 

He’s simply given a few blinks. Then, “You are aware that it’s Hallowe’en this weekend, not Christmas?”

“Yes.” Harry rolls his eyes. “Just open it. It’s not a ring.”

“I should hope not,” he says, and takes it out of its wrapping. He holds it in one hand, frowning at it. “And this is…”

Harry smiles. “A water bottle. It’s Muggle-made. It’s like a flask, but just for water. This way, you can carry it around with you and have portable water, not just at mealtimes.”

Malfoy’s fingers twitch around it, then relax. His eyes find Harry’s again. “It’s very… Red.”

“Thought that was your favourite colour?” Harry smirks, and he walks a few steps away, not leaving room in the conversation for gratitude. 

Malfoy uses the bottle. In fact, he takes it everywhere with him, and finds its new home in his bag along with his school books. He sips at it through the corridors and throughout lessons, and Harry has to hold back self-satisfied smiles. 

It’s Friday lunchtime when Seamus slams himself down the table, scaring the living daylights out of Ron, next to him. 

“I have a grand idea,” Seamus tells them all. “But we’d better work fast at getting the word out.” 

Harry shares an amused glance with Ron and Hermione before turning to do the same with Malfoy, who sips at his water and raises an eyebrow. 

Seamus’ big idea, it turns out, is a party. Specifically a Hallowe’en party taking place the very next day. It would be a waste, he claimed, to have Hallowe’en on a Saturday and not make full use of it. Besides — the Eighth Years are all old enough to drink. 

“Shall we go?” he asks Malfoy in the midst of Seamus’ rant. “Reckon it would be fun.” 

He looks back at him, grey eyes showing an internal debate. Harry wonders if he’s pondering the same thing that he is — Would the other Slytherins be going? If he said no, would Harry risk leaving him shut up in their room for a whole evening? 

Harry watches as he turns to the Slytherins, hears his faint voice ask, “…What harm would it do?” and smiles to himself. Bring on the butterbeer.

*

As it turns out, Harry should’ve been prepared for more than just butterbeer. Hallowe’en night shows the Room of Requirement a far stronger variety of drink, both Muggle and Magical. Some of the Eighth-Years with muggle parents had snuck in the likes of vodka and rum. Some of the others had slipped Aberforth a hefty sum in exchange for a few bottles and his word that he wouldn’t tell the Headmistress. 

Being as it was organised so late, nobody was wearing costumes, which suited Harry just fine. Seamus had been scandalised, saying that that was what Hallowe’en was all about, but ultimately was overruled. It wasn’t important at all, in Harry’s opinion — though he did have a chuckle to himself, imagining what Malfoy would have ended up dressing in. He couldn’t picture the man in a costume at all, the concept probably far too undignified for a man of his calibre. 

They’d both decided to not get too squiffy tonight, if they could help it. Harry didn’t want anything happening to Malfoy whilst he was too drunk to notice it, and apparently, Malfoy was a damn sight awful at holding his liquor, anyway. Relief and regret battled in Harry’s mind when he had heard him say that; it would be far easier to keep track of a Malfoy that was sober, but far, far funnier to see a Malfoy that was pissed out of his mind. 

He had laid in bed that Friday night and wondered until he fell asleep about the kind of drunk the man would be. Harry really hadn’t had so much experience with it so as to be an expert; they had all had one particularly heavy night on Harry’s eighteenth birthday, a celebration to couple the end of all the funerals. Which one of his friends would he most be like? Hermione had rambled on and on like her usual self, though far less embarrassed about topics that she would usually stray from. Ron had sung — loudly and horrifically. Ginny had fallen asleep before midnight. Harry had become woefully happy and talkative, interested in the odd topics that Hermione was bringing up, ones which he’d usually tune out for. 

He had turned his head into his pillow, facing Malfoy’s sleeping form in the bed next to his own, and continued to ponder. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if Malfoy was an emotional drunk, he had thought to himself. He knew that Molly was the same; one too many drinks and she’d cry over the way your hair flopped in your eyes. He rather thought Malfoy would relate to that, in an odd sense. Harry had the feeling that he was someone who held and bottled far too many emotions for his own good.

They’d made sure to rest well and, when finally making it down to breakfast, joined the rest of the year in lining their stomachs for the night ahead. The rest of them apart from Pansy Parkinson, that was, who declared the rest of them stupid whilst picking at a tangerine. “What’s the point in drinking if you don’t get drunk quickly?” she had said, and though several others tried, Harry didn’t see a point in trying to convince her how much she’d regret that. 

And so there they now stand, the door to the Room of Requirement closing behind them, orange and black decorating the whole room. Table after table line one side of the room, adorned with snacks, and further along, empty cups for everyone to use, as well as a large jug of water. Harry’s sure that it’ll be desperately needed, soon enough.

Indistinct music begins to play from the walls as people crowd around the snacks and the cups, eager to dig into the alcohol. He hadn’t exactly planned on what he’d be drinking, but knew that whatever he ended up choosing, he’d better stick to it. He’d heard enough horror stories from his elders to act differently. 

“What’re you drinking?” Harry asks, turning to the man that has a permanent spot by his side, these days. 

Whilst getting ready, Harry had been under the impression that Malfoy had overdressed for the occasion; his long-sleeved white shirt was probably more expensive than anything that Harry owned, and his trousers had so obviously been tailored to his exact measurements that Harry had to force himself to look away, clearly too caught up in wondering the logistics of such a tight fit. The man even had on a dark green waistcoat. However, when they had gone down to the Common Room, Harry had realised that it may be him that was under dressed. He had simply rolled his eyes when Malfoy raised an eyebrow at him and asked, “That’s what you’re wearing?” but upon seeing the others, he thought it wasn’t too far-fetched a question. The Slytherins were all dressed to the nines, but even Hermione had dressed up and done her hair; Seamus was wearing dress trousers; Justin Finch-Fletchley was wearing a dicky bow and Zacharias Smith had on a suit jacket! At least when he saw Ron, he knew that he wasn’t alone, the two of them being the only ones wearing jeans and a semi-fitted top. Who cares, he’d thought to himself, they’d defeated Voldemort, they can wear what they want.  

“I don’t know,” Malfoy says. “Get me whatever you’re having.”

Half-debating not getting him anything, because he could have phrased that in a far more polite way, Harry rolls his eyes before heading over to the drinks and leaves Malfoy to compliment Parkinson on her dress. It’s a nice dress, Harry supposes as he shoots a look back at the two of them, and the green on it matches Malfoy’s waistcoat exactly. He wonders if they’d planned that. 

“Alright, Harry,” Seamus says with a grin. “Just keeping some order to the place, so I’m acting as temporary barkeep. What can I get you?”

Harry snorts. “Er, two vodka cokes, please.”

“Five galleons, that.” Seamus winks at him, pouring the drinks as asked. “Malfoy’s got you running around doing his business for you, has he?”

He can only sigh, knowing how stupid he looks. “Give over,” he tells him, before walking back over to the man and handing him his drink. 

Parkinson’s eyes rake his outfit. “Lovely to see how much effort you put in, Potter.”

“I was telling him exactly that,” Malfoy says, taking a sip of the drink and raising his eyebrows. “What is this?”

“Vodka,” Harry supplies. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Vod-ka,” Malfoy hums. “Is that Muggle?”

“Yeah. Don’t pour it away, though. If you don’t want it, I’ll have it.”

Malfoy’s face falls for just a second, and his otherwise interested expression turns quickly to a glare. “Of course, I’ll drink it. Why don’t you fuck off and go talk to your actual friends.” 

And so Harry does, trying not to feel too bad about the exchange, even as Parkinson whisks the man away, saying something like, “ Absolutely unbelievable!” because is it, really? Harry knows realistically that Malfoy has changed — Hell, accepting Hermione’s help and even thanking her for it was proof enough of that. But could someone really overcome years of growing up prejudiced, that quickly? 

He pushes it out of his mind as he mingles with Ron and Hermione, sipping at his drink until it’s empty. His eyes seek out Malfoy every five minutes or so, just to be sure that he’s still here, still within reach. Every time he looks, he’s still captured in a conversation with Parkinson, one leg crossed over the other, arm resting on his knee, cup dangling from his fingers. 

Are they together, Harry can’t help but wonder? It would explain why Parkinson had been glaring at him at every other moment of the day. If he was still with Ginny, he doubts that she would be overjoyed with their arrangement. The complete lack of privacy is less than convenient for any kind of relationship. But at the same time, when he thinks of it now, it doesn’t seem very… Likely. He’d readily thought of Malfoy in a relationship with Facer without so much as a second glance. Perhaps he had been entirely, entirely wrong. 

He watches Parkinson lean in, whispering into Malfoy’s ear with her burgundy lips. He watches Malfoy shove her gently, shaking his head with a smile. Perhaps…

“Are Malfoy and Parkinson together?” he asks aloud. It only occurs to him when he sees the surprised expressions on his friends’ faces that he may have completely interrupted one of their sentences. 

“Er,” Ron says, giving him a sheepish laugh. “I don’t know, mate. Thought you would, if anyone.”

“Sorry,” Harry says quickly. “Just, they look cozy over there. I was wondering.”

“Not long ago, you thought he was with that man,” Hermione points out unhelpfully.

“Okay, and I was wrong. I’m just wondering.”

“Blimey, Harry. You can’t just think anyone sniffing around Malfoy is shagging him,” Ron laughs, and shoves another handful of crisps into his mouth. “What would that say about you?”

Hermione’s gaze turns to Ron reproachfully, though a dusting of pink settles over her cheekbones. Harry, on the other hand, feels his entire face fill with blood. From disgust, of course. Obviously.

“Ugh!” he exclaims. “Don’t even joke about that, Ron.”

It’s that moment that Dean and Seamus decide to join them, eyebrows raised. Dean asks, “Joke about what?”

Harry shoots him a warning look, and Ron simply raises his hands in surrender, almost dropping his drink whilst doing so.

“Whatever it is, I’m sure it won’t stay a secret for long.” Seamus smirks, and it makes Harry feel distinctly uneasy. He watches the man turn to the room, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Everyone! Refill your drinks, we’re going to play a game! You either join, or you’re a coward!”

There’s a rumble as people begin to whisper to each other, a shared questioning of the game. They all follow Seamus to sit down in a circle, their cups now filled again with alcohol, and Harry ends up in between Ron and Padma. Thankfully, right across from him is Malfoy, giving him a good view. For protection. 

“Right!” Seamus shouts, honing the attention of the room back to himself as he rubs his hands together, his drink on the ground in front of him. “Has everyone here heard of truth or dare?”

There’s a chorus of positive grunts, but some pure-blood shaking of heads. 

“No worries!” he continues. “It’s basically what it says on the tin. Somebody asks you to choose between answering a truth or doing a dare. If you forgo answering or doing the dare, you have to drink. Got it?” 

Harry nods alongside everyone else. Beside him, Ron is chuckling, “This’ll be fun.”

“Hope you’ll all appreciate my own twist on this,” Seamus continues ominously. “If you’d like to try and lie when answering a truth, go ahead. See what happens.”

For whatever reason, Harry seeks out Malfoy’s gaze, at that. He’s already looking at him. Neither of them look away with haste, so Harry raises his drink in a faux cheers . Malfoy simply sneers back at him, still clearly stung by their earlier interaction, but takes a long glug of his drink. 

“I’ll start, shall I? Seems polite,” Seamus says. “Dean, truth or dare?”

Dean blinks at him awkwardly. “Er, truth.”

“Who’s a better kisser: me or Ginny?” he asks, and it’s like he’s been banking it up. He leans his chin on his fist, his expression innocent as he waits for the answer. 

Ginny’s not in the room, thankfully. If she was, Harry supposes that Dean would have had a far tougher time with that question. As it is, he simply laughs, covering his mouth with his hand, shaking his head. 

“You are, you bastard,” he says at last. “But please, don’t anyone tell her I said that. I beg you!”

The circle laughs, though Harry has the distinct feeling that this wasn’t the start that Ron had thought would be such fun. He goes a bit pale next to him, and quickly throws back his drink — probably to get the image out of his head — before tapping his wand to it, refilling it at once. 

The game continues like that, relatively normal truths being given until Ron decides to be the first one to choose dare — stating that he’ll “Be a real Gryffindor if none of the rest of you want to!”

Unfortunately, it’s Neville who must give him the dare, and he takes about five minutes deciding on a good one. 

“Come on, Longbottom!” Parkinson groans. “This was actually fun until now. Just tell him to strip, or something.”

Ron’s eyes almost bulge out of his head. “Eh?!”

“Eugh, Pans,” Malfoy scolds. “Why on Earth would you want to see that?!”

Perhaps he’s jealous, Harry thinks. Jealous that his girlfriend would ask to see somebody else like that. Harry knows that he would be jealous, if Ginny had said something like that when they were together. Either way, Harry definitely didn’t want to see that, either.

“Er, okay,” Neville gulps. “Ron, I dare you to take your top off.”

Small giggles erupt from the girls around the group, including from Hermione, who doesn’t seem at all too bothered about the fact that people want to see her boyfriend undressed. Ron sits in embarrassment, his freckled face flushing bright red. 

“Go on, Weasley,” Zabini says, sandwiching Malfoy between himself and Parkinson. “What happened to all of that Gryffindor confidence?”

Harry hides a laugh behind his cup, sipping on it to avoid the glare from his friend. Ron sighs, cursing under his breath, before giving in and doing it — whipping his shirt over his head and holding it in his lap. At once, there’s cheers from most of the room, laughter from the others, a few wolf-whistles here and there. Harry finds himself looking over at the Slytherins again, Parkinson whispering something again into Malfoy’s ear. He watches those grey eyes roam over Ron’s naked torso before turning back to her, whispering something right back, minutely shaking his head. 

“Don’t know why you’re laughing so much, Harry,” Ron says pointedly, his cheeks still aflame. “Truth or dare?”

Harry finishes his drink, tapping his wand to the cup in the same way that Ron had done. He gulps it down, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and answers, “Dare,” because he’s a goddamn Gryffindor, too.

Ron doesn’t bother to hide his grin. He takes a swig, even cracks his knuckles before he says it. Harry’s not too worried, because he’s his best friend, after all. And then he says it. 

The tosser. 

“I dare you to hug Malfoy.”

The laughs break out again. Harry just stares at him, jaw locked, because really? Out of everything — out of every dare in the world that Ron could have chosen for him, he chose this ? 

A glance around the room shows him many different faces. Padma and Parvati are giggling to each other, whilst Hermione is quietly telling Ron off beside him. Parkinson and Zabini are conversing with haste behind Malfoy’s back. Malfoy, to his credit, is simply glaring at Ron with the same disapproval that Harry had been. Nott leans over Zabini to say something to Malfoy and Harry just wants everyone to stop fucking whispering!

Malfoy doesn’t even look at him, either. He doesn’t know what it is, but it pisses him off something awful.  

“Go on, Harry,” Seamus encourages him with a wink. “You’ve been spending enough time with him. Don’t think we’d be surprised if you’ve hugged a few times already, if you catch my drift.”

Harry rolls his eyes, takes his cup and raises it again. He tells the group, “I’m good, thanks. I’ll drink,” and then he does. Malfoy actually stares at him as he does. Harry can’t read his expression. He doesn’t know if he wants to. 

The first person to lie is Anthony Goldstein, after Hannah Abbott asks him the furthest that he’s gotten with a girl. He tells the group confidently that he’s actually gone all the way with a seventh year Hufflepuff, at which point a jolt appears to shoot through him, and he yelps. The group actually fall into hysterics, and he buries his red face into his drink. Even Malfoy, when he looks up, is laughing behind his hand.  

Nobody dares to lie after that, opting to drink instead if they can’t face answering the question. And the game goes on and on, everyone falling further into a drunken haze. Malfoy appears to be drunker than he had intended to be after an hour of the game. He, and the rest of them, Harry supposes, as even he can’t stop himself from almost toppling over with laughter when Zacharias Smith performs his best impression of a grindylow. 

So, he may have strayed slightly beyond the line of sobriety. He’ll tell himself off in the morning. 

“Finnigan, I must say,” Parkinson gets out between giggles. “This is actually good fun.”

“Glad you think so,” Seamus says. “Alright then, Parkinson. Truth or dare?”

She blinks at him with her long eyelashes. “Truth.”

“Have you and Malfoy shagged?” he asks her, and Harry swears that Seamus looks at him afterwards. 

She immediately snorts. “Salazar, no.”

And Harry’s speaking before he realises it. “Really?”

Parkinson looks right at him. “I think I’d remember if I’d fucked my best friend, Potter.”

He shrugs at her, because that’s a fair enough point. When he meets Malfoy’s gaze again he still can’t discern his expression. He just looks at him for a while, and wonders if he spoke out of turn. What if Malfoy had been yearning for her, hoping perhaps to try with her tonight — and she had just supremely, publicly shot him down? Harry couldn’t imagine the agony that would feel like. 

“Sorry,” he whispers to him, though Malfoy doesn’t so much hear him as read his lips. When he does, he looks perplexed, and Harry wonders if he’s misread the entire situation. To be fair, it wouldn’t be the first time. 

The game breaks apart after a few more questions and dares are given, the last of which being Parvati daring Michael Corner to kiss the prettiest girl in the room. He had begun to crawl towards Parkinson, who had shrieked “Absolutely not!” much to his shame. The awkward air had broken the circle apart, after that. 

The mingling restarts, more full drinks in hands. Harry’s in the middle of a conversation with Ernie Macmillan when Zacharias Smith bumbles over, telling Ernie about something getting ‘more difficult’ lately, not even glancing at Harry or apologising for interrupting. Harry doesn’t stay to listen, Smith’s voice a gnawing screech in his brain. He looks around at the crowds, the bundles of people in deep conversation, and is just about to head over to say hello to Hannah when someone walks into him. 

“Blast!” Malfoy exclaims. “Potter, what the fuck?” 

“Sorry,” he says quickly, because the dark green waistcoat is now soaked with vodka and coke. “Oh, shit. Sorry.”

“Ridiculous,” he says. “I’m wet!”

“Yeah. You are. Just… Take it off, and hopefully it won’t seep through to your shirt.” 

Malfoy stares at him for a moment before handing him his drink to hold, which Harry dutifully takes, and stripping himself of his waistcoat. As nice as it was, Harry thinks that he looks far better without it. Less of a tosser, anyway. He proceeds to fold and place the clothing onto one of the tables before taking his drink once again. 

“Do you like it?” Harry asks. “The, er. The drink I got you.”

Malfoy takes a gulp of it, very pointedly. When he responds verbally, his speech is slurred in a way that makes Harry feel a lot better for how blurry his vision has become over the last three cups. 

“Yes, I like it, Potter ,” he tells him. “Despite whatever you may still think about me.” 

Harry is clearly too drunk to understand. “What? I don’t understand. The vodka?”

“ No, ” he pushes. “Because it’s Muggle. You thought I’d throw it away.”

“Oh,” he says, remembering now. “Well, I’m sorry. It’s not — It’s not too far-fetched an idea though, is it? Sorry.”

“No,” Malfoy repeats. And he must be really, really too drunk, because then he tells him, “But I don’t hate Muggles anymore. I just hate my blasted Father.”

Somehow, it sobers Harry up. He recalls the good half-an-hour to forty-five minutes between the game ending and this very conversation, in which Harry, stupidly, had not had his eyes on the man at all. Anything could’ve happened — including Malfoy drinking far ahead of any of the rest of them. Or perhaps it hadn’t been an exaggeration that Malfoy couldn’t hold liquor to save his life. Either way, Harry’s sure that he wouldn’t be saying this to him if he was in the least bit sober.

“Would you like some water?” Harry asks quickly.

“No,” Malfoy says again. “Merlin. I don’t know anything about what I want.”

Harry clears his throat awkwardly. This, he hadn’t been prepared for. “Should we go back to the room, Malfoy?”

All that gets him is a chuckle, and a mumble of something like, “… really bloody want…” whilst Harry decides that getting him back to the room is a must. He debates telling someone, but all of his friends are caught in conversations, and looking over at the Slytherins tells him that they have more than enough to worry about; evidently Parkinson really should’ve eaten more throughout the day, because Zabini and Nott are just barely holding her upright. 

And so he guides Malfoy to the door and they slip out, unbeknownst to the rest of their classmates. Unlike Parkinson, Malfoy can at least walk by himself, which proves to be a good thing until they reach the Common Room and he decides he’s had quite enough of walking, thank you very much. He collapses onto the couch by the fireplace, arms splayed above his head, and all Harry can do is look at him. 

His shirt has become untucked, and Harry’s sure that he’s going to be skinned alive tomorrow because of course he forgot to bring back the waistcoat with him. He can see no scar but a light dusting of blond, nearly translucent hair that stretches down beneath his trousers, and the thought makes him feel all the more tipsy again. 

He realises just how tipsy he still is as he sits himself down on the arm of the couch, finally able to relax without having to make sure that Malfoy didn’t fall down the stairs and break his neck, or looking over his shoulder to make sure Filch hadn’t popped up out of nowhere. His head spins once, twice, three times before it settles and Malfoy fades into focus again, and Harry realises that he’s fallen asleep. 

“No,” Harry says loudly, forcing himself to stand up again. “Malfoy, wake up.”

All he receives is a grunt of disagreement. 

“You can’t sleep here,” he tells him, almost tripping over his feet as he walks closer to him, grabbing him by his extended wrists. “Come on, or I’ll have to carry you to bed.”

“Mm,” Malfoy says, finally responding. “Okay.”

“What?” Harry huffs, and hiccups in between his words. “I’m not actually going to carry you. Get up, you pillock.”

Malfoy, in all of his drunkenness, doesn’t respond to the insult. He drags his fingers gently down Harry’s palm, and says to him in a softer voice than Harry’s ever heard, “Take me to bed, Potter.”

There’s a thrill that overtakes his body so wholly for a moment that he drops Malfoy’s hands. He doesn’t know what it is, perhaps he’d had wildly more drinks than he’d thought he had, or perhaps it was a leftover hex from when you lied in the game of truth or dare. That was what it had felt like, the words spurring an immediate jolt of electricity down his spine that he didn’t know what to do with. 

The man in front of him clearly has no idea of the torment he had caused in Harry’s mind, taking the moment he’d been left alone to instead curl into the pillows and get more comfortable. Harry feels his fingers tingle, his heart beating ever faster. Why had he said that?

Eventually, he gives up on trying to make sense of it, hoping that he’ll forget about it tomorrow. He doesn’t trust himself in the slightest to perform levicorpus on him without dropping him, and so he scoops him up, throwing him over his shoulder without the slightest care if he wakes him up. He places one arm over his back and the other on the back of his thigh, holding him in place. 

“Oof!” Malfoy says, startling awake as his stomach hits Harry’s shoulder. 

“Bed,” Harry says again. “You can’t sleep down here.”

“I was comfortable,” he complains, as Harry starts to walk up the stairs to their dorm. “Now, I’m not.”

“That’s too bad,” he hums, almost losing his footing but managing to pull it back, somehow. “You’ll be comfier in bed.”

“Bed, bed, bed,” he whines. Harry finally opens the door to their room, and just before he places him down on his mattress, he says to him, “Get your hand off of my arse, Potter.”

His face unwillingly fills with heat as he elects to be less gentle in dropping him than he had originally planned. He could ignore him, or… “Your thigh, Malfoy. Not your arse. Don’t blame me that it’s all flat.”

He ignores the indignation on Malfoy’s face as he turns to the bathroom, ready to brush his teeth and call it a night. He hadn’t realised how tired he was until the beds beckoned him with their promises of nice dreams and warmth. He decides that it’s not his problem whether Malfoy does his teeth or gets changed, and so he leaves him strewn on top of his covers when he walks out again, already taking his shirt off. 

He’s just pushing his jeans down when he hears it; an imperceptible intake of breath that makes his head whip around. For whatever reason, his first thought was whether Malfoy was choking. He’s not. His eyes are open though, and he’s sitting up again, eyes on Harry’s back, quickly shifting to his face as he turns. 

“Go to sleep, Malfoy,” he whispers. The lights are out now, the moon the only thing illuminating the room. 

“Yes,” he says, but then he’s undoing the buttons on his shirt, stripping himself, too. Harry dutifully turns away. Malfoy had never dressed or undressed in the same room as him before, but Harry supposes he has nothing to worry about now that he’s already seen the remnants of his worst mistake. Harry resolves to not get into bed until Malfoy does, resulting in watching him strip off his poncy trousers, too. And not put anything else back on.

“You’ll be cold without your pyjamas,” he tells him softly. 

“You do it.” Malfoy waves him off, slipping under his covers. “Every bloody night. Naked Potter. Shirtless Potter.”

He can’t help but laugh. “I didn’t realise it bothered you.”

“Oh, it does. I should —” he hiccups “— Tell Weasley to buy you a nightshirt for Christmas.”

“Can’t you just get me one, yourself?” 

“No,” Malfoy sighs. “We are absolutely not getting each other Christmas presents.”

“Who said I’d be getting you anything?” he asks, pulling his duvet up to his chin.

“Exactly. You wouldn’t even give me a hug.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything at all. In the time it takes for him to debate on any words that may leave his mouth, a steady flow of deep breathing comes from the other man’s bed, and Harry knows that he’s already fallen asleep. 

Hopefully, they’ll both forget in the morning. 

*

It’s a true testament to how plastered Malfoy must have been that Harry actually wakes up before him. His head isn’t too bad, nothing a little bit of water wouldn’t fix up quickly, anyway, though putting on his glasses makes it feel marginally worse. When he does, he looks over at Malfoy, just making sure he hadn’t choked on his own sick in his sleep. But he’s fine, breathing slowly and deeply, his chest rising and falling half-underneath the sheets. They’re haphazardly thrown on him, most of his upper chest exposed to the cold air, one pink nipple peeking out alongside his scar. His hair is a bright mess against the darkness of his pillow, his face peaceful in sleep — for now. 

He elects to brush his teeth and shower now, as soon as possible in case Malfoy needs to get up and quickly vomit. His honest intention is indeed to get it over with quickly, but there’s something about the heat of the shower that gets his blood pumping, that soothes the banging in his head for now, and when he looks down, his cock is standing up with pride. So much pride. 

It calls to him, its siren-tune forcing his fingers to wrap around its familiar girth. He’s letting his eyes flutter shut before he can think of a reason to deny himself this, his fist jerking slowly up and down his hardness, the water aiding him as lubrication. He can’t help but let a groan of relief tumble from his lips, most probably muffled by the sound of the shower, followed by breathing of the heaviest degree. His other arm bent, he leans against the wall of the shower, his face buried in the crook of his elbow, and begins to quicken his pace. 

Nothing in particular pops into his head to encourage him, at first. It’s just the wondrous feeling that spurs him on, the feeling that he has been denying himself for multiple weeks now, too distracted with keeping Malfoy safe, or studying. That’s when the first image seeps into his brain, a memory of Malfoy from mere moments ago; he had been sleeping so peacefully, with his nipples, prettily pink against his skin, exposed without a care — such a stark difference to what Harry had gotten used to. His grip reflexively tightens around himself, and he shakes his head to clear it of the image. It’s not something he needs to be thinking about. Not now. 

Malfoy is pushed out of his mind for approximately thirty seconds more before he’s somehow crawling back there. It’s hazy memories of last night that have Harry feeling guilty about thinking about — the sight of him peeling off that damned waistcoat, the way he’d dragged his fingertips down Harry’s wrist, the way his soft voice had whispered to him, “ Take me to bed, Potter.”  

He bites down on his lip to keep himself from audibly crying out as he hears it all over again in his head. His fingers work wonders on himself, his thumb sliding just over the tip, gathering the beading pre-cum. He can feel it in his abdomen; the exceedingly familiar sensation, a tightness blooming above his groin. His hips buck forward into his hand before he knows it — and he doesn’t even have to use his imagination to bring him to orgasm. In the past, he’s wanked over fantasies of fucking Ginny, or Cho, or a random girl who made eye contact with him on the street. He doesn’t fantasise about fucking Malfoy. He doesn’t fantasise about touching him. He just visualises the man, his otherwise perfect torso embellished with their convoluted past, his grey eyes, his messy hair, the way his lips had wrapped around those same seductive words… “ Take me to bed, Potter.”

He mentally pats himself on the back, because perhaps not fantasising about him makes this all less gay. All he does is squeeze eyes closed and let himself fuck his wet fist, and it’s not his fault if memories come flooding to him. He can’t help that, after all. And he can’t help it that when he cums, he bites down on his arm, spilling all over his knuckles and down the drain, those same fucking words ringing out in his head on absolute repeat: Take me to bed, Potter. Take me to bed, Potter. Take me to bed, Potter. 

For the rest of his shower, his body feels like static, with his fingers buzzing as he washes the last of the shampoo from his hair. He ignores it just as he tries to ignore the reality of what he had just done. Thankfully, nowadays. there’s nobody to poke around in his private thoughts anymore. If he can successfully pretend that it didn’t happen, nobody may tell him any different. 

His plan works until he steps back into the bedroom and lays his eyes upon him once again, and shame fills his body quicker than he can look away. He’s no longer asleep and no longer undressed. Instead, he’s standing by the teapot at the window, one hand holding his delicate head. 

“For crying out loud, don’t slam the door like that, Potter,” Malfoy tells him, as Harry makes his way to his bed to pull his clothes on. 

Harry blinks at him. “I didn’t.”

“Oh,” Malfoy responds, and Harry can hear him stirring his tea. “Well, it sounded like you did.” Then, a loud gulp of said tea.

Harry, with his clothes finally on, turns to look at him. “Feeling rough?” he asks, though he of course already knows the answer. 

And Malfoy’s stormy expression is a dead giveaway that he’s aware Harry knows just how rough he feels. He rubs his forehead as he sips at more of his tea, clearly hoping for there to be some sort of miracle in the liquid. 

“It was a good night,” Harry comments. “Whilst we were still there, anyway.”

“I only barely remember leaving,” Malfoy tells him. “I have not a clue what Pansy was making me drink.”

“Pansy got you drinks, too?”

“Yes. It was this odd purple substance. Though really, I think it came from Luna.”

Harry’s ears perk up. Luna hadn’t been present at the party. Not only that, but Malfoy had referred to her as Luna. Since when?

“Luna?”

“I think so. She must’ve given it to Pans… Eugh. I don’t think it was a good pairing with that Muggle vodka.” He shudders. “How embarrassing, I must’ve been.” 

Harry makes a mental note to ask Luna about this mysterious liquid, and says, “You weren’t that bad.”

“Eugh.” He cringes. “That implies that there was a badness, at all.” 

“Well, you were talkative.” 

Malfoy looks up from his teacup in a shot, and he stays silent as he places it down on the bedside table separating their beds. Harry only notices the slight shake in his hand because of the clink of the china against the wood. He watches him raise his hand, watches him awkwardly scratch at the side of his neck, leaving a long red line against his pale skin. 

Harry’s barely able, for whatever reason, to tear his eyes away from the line until Malfoy speaks again. He says with a clear apprehension, “Do I want to know?”

His brain summons it again, evilly, those same five words that had haunted him with his hand on his cock. He doesn’t think that Malfoy would think anything of that; more so that he would find Harry perverted for taking it as he had done. Then he thinks of the reason that he had thought to take Malfoy away from the party to begin with, he remembers the look on Malfoy’s face and the forlorn tone of his voice when he had said to him, “ I don’t hate Muggles anymore. I just hate my blasted Father. ” He doesn’t suppose that Malfoy would much appreciate having shared such intimate details about himself with Harry Potter, of all people. 

“No,” he tells him. “You probably don’t.” 

There’s a moment or two where Harry sees Malfoy’s cheeks grow pigmented as they share eye contact. Then they look away, and Harry’s not sure if the pigment stays. And the days go on.

Chapter Text

It doesn’t take long before Harry and Malfoy are summoned to the Headmistress’ Office, where they learn that Quilling has been cleared by the Ministry of anything to do with the threats. Harry’s not happy with it, but doesn’t argue. McGonagall thanks him for his ongoing vigilance and Malfoy’s in a mood again, after that. 

Then Harry accidentally melts Malfoy’s cauldron during Potions, and his mood doesn’t get much better. 

He marches ahead of Harry in the crowded corridor afterwards, forcing him to fall into an awkward-half jog to try and catch up. It’s not easy, not with how busy it is between classes, having to squeeze in between bodies. 

“Malfoy,” he grunts. “Would you slow down?”

Malfoy neither responds, nor slows down. He simply turns his narrow body sideways to slip in between the students going in the opposite direction, leaving Harry in his dust. 

“Malfoy, stop!” he calls again, and a few people turn to look, now. He ignores them, glad at least for the wide berth that people seem to subsequently give them. 

Harry sees him stop, then, though it’s not at the sound of his pleas. It’s not of his own accord, at all. He can see the affrontation through the back of Malfoy’s head, can sense the discomfort already as he sees the two boys stand in front of him to block his way. There’s something malicious in their stances that Harry can’t disregard easily, something threatening in the way their eyes trawl over Malfoy’s face. One of the boys is younger and skinnier than the other, a scar — no doubt given to him during the War — stretching down his cheek to his chin. 

The air turns thick, and people either scurry away from the whiff of trouble or stay firmly in place to watch it unfold. 

“If Harry Potter tells you to stop,” the one without the scar says. “You stop.”

It’s almost bizarre, in a way. The two of them look so reminiscent of the way that Crabbe and Goyle used to flank people that Harry can’t help but to observe the irony at it being used again now, against Malfoy himself. He doesn’t laugh, though, because he’s frankly finding it more alarming than funny. Would the perpetrator step out so publicly? Would the attack be in broad daylight, gathering themselves an audience?

Harry readjusts his tie, overtly aware of how many eyes are fixed upon him. He clears his throat. “That’s alright,” he tells them, his tone level-headed. “I just needed to ask him something.”

At this, the boy with the scar does speak. His voice seems lower than it should be for his appearance. He asks, “Do you think you’re too good for his questions, Malfoy?” and then — his voice far lower, far quieter, though Harry can still hear it,  “You should be on your knees for his attention.”

“Hey,” Harry says, stepping forward. He wants to see the look on Malfoy’s face, wants to gauge the annoyance of panic. “I’m not a God. There’s no need for that.”

“Either way,” Scar-less says, and he grabs hold of Malfoy’s arm with a strong hand. Harry’s too slow, and Malfoy is too as they both seem to just watch it happen. His sleeve is stripped back for the gathering crowd, the Dark Mark eliciting gasps of fear from many of those around them. There’s a dirty smirk on Scar-less’ face as he continues, “He’s still less than human.” 

Harry forces him away, stepping in front of Malfoy and breaking the grip on his wrist. In his peripheral vision, he can see Malfoy yank his sleeve back down. His hand is stretched behind his back, physically placed on Malfoy’s other arm. 

“With that rhetoric, you sound no better than them,” Harry says. “Malfoy is a victim of the Mark too, just in a different way than the rest of us.”

He stares at the two of them, dumbfounded and pissed off at their confidence. But he’s filled with it, too, because he knows what he says holds a disgusting amount of weight. He knows that this crowd may very well be influenced by his words. 

Neither of the two boys say anything for a moment, Scar-less turning to stare at the other, whose eyes flicker between Harry, and Malfoy behind him. He opens his mouth as if to say something else, perhaps to apologise or dig himself a deeper hole, but Harry doesn’t find out. Zachariah Smith is upon them, for whatever reason, grabbing their shoulders and forcing them away. 

“Sorry about them,” Smith says, though Harry doesn’t think he truly sounds it. He looks at Harry when he speaks, pointedly ignoring Malfoy as he does. 

And then they’re off, walking away from the commotion that they had caused. Harry glares at the crowd and they all scatter, leaving Harry to somehow try and fix everything that had unravelled. 

Slowly, Harry turns around, and only then does he realise that his hand is still on his arm. His heart is thumping with adrenaline, and it only quickens once he lays his eyes, finally, upon his face. His eyes are wide, his lips parted, an odd combination of emotions portrayed on his face. There’s worry and there’s doubt and there’s wonder and something else that Harry can’t name. There’s so much happening on his face that he doesn’t know what to do with it. 

“Are you alright?” Harry asks at once. “I’m sorry I didn’t do anything sooner. I couldn’t get to you, you were so far. And then I was too slow, and he had his fucking hands on you, and —”

“Potter,” Malfoy interrupts. 

Harry shuts himself up, blinking his confusion. “What?”

“Stop,” he says, and it’s only then that Harry realises he’s shaking. “Stop talking.”

“Right. Sorry.” He nods, and looks around awkwardly before remembering that they’re still not alone, the corridor persisting with swarms of students walking to their next classes or Common Rooms. He pulls Malfoy with him, shuffling closer to the wall. “Can you tell me if you’re okay?”

“I’m…” he begins, as if he’s about to lie on instinct. He meets Harry’s eye, and immediately, he knows the answer. 

“Skip History of Magic,” Harry tells him. “Let’s go back to our room. Come on,” he adds quickly, as he sees the apprehension on his face. “You know you can afford to skip, it’s not as if you don’t have the entire book memorised. You know exactly what Binns will be teaching today. And next week.” When he’s still not convinced, Harry adds, “We can ask Hermione if he sets any work.”

“Fine,” he says at last, his voice cracking. Harry doesn’t need any more than that, taking his arm and leading him straight back. 

The Common Room is empty when they reach it, and so they march straight on through to their bedroom. Harry only releases him once the door is shut behind them, when the walk has given him enough time to develop his rage.

“Can I get you some tea?” he asks, because he needs to stir away his anger. 

Malfoy releases a long breath, nodding, and says, “Milk, two sugars,” before walking to the bathroom and locking the door behind him. 

Harry stirs. And he stirs and stirs and stirs, accidentally creating a horrid sound as he scrapes the bottom of the tea cup. He wants to punch something, but he doesn’t. So he stirs, and when Malfoy still isn’t out after an extremely thorough stirring, he sends his Patronus to McGonagall. There’s a surge of adrenaline still running through him, and as he sips at his own cup, he can’t quite recall what he tells her. 

After a while, he begins to get worried. There’s only the sound of water running, a slow trickle, but thankfully no sobs. He doesn’t think he ever wants to let Malfoy cry in a bathroom, again. 

He gives the door a soft knock. “Your tea is going to get cold.”

“Ah,” he hears from the inside. “I’m coming.” 

“Okay. Okay, don’t rush yourself.” 

It’s not long then that he comes out, his entire face red and blotchy, his hands much the same, the rim of just one sleeve dripping wet. Harry doesn’t ask about it, just sits down opposite him on the bed, their knees knocking gently. Harry’s tea is long gone, but Malfoy sips on his own, not making eye contact, watching their legs over the top of the cup. 

The knock on their front door startles them both, but while Harry reaches for his wand, Malfoy almost drops his cup. Harry makes it to the door with his wand still out before he comes to his senses. 

“Headmistress,” he says, before the door is even open. “Thank you for coming.”

Malfoy is standing up again while he shuts the door behind McGonagall. Harry rushes to Malfoy’s side.

“Mr. Potter,” she says at once, and then turns to the man beside him, taking in his ruffled appearance. “Mr. Malfoy. What has happened?”

“Two boys stopped Malfoy in the corridor,” he explains. “They didn’t… They didn’t hurt him, not physically. But they made a spectacle of him. Professor, the things that they were saying…”

McGonagall nods along with his speech, her eyes flitting back to Malfoy. “Are you alright, Mr. Malfoy? If I may, you look rather pale.”

“Yes. Apologies,” Malfoy says. “They took me quite off-guard. There was quite a crowd, you see. They all got a very good look at my… At my Mark.” 

Harry clears his throat. “They grabbed him, Professor, and pulled his sleeve up in front of everyone,” he says and at Malfoy’s indignant glare, he continues, “She needs to know how bad they were!” 

“It’s not as if they broke my arm,” Malfoy tells him sharply. 

“No, but you’re more affected by this than you were by that.” He turns back to McGonagall. “They said he was less than human. They said that he should be kneeling at my feet, Professor, it was sick. ” 

“I would be inclined to agree with you,” she tells him. “What I am curious about is why you let it go so far, Mr. Potter.”

Harry stops, his uninterrupted rage slowly subsiding for guilt. “I… I couldn’t—”

Malfoy takes a deep breath, and tells her, “It was my fault. I was angry, so I was walking ahead. Potter simply got lost in the crowd.”

She turns her gaze to Harry again, as if to watch for his reaction, checking for a lie. “Yeah,” he tells her sheepishly. “I melted his cauldron in Potions. He had a right to be mad.”

“I see,” she says, closing her eyes and releasing a long sigh. “If this arrangement is being hindered by your bickering, it may be pertinent to—”

“No,” Malfoy says quickly. “Headmistress, Potter has been doing ten times the job that Facer was. As much as it pains me to compliment him, he really is so much better, and with him, I actually feel —”

There’s a hanging silence, then. Harry is staring at him, and McGonagall is, too. She doesn’t give him an out. Harry doesn’t want to, either. He wants to know exactly what he makes him feel.

“Safe. He makes me feel safe,” he finishes quietly. 

Harry feels his chest constrict, as if some huge, kind snake has come to squeeze him into a sweet demise. There’s another static that befalls his brain, the same as there had been that other day in the shower. It’s because it’s such an honour, he supposes. To make someone feel safe, is there anything better that you could do for someone? It must be that, he thinks — because he dreads to think of the alternative. He can’t let himself. 

The warmth spreading everywhere in his body feels even better for the fact that he genuinely has found himself enjoying watching out for the man. He has been — by the day — finding pleasure in protecting. It’s what he’s used to, he supposes. 

And the comparison to Facer does nothing to deflate the ever-growing static — the big green monster inside of him purring contentedly. He’s better than Facer. Seriously. He bites his lip with a smile, the words on the tip of his tongue to the invisible man — Fuck you, Facer. He ponders briefly about writing a letter, just to rub it in. 

And then, just as Harry is about to read too much into the words, Malfoy adds with haste, “But I think it’s unfair to hold that against me. His title is quite literally the Saviour. ”

The excuse does not subdue the static. 

McGonagall peers between them. Her gaze is eerily reminiscent of Dumbledore’s. “Well, then,” she says. “As Mr. Malfoy’s safety is the paramount concern, I shall leave it, for now. But I don’t want to hear any more of the two of you splitting up; at the very least, not in crowded corridors. You must remember that whilst we are under the assumption that the perpetrator is a student, nowhere is perfectly safe for Mr. Malfoy except this room.” 

“I know,” Harry says. Because he really, really does. “I’m going to continue to make certain that Malfoy stays safe.”

“I know that you will,” she says. “Now, what were the names of these students?”

“Er, I didn’t quite catch their names,” Harry tells her sheepishly. “Did you know them, Malfoy?”

“One of them was called Quincy Elborn, Hufflepuff. I only know his name from passing. The other boy, I didn’t know the name of. He was a Ravenclaw. He has quite a large scar, spanning the length of his cheek.”

“They’re friends with Smith,” Harry adds. “He’s the one who pulled them away.”

“Very well. Thank you, both. You’re excused from lessons for the rest of the day, and I shall have food sent up to your room. Please, rest,” she tells them. “As soon as I have any information that pertains to these two boys, I shall let you know.” 

They see her out, thanking her all the while, and then they’re left in silence.

Harry quickly breaks it. 

“I make you feel safe?”

Malfoy throws up his hands, shaking his head as he rushes back to his bed. “Shut up, Potter.”

“I make you feel safe,” he says again with a smile on his face, just because he wants to say it again. And because he thinks that the teasing is breaking through Malfoy’s stress. 

Malfoy sits down on the bed, kicking his shoes off. “Shut your mouth.”

He keeps the stupid look on his face, the smile that Malfoy can’t seem to stop squinting at. He shuts his mouth other than the baring of teeth, the stretch of the corners. 

“Stop it,” he says again.

Harry’s grin widens. “I didn’t even say anything!”

“You didn’t need to,” he says. 

There’s a small tug at the corners of Malfoy’s mouth, now, too, as Harry takes his place opposite him, their knees knocking once again. He takes a moment to just look at him. His face is less blotchy now, but the redness remains. He bites his lip. 

“How are you, really?” he asks. 

“Better, now,” he tells him, and his tone sounds honest. “Again, it just shocked me. I was so furious that I wasn’t looking where I was going, so really, it was all your fault.”

Harry’s jaw drops. “My fault?” 

“Well, you were the reason that I was angry. Am angry,” he corrects himself. “Don’t you dare think that you’re forgiven. Not only did you ruin our potion, but that was a damned expensive cauldron!” 

“Well, we have the rest of the day off now, anyway. So don’t worry about Potions, or anything like that. We can stay up here all day and do whatever we want to do.”

Malfoy reclines on the bed, loosening his tie. It’s Harry’s fault for watching the movements so closely, because it only startles him more when Malfoy asks, “What is it you want to do?”

Perhaps Harry needs to have a serious conversation with himself on his feelings at the moment. Or with Hermione. She’d probably know better than he would. But there’s really something that must be done about why his first reaction upon hearing that question is to rake his gaze down his body, leant back in all its glory and on a bed at that, and think of answering his question aloud with “You? ” 

It’s bad. It’s really bad, especially after what had happened. Harry should really be comforting him, not going through some kind of crisis (Quarter-life? Post-death?).

“I don’t know,” he says, instead of entertaining any kind of lewd thought. “We could catch up on sleep. Practice spells, maybe. We could have a game of chess, I think I have a set somewhere that Ron gave me.” He smiles. “Or… We could just talk?”

Malfoy raises an eyebrow, and for a second Harry genuinely thinks that his offer is going to be rejected. Perhaps with a sarcastic comment, or asking what on earth they would have to talk about, anyway. But Malfoy does neither of these things. Instead, he finishes pulling his tie off and folds it neatly. 

Then, he says, clearly aware of Harry’s bated breath, “We can talk, on one condition.”

“Okay,” Harry says at once. “Name it.”

“Seeing as we’re not leaving the room again, today, we have to get comfortable. By that, I mean that we have to wear our pyjamas. The whole time.”

Harry laughs before he agrees, because it’s honestly a little ridiculous. They get changed and all he can think about is how absolutely bizarre it feels to be having a whole pyjama day with someone who had once proclaimed an enemy. He thinks of the version of himself who had been stalking Malfoy every single night of their Sixth Year and thinks that perhaps it would be more believable if they had fucked rather than sat together, speaking like this. He tries to push that thought out of his mind as he pulls on his joggers. 

It’s only when he sees Malfoy unbuttoning his shirt that he realises that he doesn’t exactly have a pyjama shirt to change into. He wonders whether Malfoy had forgotten this, or not. Perhaps it was a ploy to embarrass him, or to make him feel even more vulnerable so that he’d open up more. He was a Slytherin, after all, and so there must be some ulterior motive to getting into this state of dress — Harry just has no idea what it is, yet.

And so there he stays, shirtless, and Malfoy doesn’t offer him a shirt so he doesn’t ask for one, either. They sit on their respective beds and face each other again, the pure glee on Malfoy’s face almost enough to make Harry less cold. 

“I used to love doing this,” he’s telling him, one leg drawn up to rest his arm on. “Of course, I never had any siblings, but so often Pansy would come over to the Manor, or I would go to her’s, and we would spend hours and hours in comfort, like this.”

Harry nods at him, smiling as he speaks. He pushes down any wicked, green thoughts that threaten to breach his mind. He doesn’t need that. Not now. 

Malfoy continues, “Did you know that Muggles so often call them sleepovers? Or, if you’re across the pond, a slumber party? I find that quite fun.”

“That is pretty fun. I guess I never did any of that with anyone, either. Not until I went to stay at Ron’s, anyway,” he says. Malfoy frowns at that, and Harry can’t help but ask, “What?”

“I just…” He sighs, and a look of hard concentration is written on his face. “I’m trying to think of how to phrase this so that I don’t sound… Well. It’s just that I thought I remembered Rita Skeeter writing a piece on your growing up with your family, including a cousin of the same age.”

“Oh. They weren’t a nice family, really. They didn’t much see me as family, anyway.” He shrugs. “Besides, whatever Skeeter said is dirt to me.”

“I… Didn’t know that,” Malfoy says. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t mind. I heard some of my cousin’s sleepovers sometimes, and they seemed fun.” He clears his throat, then, having completely unintended to stir the conversation in such a depressing light. “But it’s nice to know that you read articles on me, Malfoy.”

He sits up at that, his gaze widening a little bit, his mouth following. Then he rolls his eyes, giving Harry a little wave of his hand. “Couldn’t get away from them, Potter. You’re the most sought after Wizard, after all. Everyone wants to know everything, and so they’d print what colour socks you’re wearing.”

“And you memorise every word,” he jokes.

“Piss off,” Malfoy says back. Then, with more thought, “I’m surprised there hasn’t been much printed about you and Ginevra Weasley, lately.”

Harry simply blinks at him. “Ginny?” he asks. “We broke up over the Summer.”

Malfoy blinks right back. “What?”

“Yeah,” he says. “It just didn’t feel right, in the end. We’d spent so much time apart, and so much around us had changed. Don’t get me wrong, I still love her, but… More as a little sister, or just a friend, I guess.”

“Oh,” Malfoy says. “Well, this wasn’t in The Prophet.”

“That was on purpose,” Harry laughs. “The whole world is expecting us to get married and have red-headed Hero-babies. We were kind of scared of an uprising, if news got out that it won’t be happening.”

There’s a nagging thought in the back of his mind that he wants gone immediately, but at Malfoy’s words, it simply won't disappear. Even though Harry thinks that he’s changed, even though he seems like he’s at least half-way decent now… He can’t help but ask him, “You won’t tell The Prophet, will you?”

He can tell at once that there’s a turn of hurt in those grey eyes, and Harry wants to apologise at once, despite having good reason for asking. Malfoy tells him, “No. I won’t.”

“Thanks,” he says awkwardly. “I just wanted to make sure. It’s not like it’s a huge secret, obviously, and we’re not still pretending to be together. But we’re just not saying otherwise. It’s been pretty easy, actually, since she decided not to return for her Seventh Year.”

“I understand,” Malfoy says back.

The awkwardness remains, and Harry inwardly curses to himself for being the one who had caused it. For many moments too many, neither of them speak, until Harry says the first thing that comes to his mind.

“And you’re not… Seeing anyone?”

“Me?” he asks, and he seems genuinely surprised at the question. “No, Potter. They aren’t exactly lining up for to come and fuck an Ex-Death Eater.”

“Right,” Harry says, because that part he can kind of understand. But there’s people who know him, know him better than the headlines do. “But I know that not everyone feels like that about you. Not anymore, at least. You know, you’ve clearly, erm, reformed and everything.” He clears his throat. “And you’re not exactly ugly, are you?”

Malfoy tilts his head at him. The look in his eyes is new. Intrigued. “I don’t know. Am I?”

Harry only shrugs. “Well, I wouldn’t say that you’re ugly.”

“That’s kind of you,” he says with just a hint of snark, and there’s a sudden mixture of shyness with that intrigue. 

Harry can’t help but to laugh a little. “It’s not me, it’s more objective! Anyone can tell you’re an attractive bloke. You have, you know, nice hair, a nice face, nice…. Skin.”

Again, with the skin. Harry doesn’t know what’s wrong with himself. He tries not to make it too obvious that he’s internally kicking himself. 

“Nice… Skin,” Malfoy repeats. Why does this always happen to him? 

“I don’t know,” Harry says. “I don’t know.”

“You have nice skin, too,” Malfoy says. Then, with a quick cough, he raises his hand to point at him and adds, “Apart from that spot, right there.”

“Oh, thanks.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m just saying. Some of the girls would probably kill to get you interested in them. I know Pansy said she wouldn’t, but…”

“Why are you lot so hung up on me and Pansy?” he huffs. “We’re friends. Just friends! Just like you and Granger, and I know you two get annoyed when people assume exactly the same thing about you.”

It’s a fair point, and it’s that comparison that makes Harry inclined to believe him. He remembers the rumours, the photos and headlines in the papers that Skeeter had written about himself and Hermione. It had angered them all something rotten. And so, he believes him. 

“Okay, okay. If you say there’s nothing going on, there’s nothing going on,” he concedes. “But what about any of the others? I noticed Hannah Abbot has been looking at you a lot. Luna’s nice, too, she’s the best, and she seems to like you.”

“Is this what we’ve resorted to? Gossiping about girls?”

“Well, am I getting close?”

“Potter, I promise you, you couldn’t be further away.”

They don’t linger on the subject, after that. Mostly because Harry doesn’t know how to take it. He’s worried that if he does try to decipher any of Malfoy’s words, they’ll become tangled up in his own web of hope in his brain.

But talk, they still do. For a long while. They talk until the elves send them up two hefty plates for dinner time, at which point they busy their mouths with eating instead. They talk about schoolwork, about The Prophet, about which Professor they would get fired if they could (they both come to an agreement on Binns). They talk about Malfoy’s headaches and how much they’ve improved, and Harry watches him sip at his bright red water bottle as he says so. It feels like they talk about everything, and nothing. 

Harry clears his plate, and when Malfoy leaves some sausages on his, he takes them to eat, too. Malfoy raises an eyebrow at him as he passes his plate over, blatant disapproval written in the arch. 

“What?” Harry asks around a mouthful, shrugging his shoulders. “I didn’t stop being so skinny by skipping out on protein, you know. You should try it.”

“Are you calling me skinny? ” Malfoy asks, affronted. 

“Delicately slim, then,” he laughs. “I’m just saying, it wasn’t very hard to lift you over my shoulder the other day.”

Malfoy’s face deadpans, and Harry gets the sense that he doesn’t remember that from Hallowe’en, either. He tries to hold in further chuckles as he examines Malfoy’s face, never having seen someone be so utterly unimpressed.

“What.”

“You wouldn’t get off the sofa,” Harry explains through a smile. “You were hammered, and refused to get up. I threatened to carry you, and you allowed it.”

“I most certainly did not.”

“You asked me to carry you,” Harry rubs in, delighting in watching Malfoy’s face grow ever-redder. “Though, you didn’t find my shoulder very comfortable.”

“I don’t believe you,” he says, placing his hands over his face. “You’re a liar.”

“I’m not!”

“Well, I’m going to have to deign you as one, because I’m afraid the alternative is far too mortifying.” He shakes his head slowly, dramatically. He’s still covering his face, and Harry mourns for the view he had had before. 

“Okay, fine,” he says. “Think I’m a liar, all you want, if it’ll help you sleep at night.”

“Harry Potter carrying me to bed,” Malfoy says quietly. “Imagine the fun that The Prophet could have with that story.”

Harry no longer can hold back his laughter. 

It’s not long afterwards that there’s another knock on their door, which Harry answers without a thought spared to his state of dress. He’s wiping a tear from his eye as he answers it, still tickled pink by his and Malfoy’s conversation. 

Who would’ve ever thought?

“Oh!” Hermione squeals in surprise when he opens up. He’s concerned and confused for only a moment before he remembers that he’s shirtless. She pointedly looks at his face, her gaze shifting between his eyes and behind him, presumably right at Malfoy. She asks, “Sorry, have we interrupted something?”

It’s only then that Harry notices Ron leaning against the wall, his expression wholly unperturbed, simply smiling at him. 

“Hey, no, you’re fine. Come in,” he says, and when he turns, he sees that Malfoy is sitting up straight, hands on his lap, eyeing them all cautiously. His friends filter in through the door and Harry shuts it gently behind them. “What’s up?”

Hermione looks between him and Malfoy again, but seems to shake away whatever she was thinking. She says, “I didn’t see either of you in class, and then you missed dinner, and… Well, we heard what happened.”

Harry’s eyes find Malfoy’s instinctively. He’s already looking right back at him. Harry doesn’t answer, leaving a silence, and so Malfoy speaks in his stead. He says, “And I suppose the whole school has heard, too.”

“Yes,” she confirms quietly. “It’s not as though nobody knew about your Mark, however… I think this has given everybody a firm reminder.”

“Fuck,” Harry curses. “This is just going to make everything — Fuck.”

Ron walks over to him, places a reluctant hand on his shoulder. “Mate, I know we can’t really… Know what exactly is going on, but we want to help,” he says. Both himself and Malfoy look up at him simultaneously. He continues, “What? It’s not as though inter-house unity was a very convincing lie.”

Harry simply rolls his eyes at him. “Thanks.”

“There is something going on, then, isn’t there?” Hermione asks. Her eyes flutter to Malfoy’s again, before settling back on Harry. “Something going on with Malfoy.”

Harry opens his mouth, closes it, opens it, then closes it once again. He doesn’t know what words are supposed to come out of it. He doesn’t know if he can flat-out lie to his best friends in the way that Malfoy surely wants him to do so, not that it would make much of a difference. They know, now. Neither of them are stupid. 

But to tell the truth? Even if Malfoy was not right there, eyes fixated upon his face to observe which route he may take, could he do it? Could he betray his trust, tell them that which he had not even wanted Harry to know about in the first place; that which Harry had demanded to know and placed himself in the middle of? Even McGonagall had strictly told him that Ron and Hermione were not to know about these goings on, that the situation was too delicate to let it slip out to other ears. 

In an odd turning of roles for their current situation, it’s Malfoy that saves him.

“Yes,” he states. “There is something going on with me. Potter has kindly put himself forward to help me with it as the situation progresses.” 

Hermione and Ron look between them once more. It’s Hermione who once again breaks the silence, her sweet voice extending a kindness. She says, “I understand that it must be a delicate situation, given Professor McGonagall’s involvement, but if you’d like any help from myself or Ron, too… We’d be more than happy to give it.”

Malfoy’s gaze drifts between her and Ron’s faces. Harry can read his expression, he can read a million words that may — and could — be said. The only ones that do leave his lips are, “Thank you for offering.”

A part of him is desperately sad that Malfoy doesn’t accept their help. He can picture it so clearly — the four of them working together, staying up late into the night in their bedroom, Malfoy spending time alone with either Hermione or Ron instead of him. And it’s that that makes him somewhat selfishly grateful for the refusal — would their involvement render Harry’s protection as less important? He feels so awful for thinking so. They’re his best friends, but what he has with Malfoy feels too delicate. 

“If we can do anything at all,” Ron adds, and he’s speaking to the both of them, as well. “You know all you have to do is ask, yeah?” 

“Thanks, mate.” Harry smiles. 

“Thanks to both of you,” Malfoy says. 

They head back towards the door, the silence in the air otherwise empty and awkward. They share quiet looks with Harry, and he knows that his appreciation isn’t ignored. He’s just about to shut the door behind them when Ron turns around again. 

“We were thinking about Hogsmeade, this weekend. Neville said that Aberforth is doing discounts on drinks all throughout December — I know it’s only the 27th on Friday, but we can probably convince the old codger to loosen the rules a few days early,” he tells him. “‘Course Malfoy is invited, too. You can even tell him that the other Slytherins are invited. What do you say?”

“Sounds great,” Harry says, his lips splitting into a grin at the prospect. “I’ll ask him and let you know.” 

The second that the door is closed, Malfoy is back on his bed, arms hugging his body. His eyes are open, staring at the top of his four-poster, pyjama bottoms hanging loosely over his legs. There’s a hidden mourning that Harry feels in his chest for the laughter that had sprung from their lips before the interruption. 

Harry walks back to his own bed and sits upon it as he had, staring at the body before him. His gaze lingers upon the thoughtful expression on Malfoy’s face, and he’s content with just this, all night. 

Malfoy interrupts his tranquility. He shakes his head minutely as he asks, “Am I really so pathetic?”

Harry snaps to attention at once. “What?”

“A wounded crup, waiting to be saved by any Gryffindor that wanders my way,” he whispers. “Is that how I appear to you all, now?”

He blinks at him slowly, his mouth opening and closing before deciding upon the very eloquent, “What?”

Malfoy’s expression is at once painted with annoyance. He sits himself up and he turns to Harry, hands fisting the bedsheets beside him. He hisses at him, “Am I pathetic, Potter?”

“No, of course you aren’t pathetic. Where has this come from?”

“You’ve called me pathetic plenty of times before. What exactly has changed?” he asks, and though Harry opens his mouth to answer, to tell him that plenty of things have changed since their juvenile arguments in the Courtyard, Malfoy doesn’t let him speak. He continues, “You and your friends look at me now like I’m some sort of… I don’t know. But, Merlin, why is it that I need everyone’s help all of a sudden?”

“Someone is hunting you, Malfoy!” Harry bursts. “And I don’t look at you like that, you know that I don’t!”

“Your friends do, even though they don’t know a thing about me being —” He rolls his eyes pointedly. “ Hunted.”

“They weren’t! They’re just worried; they know that I wouldn’t be helping you if I didn’t need to!” he stresses.

Malfoy’s jaw tenses. “Trust me, Potter, everybody knows that.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he huffs, and pushes himself off of his bed, now. He raises his hands and he pulls at his hair, groaning his frustration. “God, you’re so—”

“I’m so what?” Malfoy asks, following him to stand. “I’m so…? I’m sure there’s plenty of words rocking around that empty head of yours.”

“Infuriating!” he shouts, turning to say so right at his face. “Every time I think that we’re finally getting somewhere, being civil, you just —”

“I just display basic emotions, which is just unforgivable. Forgive me for being pissed that I’m being treated like a child!”

Harry takes a step forward. “Nobody is treating you like a child, but you’re acting like one.”

“I’m not acting like a child!” he shouts back. 

“I don’t even know what you’re so angry at,” Harry continues, stepping closer again. “I’m helping you — I’m protecting you!”

“Nobody has stopped once to ask me if I can protect myself!” 

And Harry will soon regret it, but he splutters a laugh. “Right.”

Malfoy’s eyes transform to storms at once. There’s nothing in his face except anger, and Harry recognises how much of an asshole he is. He’s filled with rage and adrenaline, though, reeling off of the argument and the heat between them, and so he doesn’t apologise. He doesn’t apologise even though he really, really knows that he should. 

There’s a moment, then, where Harry is too wrapped up in the grey thunder in Malfoy’s eyes that he doesn’t notice him reaching for his pocket. Before he even knows it, Malfoy has grabbed his wand and the tip of it is at his throat, digging into his skin. They’re impossibly close, so close that Harry can feel the other man’s hot breath on his face. 

“That’s fucking low, Potter. Even for you,” Malfoy says to him. He doesn’t need to say anything else, because Harry knows that he’s thinking the exact same as he is. Memories of following Malfoy around the castle shoot to his mind — Snape’s Unbreakable Vow — the Astronomy Tower. Before he blinks them away, Harry’s half-convinced that he sees glossiness in his eyes. He finds himself calming down, at that, a heavy regret settling over himself and dissipating his anger. 

He thinks of conversations about everything and nothing, of how they had been actually acting like friends. Sitting opposite him and knocking knees. And somehow, he understands. It’s hard for Malfoy to admit that he needs help, and even harder to accept it. He remembers how hard he had seen the man fight Snape’s insistent cornering. How he had rebutted Dumbledore’s offers, in those moments Harry can never scrub from his mind. He knows that he needs the help — but his pride is too wounded at just the thought of it. At once, Harry thinks of Lucius. That seemed exactly the kind of thing that he’d nail into his son’s brain.

“Listen,” Harry says softly. He doesn’t raise his hands in surrender, doesn’t step away from him or his wand. He stays right where he is, his face mere inches away from Malfoy’s own. “I never meant to make you feel incapable. Nobody ever meant that. But I promise you, Draco, we don’t want to help you because we don’t think that you can’t help yourself; we want to help you because you deserve help.” 

Draco’s hand shakes and Harry feels it through his wand, the tip of it moving so subtly over his throat. Harry’s not sure why — perhaps because his words had gotten through to him more than he’d thought he would — but Draco’s eyes lose the thunder at once, instead widening with something akin to surprise. He doesn’t lower his wand — not yet, anyway.

“What?” he whispers. “You called… What?”

Harry lifts a hand, gently places his fingers around Draco’s wrist, and pushes until he lowers to the side of his hip. He still doesn't understand the shock but at the moment it’s welcome, so he drives his point in once again. “I don’t want to see you end up like those letters want. Nobody wants that, Draco. Please accept that we want to protect you so that doesn’t happen.”

After a long silence, Draco finally closes his agape mouth. He blinks away the wideness of his eyes and gulps, breathes in a shaky breath, and at last says to him, “Okay.”

“I’m sorry for shouting,” Harry says, a small smile sneaking back onto his face. 

“Me… Too,” he says back, though he still seems quite incapable, for whatever reason, of smiling back. “I— I’m sorry, too.” 

It’s only then that Harry realises — properly, entirely realises — how close they still are. He’s still holding onto Draco’s wrist, his fingers in a loop around it. Harry can count each and every eyelash from this distance. They’re long and quite dark, especially when you consider the shade of his hair, he thinks — and there’s some kind of demon in his mind that burrows in deep and makes him wonder about that old saying — carpets, drapes…

“Are you okay?” Harry asks, because he needs to interrupt this train of thought. When he speaks, it seems to startle them both. 

“I’m fine,” Draco tells him, and his voice breaks slightly. 

Harry bites his lip. “Bit of a hectic day.”

“Quite,” he agrees, before squeezing his eyes shut and stepping back, pulling his arm away from Harry. “Sorry, I… I should get some work done.”

Harry lets him, shuffling awkwardly to the bathroom as Draco turns his back to him. 

He covers his mouth with one hand as soon as he’s inside and the door is against his back, his other hand shooting down beneath his joggers and his underwear and grasping himself. His blood is pumping perhaps harder than it ever has before and his heart may explode, and, as he huffs small pants and moans against his hand, he wonders if Draco Malfoy really may be the death of him. 

Chapter Text

They stay up and talk every night for the rest of the week. 

It’s only a tiny bit strange at first. There’s an odd air about them the day after and Draco casts a muffliato around himself and the other Slytherins at each and every meal, but Harry doesn’t think about it too much. By the time they’re in their room in the evening, everything feels right. 

Harry only remembers to ask Draco about Hogsmeade when Ron asks on the Thursday, so that’s when they discuss it. Harry sits closer to the edge of the bed so their knees do more than just knock against each other, instead allowing their legs to slot beside the other, and neither of them mention it. 

Draco says, “Hogsmeade sounds like fun, as long as I’m not dragging you back here, drunk off your face.”

Harry snorts. “Yeah, that’s definitely how it went on Hallowe’en.”  

They talk for so long that night that Harry doesn’t even realise it when he falls asleep. He thinks, for half a second, that he’s in a different universe when he wakes up. It’s completely dark out, small specks of stars still visible in the night sky through the window. He still has his glasses on, the rim digging into his nose. It’s not any kind of light or movement that wakes him up; it’s a noise. 

The first thing that occurs to Harry is that it must be Draco making the noises. The second thing that occurs, upon hearing a gasp from the bed next to him, is that it must be a nightmare. Perhaps selfishly, the third thing that occurs is panic — because how many of Harry’s nightmares must Draco have heard before now? Had he been ignoring them on purpose? 

Harry pushes himself up on his arm, rubbing his eyes free of sleep. His neck aches, and he’s about to verbally complain before there’s another noise from the bed, a whimper this time. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and debates waking him up, but his eyes and ears finally adjust before he does so. 

There are no blankets draped over Draco’s figure, his pyjama-clad body laid out on his front, his shirt hiked up to expose his lower back. There’s a light dusting of near-translucent hair that’s illuminated by those stars that are still out. One of his legs is bent up whilst the other is out straight, the pose indecently showing off the roundness of his arse. One of his hands is tucked under his head and the other is next to his bright red water-bottle, fingertips just brushing it. His hair is already a mess. His eyes are shut tight, there’s a quirk in his brow, and Harry notices that his lips are parted, forming a pretty O-shape, jaw twitching. 

He realises at once what this is — and it’s not a nightmare. The subsequent whimper and the way he watches the man roll his hips down into the mattress… They tell him that. 

“Fuck,” Harry says, the whisper falling from his lips without warning. He slaps a hand to his mouth immediately, almost falling backwards into his bed. It would be better than falling forwards, he supposes. 

He should not be seeing this. His thoughts are running a mile a minute at just how much he should not be seeing this — at how invasive it is, at how awful he would feel if Draco ever found out, how disgusted he would be if someone ever did this to him. He pulls his glasses off of his face and throws them somewhere, hoping that they’ll end up somewhere vaguely near the bedside table. Then that hand at his mouth attacks his eyes instead, slamming over them with force and without a care or thought for potential concussions. 

“ Ow! ” he hisses, and this time he actually does fall back onto his bed. Whilst the visual problem is solved, it has greatly impacted his ability to find his wand so that he can solve the issue of audio. All that he’s able to blindly hear as he searches for it, mentally trying to wandlessly cast silencio or muffliato or anything at all (and wishing he’d listened a bit more when Hermione had tried to teach him), is an ongoing hum of moans, each in time with the sound of the mattress squeaking beneath him.

Harry bites his lip as he gives in and removes his hand from his eyes, just for the moment. He hopes that his awful eyesight will do for the moment, and though he tries to force his eyes away to look for his wand, all he can see when they flicker up is a blurry splodge moving up and down. It doesn’t help that he knows what the blurry splodge is, but he tries to push it out of his mind. Draco moans again and again and again before he finds it, and Harry considers himself so fucking lucky that bloody Voldemort didn’t plan to come back tonight.  

Harry lifts his wand, ready to cast as fast as possible, and there’s a heavy, sudden gasp — then nothing. 

He throws his wand to wherever his glasses had gotten to, and attempts to force himself to go back to sleep, having absolutely no doubt in his mind that his efforts would be entirely futile. 

*

He wakes up in a mood. Draco notices this at once, just coming out of the bathroom as Harry at last finds his glasses. His appearance puts him in an even worse mood as he mentally recounts the events of the night before, staring at Draco and his dripping wet hair with sleep-deprived eyes. Fucking Draco, with his fucking post-shower glow, and his fucking fingers tying his tie, and his fucking arse in those trousers that had looked better than treacle tart, last night. 

“What’s the matter with you?” he asks as they head to breakfast, water bottle swinging from his fingers without a care in the world.

“Nothing,” Harry grumbles, trying not to look at him. Each time he does, he feels his face burn red. He’s too tired for that, now. “Didn’t sleep well.”

“Hm, neither did I,” Draco comments offhandedly, as if these words don’t send Harry down another spiral because it certainly looked like he slept perfectly. “We did stay up quite late. I don’t even remember falling asleep at all.”

“No,” Harry says through gritted teeth. He has nothing else to add, and as they enter the Great Hall for breakfast, there’s the smell of bacon calling him that feels far more important.

Though there’s the release of Draco’s presence as they reach their table, Ron is on him at once, taking his space by Harry’s side as Draco goes to join his friends. There’s the immediate muffliato that shoots up around their conversation again, and its presence after his failure with the spell last night doesn’t do much to improve his mood at all. Neither does Ron.

“You can’t be pissy today, mate,” Ron is saying. “We’re going out! It’s going to be great, but not if you’ve got your wand in a knot.”

“I’ll be fine later,” Harry sighs. “I’m just shattered.”

“You didn’t sleep well?” Hermione asks from across the table. With a flick of her wand, there’s a cup of coffee pouring itself in front of Harry.

He grabs the cup and glugs it down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“That bad?” Ron hums. “Malfoy didn’t hit you with a sleep-deprivation hex, did he?”

Harry glares at him, partially to tell him that he’s ridiculous, and partially because he has absolutely no idea how close he is to the truth. He bites into his bacon sandwich and immediately drops it with regret. Brown sauce, not ketchup. For. Fuck. Sake. 

“Here,” Hermione says, and she’s passing him another one, one that Harry can see the tomato sauce dripping from. 

“Thanks,” he says. “I’ll be fine, I promise. I may need to convince him to skive off lunch so I can go for a kip, though.”

Ron pats him on the pack, says, “Can’t do that, Harry. You need to line your stomach for later! Don’t want a repeat of Parkinson over there,” and steals his orange juice. 

Harry sighs, wondering if he’ll even make it through his lessons without falling asleep. 

*

He makes it. Barely. He’s just lucky that they didn’t have History of Magic to get through, otherwise he would’ve ended up falling off of his stool. 

After lunch, he’d asked Draco if they could head to the Hospital Wing to ask Madam Pomfrey for a potion to wake him up a bit, but Draco had refused, telling him that there’s no such thing and he should just stick to coffee. 

They head down to Hogsmeade after meeting everyone else in the Common Room, Draco breaking away from him as soon as he sees the Slytherins. It’s just him, Parkinson, Zabini and Nott, and they crowd together away from Harry, no doubt so that Draco can rant about how annoying he’s been acting all day. 

Harry acts similarly, falling into step with Ron and Hermione in the snow. Hermione has her arm looped through his and Ron’s, plodding along between them. 

“How long are we staying out?” he asks, rubbing his eyes. 

“‘Til the sun rises,” Ron says with a laugh. “Don’t winge, Harry! This will be a night to remember.”

Harry groans loudly in protest, but all it causes is wider smiles on the faces of his friends. Hermione shakes him a little and Ron ruffles his hair. 

When they reach the Hog’s Head, Aberforth acts as if he’s not happy to see them all. He also says that there’s no way in Hell that he’s starting the discount early for them, and Harry’s less sure that that’s a lie. They somehow all squeeze onto a long table, all twenty of them. 

Nobody had wanted to exclude anyone who had wanted to come. It’s for that reason that they’re all squeezed in tightly, eight of them on each side of the table and one more on each end. Harry’s in the middle and against the wall, Hermione and then Ron on his left, Seamus, Dean and Luna in front of him. Draco is on his right with the rest of his friends spilling to the end of the table. Nobody had attempted to sit next to Harry, as if they’d expected the two of them to sit together. He’s not disappointed, or upset. He just… Notices. 

Draco basically ignores him though, favouring Parkinson instead. He has to take a moment to remind himself of what Malfoy had told him, that nothing was going on between the two of them. It’s not difficult to convince himself again after the comparison that Draco had drawn between them and himself and Hermione. 

Besides, he’s not sure what right he has to be jealous. What right does he have to have an opinion on Draco’s dating life at all? Of course, he has to protect him and everything, but not from anything like heartache. And sure, he’s been having… Thoughts about the man. Many, many thoughts about him, about his body and his mouth, and the way he says the most insane things about Harry taking him to bed, and — all throughout today, goddamn him — the sounds he makes when he’s rubbing his cock on his mattress. But none of that means that he’s allowed to let himself think of Draco the way that he had once thought of Ginny, with that green monster growling every time he’d see her around Dean or Michael. He doesn’t want to put all that on Draco. He really, really doesn’t have a right. 

Someone pushes a drink in front of him and he’s suddenly very glad indeed that he did come along, because he definitely needs a drink if he’s going to keep thinking of Draco’s moans and whimpers whilst sitting right fucking next to him. He gladly gulps down half the glass, not bothering to ask what’s in it, but it tastes nice, so he doesn’t care. As he slams down the cup back on the table, Luna’s looking at him with a smile on his face.

“Hello, Luna.”

“Hello, Harry,” she says back, all soft smiles. Her hands are around a glass of a sparkling purple liquid. 

“What’s that you’re drinking?” he asks, because he’s been wondering since Hallowe’en, since Draco had had quite a bit too much of it. 

“I’m not sure, really,” she tells him. “I just find that it makes my head swim, and so, I really quite like it. Would you care to try some?”

Harry smiles at her, holding up his own glass. “I’m alright for now. Thanks, though.”

“Perhaps you need it,” she tells him. “You certainly inhaled what you already have.”

“Erm… Yeah,” he says awkwardly. “I’ll let you know.”

“Okay,” she concedes. And then, directed next to him, “Would you like any, Draco?”

Harry turns his head and just notices that their conversation had, indeed, been observed by the man beside him for the last few moments. Draco doesn’t look back at him, his eyes fixated on Luna.

“Absolutely not,” Draco tells her. He’s nursing his own drink, and after a moment, Harry realises they both have the same. Fizzy and orange. “The last time I drank any of that, I completely embarrassed myself.”

“I’m sure Harry didn’t mind,” Luna says. “He’s quite forgiving.”

Draco looks at him, then. And he murmurs, “Right.”

All he can do is clear his throat and lift his glass. “Erm, what are we drinking?”

“Finnigan’s idea, naturally,” Draco tells him. “Firewhisky mixed with lemonade. Considering that you’ve already had most of it, it’s rather concerning that you weren’t aware.”

“Trust me,” Harry breathes, shaking his head and taking another sip. “I need it.”

Draco simply looks at him curiously. Harry can hardly handle the gaze on him, the feeling so intense that it’s making his cock stir in his trousers. God. He’s in trouble. His tiredness and hormones may really get the better of him, tonight. 

“Are we going to play another game?” someone asks from the other end of the table, either Justin or Ernie, Harry isn’t sure. Everybody turns to look at Seamus for an answer — everyone except for Draco, which Harry notes annoyingly in his peripheral vision. 

“Good to know I’m the leader of this alcoholic group of ours.” Seamus grins. “We can’t exactly do any dares as we’re all constrained. I have another idea, though, don’t you all worry. It’s one everyone will have to pay attention to, so there’s no getting distracted whilst waiting for your turn.”

“Get on with it, what is it?” Ron asks.

“Never Have I Ever,” Seamus says. “It’s simple. You go around one by one and say something that you’ve never done. If you have done whatever they say, you have to drink. For example —” He grins. “Never have I ever shared a room with Draco Malfoy.”

Harry rolls his eyes as he takes another drink from his glass, noting Nott, Zabini and Parkinson follow suit. Harry almost lets his mind get away with itself again until he remembers the sleepovers that Draco had mentioned they shared in their youth. 

“You have to drink, too,” Harry says to Draco. 

Draco frowns at him. “No, I don’t. I do not share a room with myself, that simply wouldn’t be sharing in the first place.” 

Hermione nods. “That’s true. I say that Malfoy doesn’t have to drink.”

“Thank you, Granger,” Draco says, nodding his head to her. “Okay, who’s next?” 

They go in seating succession, Luna the next to go after Seamus. They all look at her with an air of apprehension, unsure of whether they’d even understand what she’ll say or not. 

“Never have I ever… Dreamt that an Erumpent wanted to dance on my crops.”

Nobody drinks. 

“No, Luna, you have to say something you’ve never done yourself,” Hermione tells her. 

“I know. I’ve never done that.” 

Seamus claps his hands. “Okay! Parvati, you’re up.” 

They go around like that. Parvati says she’s never kissed a girl, and all of the boys drink (as well as Lisa Turpin and Sue Li, with particularly red faces). Padma says she’s never cheated on a test and Seamus takes half a sip, claiming that he’d only attempted to and it hadn’t even worked. Michael has never been caught out after hours but a good few of them have (including Harry). Zach Smith has never pretended to be ill to skip class, and only a few of them drink, Draco doing so reluctantly.  Justin Finch-Fletchley has never kissed any of the girls specifically at the table — and Ron, Sue Li, Lisa, Neville, and all the Slytherin boys drink. 

“What?” Harry whispers.

“Oh, don’t cry about it,” Draco says back. Harry has to take another long swig. 

Hannah has never thrown up from drinking before, but a lot of them have (mostly notably Parkinson, who apparently everyone had seen do so). Susan Bones has never failed a charms essay, a few of them have. 

Nott is the first to smirk as he says his, a flame lighting in his gaze. He says, “Never have I ever wanked whilst someone else was awake in the same room.” 

Seamus whistles his approval at the heating up of the game. “That’s the kind of question that’ll get us drunk, lads!” 

Zabini, Dean, Seamus, and Ron all drink. 

“What!” Harry exclaims. “Not while I was there? Please, God.”

They all avoid his eyes. Harry gags. 

“Never have I ever slept with anyone at this table,” Zabini says, a glint in his eye just like Nott’s. 

Seamus, Dean, Ron and Hermione all drink, to nobody’s surprise. Then Neville and Hannah drink too, which summons a bit more of a conversation. Ron slaps Neville on his back and Hannah hides her face in Susan’s shoulder. But Draco doesn’t drink, and neither does Parkinson, and for some stupid reason, it actually sates him.

Then Parkinson is next, and she says, “Never have I ever had a dirty dream about someone at the table.”

Draco drinks. In fact, a good chunk of the group do, but Harry’s not focused on that. He drinks as well, but almost chokes on it when he sees Draco lift his glass. He hates himself for wondering. He’s wondering everything, actually. Was it Parkinson? Or worse, was it Hermione? Luna? There’s plenty of options, and the only one that Harry would be fine with is impossible. 

Draco doesn’t catch his eye at this one — and Harry doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want to know which of the girls at the table he’d fantasised over — and more crucially, which of the girls was present in his mind as Harry had watched him last night. 

“Never have I ever,” Draco says, and then Harry’s suddenly panicking because he’s next and he’s not thought of anything. “Had a dirty dream about my best friend.”

Ron and Hermione both drink at that for each other, and so do Dean and Seamus. But neither Parkinson or Draco do, and it’s again as if there’s a weight that’s lifted off of Harry’s shoulders. Sure, it could just as easily be any of the other girls at the table, but there’s something about the fact that it’s not Parkinson that makes him feel good. And it’s not just that, either — It’s the fact that Draco even said it at all. Had he just been trying to squash the rumours once and for all? Or had he said it because he knew that Harry would be unable to stop thinking about it?

“Potter,” Draco says, nudging him gently with his elbow. 

“Come on, Harry. Your turn,” Dean says. 

“Right, fuck,” Harry blurts out, trying to think of one on the spot. “Um… Never have I ever… I don’t know… Never have I ever wanted to shag Parkinson.”

He cringes after he says it, and then even more when he sees the way that Draco raises an eyebrow at him. All he can do is apologise when Parkinson shoots him a glare, but he thinks that he’s ultimately forgiven as the fallout occurs. Justin and Michael drink at once and Zach Smith follows suit, followed by Dean (at which Seamus gasps and jokes about them discussing it later), Nott, who doesn’t seem all that embarrassed at saying that about his friend, and at last, Sue Li.

Draco doesn’t drink. 

“Well, thank you for that,” Parkinson says directly to Harry. “You’ve certainly stroked my ego for tonight. You can call me Pansy, though. We’re all friends, aren’t we?”

The table agrees, and suddenly given names are being thrown around everywhere. Blaise and Theo and Pansy and Draco. It makes Harry a little dizzy. 

It’s not until the game gets back to Seamus once again with little notable incident that Harry notices it; a stare that’s so piercing that Harry doesn’t know how he missed it in the first place. It’s dark and it’s stretched all the way across the table, directed right at himself and Draco and it makes Harry feel slightly sick. And for some reason, it’s coming from Zacharias Smith.

Seamus declares, a heavy slur in his speech now, “Never have I ever eaten a vagina!” and Aberforth is suddenly there, giving him a slap around the head and telling him to quiet down.

Ron drinks, but Harry attempts to ignore that. He drinks too, remembering that last night that he’d shared with Ginny before they’d broken up. His mind doesn’t linger on it. A few of the other boys drink as well (and Sue Li), but Draco doesn’t drink. 

“Hm,” Luna hums, fingernails tapping gently on her glass of mysterious liquid. “Never have I ever fantasised about a Professor.”

For a moment, nobody drinks, until Harry’s lips quirk into a smirk as he looks at Hermione and reminds the table, “Lockhart counts.”

There’s a series of groans at that, and practically all of the girls, apart from Sue Li and Pansy, take a drink. Seamus, too. Then Blaise drinks with a shrug of his shoulders and says, “Lockhart wasn’t quite my type, but Madam Pince? She’s scary hot.”

“Or just scary, I’d say,” Neville says. There’s scattered laughter of agreement. 

It's a relatively regular line up of questions until they reach Smith. Harry narrows his eyes at him as he watches him open his mouth, his eyes intent on the two of them even still. 

“Never have I ever kissed Harry Potter,” he says, eyes like a hawk on Draco’s hand, for whatever reason. Harry frowns with confusion, because then everyone is looking curiously at Draco — presumably for the same unknown reason. 

Draco stares right back at Smith, one daring eyebrow raised, either pointedly ignoring the stares from the others or not realising that they’re occurring at all. Harry’s leaning towards the first option. His hands stay on his lap, unmoving, obviously. The silence fills the table and leaves Harry feeling terribly confused. Is this what had been causing the glare from Smith? What has this got to do with anything? 

“Nobody at this table has kissed me,” he says with a laugh. 

“Finnigan, you should’ve rigged this game so you can’t lie, like you did with the other one,” Smith says. 

“Nobody is lying,” Harry replies. “Seriously. It’s only Cho and Ginny. And — Okay, one girl at a Muggle place over the Summer, but that’s it.” 

“Sure,” Smith continues. “That’s why you two have been spending every second together.”

Harry simply blinks at him, hearing only the ongoing silence and recognising the lack of surprise around the table at Smith's comments. At last, he finds his voice, because nobody else seems to and the longer he leaves it, the worse it looks. “Professor McGonagall appointed us to do this. Don’t make it weird.” 

His heart is pounding faster than it should be. He feels utterly transparent, like everyone in the room can see each and every one of the thoughts that have been plaguing his head about Draco for weeks. His palms are sweaty on the glass that he so desperately yearns to take another drink from. 

“Potter and I would prefer that you keep your perverted fantasies to yourself,” Draco says, and still, his eyes don’t leave Smith. “I think we’re all a bit too old to be spreading rumours about Harry Potter. And I think he’s quite tired of hearing them.”

Harry can’t take his eyes off of him as he finishes speaking, which probably isn’t helping his case. His heart is still beating vigorously but now it’s running warm, fluttering, dizzying his head where the moment had momentarily sobered him up. 

“Let’s keep it all a bit more lighthearted, shall we?” Seamus announces. “Harry and Malfoy — Draco, pardon me  — aren’t fucking! Great to hear. Justin, you’re up next!”

The game continues but Harry barely hears anything that is said. Draco is talking in whispers to Pansy, and Hermione is saying something in his ear, too, something no doubt logical about how Draco’s answer was perfect and how nobody will think that about them anymore. But what Harry can’t seem to wrap his head around is the fact that anybody had thought about that in the first place. Had his own friends been under that impression? Had the whole school? And for God’s sake, why? Was Harry really so fucking obvious; was his every thought projected upon his face? 

“Luna,” he says quietly, as Theodore ponders on what to ask, seemingly being whisper-shouted at by Pansy. “Could I please try some of your drink now?”

“Of course you can, Harry,” she says at once, pulling his empty glass forwards and instead filling it with her purple concoction. “I wouldn’t go parading it around Aberforth, though. He allows me to drink it in here, but I do think he likes me more than he likes you.”

“Sure thing.” He nods and takes the glass back, giving it a small sniff. It smells purely of an undetermined sweetness, perhaps most similar to a jam or a pie. 

Draco turns back to him, then. Harry, as ever, can’t place his expression. His eyes shoot down to the liquid in his hand, and back to his face. He says, “Don’t say that I didn’t warn you.”

Harry gulps. “You should join me, if you’re such an expert on the stuff.”

“I told her no, already. That’s alright, I’ll repay you for your taking me back last time.” His gaze drops then, though not to the glass in his hand. Just away from Harry’s face, examining his body instead. Harry’s just about to voice how weird it is when Draco says, “Though I can’t promise I’ll be able to carry you to bed.”

A large part of Harry wants to quickly shush him. There’s already such a misconception — and one that some people clearly have taken issue with. But he does nothing except meet his eyes, smile, and say, “Told you that you’re too skinny.”

He calms down some as the night goes on, though that might have equal part to do with Luna’s drink and Draco’s constant presence, the small words they exchange in the lulls of the game where people prefer to speak instead of play, much to Seamus’ upset. The drink most certainly agrees with him. His head feels lighter than it ever has, he’s dizzy but not, and his tongue feels looser by the minute. 

Hermione has her hand on his shoulder, her seat pushed back slightly so as to involve Ron in their conversation. Ron is completely plastered and Harry finds it utterly hilarious, small giggles tippling from his mouth when he least expects it. Hermione is certainly drunk, too. She trips over her words and forgets what she’s saying, her voice an octave higher than normal. 

“He — He was so red, Harry!” she practically shouts, laughter in her voice, tears in her eyes. “You— I wish that you’d seen it!”

“‘Didn’t mean t’,” Ron slurs, hands up in surrender. Harry has to lean closer to hear him, everyone around them following suit and talking louder and louder. “I thought they —” He hiccups. “— Were mine.”

Harry snorts, slapping the table, the image of Ron accidentally wearing his mother’s knickers being possibly the funniest thing that he’s ever heard of in his life. He bumps into Draco as he leans back and swears that the man has a sort of glow about him as he turns to apologise. 

“Oi! Malfoy,” Ron says, before Harry has a chance to speak. “Y’know… What you said before… Yeah. I reckon you’re a top fucking bloke for that. Smith’s a, uh, fucking asshole.”

Harry blinks at him, and turns back blankly to Draco. His grey eyes are half-lidded, a flush in his cheeks. He’s obviously trying to act more sober than he actually is. It’s almost adorable. 

“I agree,” Draco says. “Thank you, Weasley.”

“ Weasley. Malfoy. ” Hermione sighs dramatically. “I thought we were all using given names!”

“Weasley and I may need a bit more time to get to that stage,” Draco says, though there’s a small smile on his face. 

Ron keeps talking, oblivious to what either of them had said. “I mean, I… I dunno where it even came from!”

Harry licks the residue of purple from his lips, placing his glass down again. “What?”

“The rumour. About you two!” he tells them, pointing between him and Draco. “It’s all anyone is talking about. I don’t, you know, I don’t know about you, Malfoy… But Harry, here… Harry was with my little sister, did you know?”

Draco appears to take a deep breath. “I did know.”

“Yeah,” Ron says. “Well. I don’t know am— about you. But Harry is straight.”

Harry leans back in his chair, balancing on the back two legs. He almost closes his eyes but settles for just staring at the ceiling, thinking about how Ron is very likely wrong. Harry isn’t an expert on sexuality or anything of the sort, but he has a feeling that thinking about Draco’s body like he has been, getting himself off in the shower thinking of said fucking body… That’s probably not as straight as Ron would like him to be. 

It’s a gasp from his left that brings him back to reality, that stops his mind from wandering too far about his chest and those nipples and his mouth that matches them in colour perfectly — 

The gasp is from Hermione. Ron is now wrapped in a conversation with Dean and Seamus about how straight Harry is and how ridiculous the rumours are, because apparently he can’t talk about anything else at the moment. Draco has turned away, too, asking Luna something about the properties of the purple alcohol. Hermione is staring right at him, eyes wide. 

“What?” he asks quickly, hands shooting up in case there’s a spider on his cheek, or something. 

“Oh my God,” she says quietly, and doesn’t explain herself. She doesn’t really need to. Harry has long since stopped being surprised by her brilliance, but this time, she may as well be a legilimens. He would think that she is, but he knows that she would never betray his trust like that. 

“Er,” he says dumbly. Then he shrugs. “Well.”

“But you two,” she says, and it’s phrased like a question. Harry shakes his head. It’s the truth, and she believes him at once — nothing has happened between him and Draco. 

She leaves it alone after that, probably tearing herself up about whether she should’ve asked him about it at all, or waited to say something when sober. Harry tries not to think about the fact that he has just technically come out to his first ever person. He doesn’t think about the fact that he’s come out at all, because he doesn’t even technically know what he is, yet. With any luck, she’ll forget all about it. 

It’s a bit of a blur, from that point onwards. Harry mainly remembers listening to other people talk, confused on how and why his eyelids were moving slower than usual when he blinked. People shuffle around a bit, moving seats to talk to new people, but only one thing sticks in his mind — Smith staying exactly where he was, jaw clenched and brow furrowed. 

At some point, they all decide to leave and head back to the Castle. Either that, or Aberforth kicks them out. Harry’s not sure. He’s only vaguely aware of the fact that he’s helping Ron stay upright as they walk up the snowy lanes, Hermione underneath his other arm. Draco’s in his line of sight and so is Smith, just in case. There’s just something… 

Seamus and Dean head straight to their room (well, Dean’s room, but otherwise unoccupied so basically theirs) as soon as they get back to the Common Room, unable to keep their hands off of each other. Hermione takes Ron up to bed, who normally shares with Seamus anyway, and so she probably stays there. The Common Room slowly empties out, and Harry waits until Smith goes off to bed to make a move, too. 

“Okay,” he says, interrupting whatever Pansy had been saying. It’s only then that he realises that they’re the only ones left; himself and the four Slytherins. “Erm… Sorry. Draco, I think we should head up.”

Draco stares at him for a moment before saying something unintelligible to the other three, then turning back and nodding at him. “Quite.”

“Pshh.” Harry yawns. “Don’t act all high and mighty. You’re no more sober than I am.”

Draco stands up (no doubt while rolling his eyes), holding a hand out to pull Harry up. He takes it, and just comes shy of pulling him right on top of him before they both find their balance. 

“Goodnight,” Draco says to his friends.

“Night!” Harry adds. “See you tomorrow.”

They echo the sentiments with some humour in their expressions. Harry doesn’t think too much about it. 

Draco is doing just as he’d thought, pretending to be sober and trying to help Harry up the stairs when he trips up a few by himself. Harry has to remind himself to be quiet as he laughs at him, basking in the glory of being right. Draco’s face doesn’t lose any redness as they reach their room and stumble through the door. 

The buzz is still there in his head as he collapses onto his bed, face first. 

“No,” Draco hums. “You’re so going to regret sleeping in your clothes.”

“Don’t care,” Harry mumbles into his bedsheets. 

“You will. It’s my civic duty to protect you as well, you know,” he says, and Harry feels the bed next to him dip. “I’ll feel better that way, anyway. Doing what I can.”

“Mm,” Harry hums. “You know… You talk a lot when you’re drunk.” The presence beside him freezes, and Harry quickly adds, “No, I like it. I like… Knowing stuff about you.”

After a moment, the presence seems to relax again. “Is that so?”

“Mhm.” He rolls over onto his back and readjusts his glasses, peering up at him. “Like… When did you kiss Pansy?”

Draco rolls his eyes with vigor, a drunk smile appearing on his face that Harry can’t stop looking at. 

“Salazar, Potter. You have an obsession!” he says, and Harry can feel his face grow red, because it’s basically true. “How do you even know it was Pansy?”

“I… Don’t,” he concedes. “Who was it, then?”

He sighs, smile still on his face, and falls back onto the bed from where he was sitting, laying down alongside Harry. He says, “Okay, it was Pansy. But… Oh, it was ages ago. The Yule Ball. Considering how many people there tonight wanted to sleep with her, I was thoroughly unimpressed with her kissing ability.”

“I mean… I think we were all shit in Fourth Year.”

“What, you? Harry Potter? I remember Skeeter writing about how much practice you were getting!”

Harry splutters a laugh. “I never even kissed anyone until Fifth.” 

He nods. “The Ravenclaw girl? Chang?”

“Cho, yeah. Then… Ginny. A lot of kissing with Ginny. Not so much, with Cho.”

Draco frowns, and asks, “Do you miss her?”

“Which one?”

The frown is wiped from his face then, and Harry supposes that that basically gave him an answer anyway. Draco smiles again, a breathy chuckle coming from his mouth. “Either. Or the Muggle girl, whatever you said about her.”

“No,” he says at once. “Cho’s nice. She’s lovely, but nothing was going to happen there. Ginny… I’ll never have to miss her. She’ll always be around with the Weasleys, I’m just lucky that I don’t miss her like that. ” 

Draco doesn’t exactly respond to the answer he’s given. He simply nods his head again before asking, and somewhat bitterly, “And the Muggle girl?”

“Her lips were nice,” he offers. “I don’t think she ever gave me her name, though.”

Draco hesitates, then quickly covers his mouth as he laughs. “Merlin, Potter! You’re such a sleaze!”

“I’m not! Really, I’m not. It was just… An odd night. We didn’t — I didn’t do anything else with her.”

He’s not sure why he feels the need to explain himself. He doesn’t question it. Draco though, for whatever reason, appears to appreciate it. 

It’s a sudden realisation when he notices how close Draco’s face is to his own, and, as he examines every aspect of it through his squiffy glasses, he wonders how they keep ending up like this. It’s like at any given moment, he can count on Draco to be an inch or two away from his lips. Harry feels a familiar pang in his lower abdomen and presses his legs together. And he’d wondered why people had been spreading rumours about them…

Before Draco can speak again, Harry asks, “What do you think about… What people are saying?”

It’s received with the slow loss of his smile, but it’s not replaced with a frown. His face is instead more serious, his eyes wide, grey eyes flickering between both of his own. Harry knows he’s not stupid, he doesn’t need to clarify what he means. 

“What do I think about it?”

Harry shrugs. “Yeah. What do you think?”

“I… Don’t know,” Draco tells him. “I don’t think anything of that kind of gossip. I suppose that I’m mainly… Surprised that they’d think you’d lower yourself.” 

“Don’t say that,” Harry says quickly. “It wouldn’t — I wouldn’t be lowering myself.”

He licks his lips, then. And Draco’s eyes shoot right to it. Unmistakable. And the alcoholic buzz in Harry’s head and the distance between them all feel oddly like static, something there that he can’t define. He can’t seem to catch his breath. Beneath his trousers, Harry feels his cock getting hard. 

“I think Smith really is just a pervert,” Draco says quietly, breaking the moment.

Harry almost recoils at the name. “Maybe. I don’t know. There was something about him tonight…”

“I don’t know if there was.”

“I want to keep an eye on him, anyway,” he says. And then his arm is rising to Draco’s face without his say-so, and he’s pushing a few blond strands out of his eyes. He gulps, and adds, “Can I ask you something personal?”

Draco is the one to lick his lips now, and Harry realises how heavy his breathing is. He doesn’t mention the movement of hair out of his face. He just says, “Yes.”

Harry wastes no time. “Who was it that you’ve had… You know… Dreams about?”

Draco blinks the surprise into his widening eyes, his cheeks slowly getting more pink. His breathing quickens. He says, “Oh,” and the entire reaction elicits another throb of Harry’s quickly growing problem in his pants.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“I know,” he says. “Well… Why do you— Why are you asking me this?”

Harry gulps, and he’ll most probably regret the words that come out of his mouth, but he’ll blame Luna and her sparkly purple liquid if he does. Before he can stop himself, he answers, “Because you had one of them last night.”

Draco’s jaw drops, and Harry knows he’s ruined the moment. He performs a complete 180 by avoiding Harry’s eye, just when he’d just gotten used to staring into them without blinking. He watches as Draco pushes himself to sit up once again, muttering a disgruntled, “Fuck!” to himself as he runs his fingers through the hair that he’d just let Harry touch. 

He follows suit, sitting up alongside him and ignoring the way his head sways, begging him to lie down again. He rushes out, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“How — How did you —?”

Harry is really kicking himself. Had he not just come to the realisation the other day that Draco hated his pride being wounded? That he found embarrassment worse than anything?

“Erm,” he says, and debates for a moment whether to lie to him. He decides against it. “You woke me up.”

Draco stares at him, mortified. “ Fuck. ”

“No! No, I’m not — I mean that… Don’t be embarrassed.” He turns to face him wholly now, sitting upon his legs on the bed. “It — It was my fault, really, I didn’t find my wand in time to silence you or anything, so—”

“You witnessed all of it?! ” Draco booms, and now he’s looking torn between wanting to kill either Harry or himself. 

Harry hopes he decides upon him. He really should’ve kept his mouth shut. But he opens it again, “Yes. And then you said earlier—”

“Hold on,” he interrupts. “Is this why you’ve been in such a horrid mood with me all day?”

“Well — Yes, technically. But not really. Not with you. Just in a bad mood in general, because I couldn’t really get to sleep afterwards,” he explains. 

Draco peers at him through a squint, and Harry no longer has any idea of what’s going through either of their heads. He’s only glad that he can try to possibly pass all of this off on the fact that he’s drunk. 

He doesn’t say anything still, and so Harry, for whatever reason, keeps yapping. “Earlier, you drank when the question was about having a dirty dream about someone at the table. And I’ve been — It just made me wonder…”

Draco blinks rapidly, opens and closes his mouth with nothing spilling out of it. Until he finds his speech again, and all that he says is, “I’m not sure you want to know.”

And all Harry can assume from that is that it must be Pansy. Draco’s familiar with Harry’s issue there now, no matter how odd it may seem, and so surely that’s the only possible solution? 

“I’m going to go do my teeth,” Draco says, when Harry doesn’t push for another answer. “You really should get out of those clothes.”

Harry nods noncommittally, humming just to acknowledge that he’d heard him. He doesn’t reach for his buttons, doesn’t attempt to find his joggers. He simply lies back again, hands covering his face. 

He’s still there when he hears Draco leave the bathroom and get into his own bed. He’s basically half-asleep already, his eyes already closed behind his hands, and so it’s pure dumb-luck that he happens to hear what Draco has to say when he whispers over to him, “It wasn’t fucking Pansy.”

The last thought that Harry has before he slips into unconsciousness is; He wouldn’t lie about that.

Chapter Text

Nothing but pain shoots through his head as he wakes up, his eyes fighting hard to stay closed. There’s light flooding the room, though, and all that Harry can register is an immense discomfort all over his body. It’s not just the hangover, though that is a highly surmounting issue, but he comes to the bleak realisation that this has been the second night in a row in which he’s not made it to bed properly. He’s still strewn half on the mattress, his legs dangling off the side, his body turned awkwardly at the waist. It aches something awful — and it doesn’t help as he remembers that he’d not changed out of his clothes, an uncomfortable pressure blooming through his legs as the result of sleeping in jeans. He hadn’t removed his glasses, either, and the legs of them dig into the sides of head, the lenses surprising his vision and making him dizzier as his eyes finally open. 

“Good morning,” Harry hears from across the room — from the window, actually, with hands pushing back the curtains, and Harry knows at once the reason for his untimely awakening. 

His response is merely a groan, as he can’t even fathom the effort to get himself to speak at this moment in time. It’s bad enough just to move, but he does because he must, and he takes his glasses off at once. They remain in his outstretched hand as he buries his face in his arm, rolling over into a more comfortable position. 

But there’s something even worse that’s dawning on him — and it’s not just the memories of the night before, how he’d embarrassed both himself and Draco and had ruined a moment of proximity that he’d been very much enjoying. No, it’s worse than that: Draco Malfoy is most likely staring at him, waiting for a response, waiting for anything — and Harry has an absolutely raging erection pressing painfully at the zip on his jeans. 

It’s only lucky that he hasn’t seen it already, Harry thinks, as he rolls over so that his hips are against the mattress, hiding himself. Perhaps he had seen it, and is waiting for the perfect opportunity to bring it up so that he can mortify Harry just as much as Harry had done to him the night before. 

And God, it is painful. The jeans absolutely don’t help with this, but it would most likely be just as bad if they were non-existent — he’s sure that he’s almost poking a hole through the mattress and his balls are aching with such an immense pressure that he’s half-concerned that he’s been hexed; he’s never felt such an intense need to cum before. 

He blames the version of himself from last night. He’d been so hard, then, too, enjoying the sight and feeling of Draco laying so close to him, of his lips being just inches away from his own. He’d enjoyed the conversation they shared — how intimate and strange that it was to be talking about kissing with Draco Malfoy. How it had seemed like he may have continued the conversation if Harry had not brought up his dream. The stubbornness of his erection causes a throb of pleasure at the thought of it, at the idea of the impossible — Draco telling him that he’d been dreaming about him, that he’d touched him in his mind’s eye and the thought had been so strong and alluring that he’d woken up already covered in the remnants of the idea.

Harry only then notices how thick, how heavy his breathing has become. His hand aches to reach down and hold himself, to roll his hips down just as Draco had done in his sleep and had spiralled into this big problem now. But he’s still in the room, still waiting for Harry to say something. 

“I’m hungry,” Draco says, and Harry manages to open his eyes. He’s sitting on his bed, one leg over the other, watching him with his bright red water bottle in his hand. Harry almost cries at the sight. He would kill someone for some water. 

“Thirsty,” he croaks. 

“Are you?” Draco asks. Harry watches him bring the water bottle to his lips and sip, and it’s the cruelest thing in the world. 

He hasn’t been able to control his breathing, and the strength of it is beginning to hurt against the dryness of his throat. He’s only glad that he’d taken his glasses off, because he’s not sure what would happen to his erection if he looked upon the man clearly. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. He sees no sense in beating around the bush, and he really is sorry for bringing it up the way that he had. Besides, it may influence him to get him some water. “I’m really sorry for asking you about… You know. For saying about it at all.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, “So, you do remember. I was wondering.”

“I remember basically everything, I think,” he says. He has half a mind to sit up now, and he would if he could get his cock to calm down. But it doesn’t, so he remains where he is. “Seriously, Draco. I’m sorry.”

He can’t make out the blurry expression on Draco’s face but he can see the man’s mouth open and close, his head turning to the side a little. He’s already showered, Harry sees, noting the shade or two darker that his hair seems to be. It’s not a good thing to notice right now, because then his mind is filled with mental images of Draco in the shower, wet and soapy and naked. Harry screws his eyes closed again. 

“That’s alright,” Draco finally says. “It’s only the most embarrassing thing I could ever fathom.”

“I know,” Harry replies at once. There’s a far too horny part of his brain that almost wants to offer Draco the chance to have his own, to watch Harry whilst he orgasms to return the “embarrassment.” But then he’s really, really thinking about jerking off right here, with Draco watching his every move, waiting for him to spill over his knuckles with wide eyes. He squeezes his thighs together, and does not suggest that. “And I’m genuinely apologising. But I’m not going to, you know, make fun of you, or anything. Maybe I would, if it was about someone awful, but…”

“But I won’t tell you,” Draco finishes for him. “Of course, I won’t. That’s private, Potter. Why do you even want to know?” 

Closure, maybe? The impossible hope that it may have been him? 

“I don’t know,” Harry mumbles, rubbing his eye (and wishing he was rubbing something else). “It was someone at the table. I’m curious. There were only a handful of girls there.”

Draco scoffs, and tells him, “You seem suddenly certain that it was a girl.”

Harry forgets about his delicate, hungover head and the impossibly hard erection that he’s supposed to be hiding, and he’s sitting up in a flash. He pushes his glasses back onto his face. “What?”

Draco’s face is a picture of bright red. He’s staring at Harry with stark-wide eyes, surprise more than evident in his expression. His fingers are frozen now, where they had been awkwardly fiddling with the lid on his water bottle, the bright red base almost rivalling the colour of his cheeks.

Harry can’t think of anything else to say except what? again, and so he doesn’t say anything, though his mouth still hangs open. The quiet stretches between them, even his breathing seems to have paused with the heaviness and his cock has stopped throbbing due to the shock. All that’s happening is the quickening pumps of his heart in his chest, spreading that familiar static through his blood. 

“I don’t mean that —” Draco begins, then pauses and gulps. “I didn’t mean… I simply meant that you — you can’t make up your mind.”

Harry blinks at him. “What?”

“You — I mean that,” he stutters, and Harry just notices that his hands are shaking. “I didn’t phrase that correctly, it must still be the alcohol in my system.”

After a moment, Harry asks, “What did you mean, then?”

“I meant that you’ve changed your tune,” he says, his breathing somewhat steadying. “You’ve been whittling on about Pans, but before that… Well, you weren’t exactly quiet about what you thought was going on between myself and Facer.” 

Harry feels himself flood with realisation, because it does make sense when he phrases it like that. And when it is phrased like that, Harry also realises how outwardly weird that he’s been about Draco’s potential partners. Why does he have such an obsession? Is Draco weirded out by it, he wonders, because he certainly seems to have noticed it. 

“Right,” Harry says. 

“I was fucking neither of them,” Draco says, a new bite in his tone. “Despite what you seem to think, I’ve never fucked Pansy and Facer never fucked me. And whilst you’re thinking that, everybody else in the Wizarding World thinks you’re fucking me!”

“Right, b—”

Draco continues, getting seemingly more pissed off by the second, “I mean — It’s ridiculous! Do I really— Do I look like some sort of whore? Don’t answer that. Pansy is my best friend! Not to mention the world of trouble that Facer, a Ministry employee, would be in if it came out that he was screwing a Hogwarts student — Eighteen or not! And you —” 

He falters then, and Harry does too. They look at each other, and Harry’s cock wakes up again. 

“Well,” Draco says, all anger lost. He blinks. “Well. You’re you.” 

Harry doesn’t move. He doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t even know if there’s anything he could say. 

Draco speaks again into the quiet. “You and I… It’s ridiculous.”

Harry remains completely still. He doesn’t dare give the allusion of agreement by almost nodding. 

“Fuck,” Draco breathes, shaking his head and breaking the moment. “No — I’m too hungover and too hungry to deal with this right now. Get up and shower or whatever it is you need to do, or I’m leaving to get to breakfast without you.”

*

Harry rushes to get to the shower, but it’s not for Draco’s sake. Once he’s in there, he takes his sweet time — or attempts to, at least, because he’s spilling out over his hand with the spray over water on his face within only a few minutes, with Draco’s name muffled against the back of his hand. He basks in it afterwards though, in the sweet release so long anticipated. 

He and Draco head down to breakfast only slightly late, feeling slightly more alive. Harry’s seriously beginning to think that he’s discovered a new hangover cure. He’ll have to keep it in mind. 

When they reach the table, it’s basically deserted, to nobody’s surprise. Harry yawns as he reaches for his toast and waves a small hello over to Sue Li and Lisa, picking up the butter. Draco’s sitting next to him, bouncing his leg and getting himself some porridge. They don’t talk. 

It remains like that until a letter lands in front of them, just barely missing Draco’s cup of tea. It’s addressed to them both. Harry picks it up. 

‘Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Potter,

I trust you both had an exciting Friday night. My sympathies to your heads. 

I’d like to formally ask you both to meet me in my office as soon as you finish your breakfasts. 

The password is ‘rhubarb and custard’.

Yours sincerely,

Headmistress Minerva McGonagall.

Harry hands it to Draco, though he knows the man had been reading it over his shoulder. Worry immediately fills his chest and head, wondering if it could be news about Smith or Elborn, or the boy with the scar. Or perhaps worse, no news about it — the perpetrator still out there, still in the shadows. 

“What do you think it’s for?” he asks. 

“I don’t know,” Draco says, eyes still on the parchment. “But I’m done with breakfast, anyway. Can we go?”

Harry throws his toast down onto the plate, half-eaten, but he wasn’t hungry anyway. And they leave, too many beady eyes following them out. 

They make it to McGonagall’s office without seeing another pupil, but stopping to say good morning to Professor Flitwick. She’s standing up when they walk through the large doors, her back to them, seeming to be in a deep conversation with a portrait of Professor Dumbledore.

“Oh,” she says when Dumbledore points at them. “Oh, I must say, that was quicker than I had thought you would be.”

“Sorry,” Harry says. “We weren’t too hungry.”

“That’s quite alright, Mr. Potter. Please, both of you, take a seat. Have a biscuit,” she tells them, heading over to her chair. They both do as she says, sitting side by side in front of her desk, anxiety pooling in Harry’s gut for so many different reasons. 

Draco is bouncing his leg again, fiddling again with the lid of his water bottle. Harry wants to reach out and hold his knee but he doesn’t know quite how that would be received, so keeps his hands to himself. 

“First thing’s first, do either of you have anything to report?” 

“No,” Draco tells her.

“Yes,” Harry says at exactly the same time. He looks at him, then back at her. “Zacharias Smith has been watching us.”

Draco sighs. “Potter.”

“He has! And last night, he said —” He hesitates, sees the alarm on Draco’s face and stops. “He’s been making weird comments, Headmistress. And he was with those boys, the ones who attacked Draco —”

“They did not attack me,” Draco says. 

“Well,” McGonagall interrupts, holding up a hand. “We did look into all three of them, and we didn’t find anything.”

Harry’s heart sinks. “No.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Potter. And to you, Mr. Malfoy. I know you both want this over and done with.”

“Who investigated?” he asks. “Was it— Was it you, or was it Facer?”

She purses her lips, and Harry knows the answer. He doesn’t hold back when he rolls his eyes and she scolds, “Facer is still a Ministry employee, and you will treat him with respect, no matter your personal opinions of him. He came to the Castle and searched their personal effects, and he found nothing. In any case, he has been working under the assumption that the student is most likely Muggle-born, due to… Mr. Malfoy’s past. All three of the boys are Pure-blood.”

“That’s it? He didn’t have a team of Aurors, it was just him? What if he missed something?”

She gives him a stern look, and he leaves it alone — at least externally, because he’s thinking of about a hundred different things to scream about as soon as he and Draco get back to their room. 

She says, “Unfortunately, that is not the only news that I have for you both,” and pulls out a piece of parchment. She doesn’t show it to them, though, placing it on the desk in front of her. “This letter was intercepted yesterday morning. It was intended to be for you, Mr. Malfoy, and I will say that the contents of it… Are uniquely disturbing.”

Harry leans forward. Beside him, Draco leans back. 

“What does it say?” Harry hears him ask. 

McGonagall simply looks at him, a frown etched into her features. “There is a reason that I’m not showing you.” 

Harry looks between them. And he decides, “Let him see.”

“Mr. Potter…” 

“Let him read it, please. Draco deserves to know.”

He can feel the man’s gaze on him, but he holds eye contact with the Headmistress, firm yet pleading. 

“I…” she says gently, and sighs. “Very well. Mr. Potter, I shall allow you to read it. You are tasked with his protection, so I’ll leave it up to you on whether you still wish Mr. Malfoy to read it, afterwards.” She slides it over to him, sorrow in her gaze. Harry picks it up just as she says, “I must warn you that you are mentioned in it, Mr. Potter.”

Harry makes the briefest of eye contact with Draco. They can both guess what that may involve. 

“Do you mind?” he asks. Draco shakes his head, giving him his permission and his trust, and somehow that means more to him than any fantasy ever could. He looks at him for a moment more, studying his face and the anxiety it’s riddled with. He can’t allow it to persevere. 

He begins to read:

Draco Lucius Malfoy. 

Getting away with everything. HOW are you getting away with everything?! Everyone’s talking about it. Everyone’s talking about what you’re doing with Potter but nobody seems to want to DO anything about it. 

They’re all just letting you get away with poisoning Harry Potter’s mind. I don’t know what you’re doing to him, but I know it’s something. Is it the Imperius curse? I’ve heard you’re very familiar with that. I’ve heard it straight from Madam Rosmerta. Does it hurt to look her in the face? I hope she spits on you.

And I hope Harry Potter breaks free from your curse. I yearn for the very day that he realises what’s going on and crushes you under his thumb. Maybe then he’ll let me have a go at you. Or maybe I’ll still try it. Someone needs to make you hurt. 

I’m going to cut off your arm first. Pin it with a nail above the doors to the Great Hall. Beneath the elbow. Showing off your Mark. Do you know what I’d cut out then? Your tongue. How many people did you lie to using it in your trials? I would cut off your dick last. Freak. Did you do the same things for the Death Eaters you let into your House? Did you bend over for them, or is that reserved for the manipulation of the Saviour?

I’d bleed you so well, too. Do you know how many times I could cut into your throat before you bled out? I don’t. Not yet. But you've abused your blood status for too long, you no longer deserve to have it. There’s no fucking class there! Don’t you know ANYTHING?

See you soon. 

Harry folds it in half, fighting to keep down the bile from encroaching up his throat. He’s more than glad that he barely ate any breakfast, because it’s urgently threatening to make a re-appearance, and he has to press a hand to his mouth to stop it from coming up. He pushes it back to McGonagall, shaking his head. When he looks over at Draco, an apology in his gaze, there’s no anger looking back at him. He doesn’t fight Harry’s choice at all. He can’t thank him enough for that. 

“Professor,” he says quietly. “That’s…”

“I know,” McGonagall says, her voice just as somber. “This is a particularly rough one. I am just worried that he is becoming restless, Mr. Potter. You must be on guard.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, because he does. And he swears to himself in that moment — no more alcohol until this is all over and done with. Aberforth’s December deals will just have to be revisited again, next year. 

“That brings me to my final point,” she says, taking back the parchment and placing it under her desk, out of sight. “What are your plans for the Christmas holidays?”

Harry blinks at her. “I… Don’t know.”

He doesn’t. He hadn’t even thought about it. Truth be told, when this arrangement had started, a part of him had believed that it would be over and done with in a matter of weeks. The possibility of it lasting throughout Christmas had not entered his mind, and he had barely given a thought to the holidays in general, lately. He hasn’t even bought any presents for anyone yet. 

Beside him, Draco sighs. “I was supposed to be holidaying in the South of France.”

“I am afraid you will need to cancel your holiday, Mr. Malfoy. We’ll need to be able to access you easily, if anything happens.”

Draco just nods. “I figured.”

“And you, Mr. Potter?”

Harry shrugs. “I suppose I would be just going back to the Weasleys, Professor. But…”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “But?”

“Well, it’s not quite fair, is it? That I get to see the Weasleys, and Draco doesn’t get to see his… Family.” He hesitates, because it wouldn’t really be his family. His mother, most certainly, but all the rest just friends. Lucius would most certainly not be there. 

“I don’t mind, Potter,” Draco says. “Though I doubt I would be a welcome guest, anyway.” 

Harry bites his lip. He’s really not sure what the reception would be. They're the kindest people he’s ever met in his life. They may hate him. 

“You two are both more than welcome, as you know, to remain in Hogwarts over the break. I, myself, will be here as well. In fact, it may be the best option.”

Harry nods, trying to think of a way to break it to Ron when he next sees him — a hungover Ron, at that. But it may be okay. Perhaps they’ll be able to do a day visit. Would they even allow Draco to the Burrow for that? Would they shun Harry for just associating with him, for daring to bring him into their home — a man who had sided with the people who killed Fred? 

He’ll think about that later.

“That’ll be great,” Harry says. 

“Yes,” Draco agrees. “Thank you.”

She sees them out of her office after that, giving them both a biscuit each for their way back. Draco nibbles on his own, staring at the floor as they make their way back to their room.

“What’s up?” Harry asks, nudging him with his shoulder. “Is it the letter?”

“What?” Draco says. “Oh, no. Pansy’s going to kill me for not going to France.”

Through his disbelief, Harry laughs, and holds the door to the Common Room open for him. 

*

They’re just getting into bed that night, teeth already brushed and everything, when Draco asks the question. Harry's been ready for it. He hasn’t been able to think of anything else all day, it’s only those horrific words sprawled on some old parchment that fill his head. 

“Was it really bad?” Draco asks softly. Harry turns to him, thankful that he hadn’t yet removed his glasses, and sees him pull the blanket up to his chin. He’s staring at him. 

He doesn’t bother lying to him for comfort. If it wasn’t bad, he would’ve read it himself. He says, “Yeah. Yeah, it was quite bad.”

After a few seconds, he replies, “I don’t know why I’m surprised at all.”

“Of course, it’s surprising. I’m surprised.”

“You didn’t read the other letters,” Draco points out, and he releases a shaky breath. “They’re all bad.”

Harry frowns. He knows what he has to do. He doesn’t stop to think about it because he knows that he’ll just talk himself out of it, so he acts. He pushes himself out of his bed and sits himself instead on Draco’s, next to his chest. The man’s eyes are as wide as saucers, but by some miracle, he doesn’t tell Harry to fuck off. 

“Listen to me,” he says. “He’s not going to do any of that shit. As long as I’m breathing, Draco, he’s not going to touch a hair on your head.”

Draco’s wide gaze slips between each of his eyes, his lips parting with a small gasp. Harry sees his fist twist in the bedsheets between them. 

Finally, Draco whispers, “I know, Potter. Thank you.”

Harry smiles at him. “Good. And it’s — It’s Harry, by the way.” 

“Sorry?”

“My name. It’s Harry,” he tells him. “You don’t have to keep calling me Potter. Especially not if I’m calling all of your friends by their given names.”

Draco blinks at him. “No.”

“Come on,” he says, shuffling closer. “The world isn’t going to end if you call me Harry.”

With the most serious look on his face, Draco whispers, “I’m not so sure.” 

“Okay, well,” Harry concedes. “I’ll be waiting for the day, then.” 

Draco nods, and doesn’t say anything else, so Harry takes it as his cue to head back to his own bed. He pulls the covers over himself, wondering if the cold nights may be better suited with a pyjama shirt like Draco’s. 

But something flitters into his mind — why, he isn’t sure. It simply beats in like a butterfly to his mind, and he refuses to hold it on the tip of his tongue. 

“Draco?”

A moment of silence follows, and Harry wonders if he’s supposed to suspend his belief and be convinced that the man in the bed across from him is already asleep. But eventually, it comes — “Yes?”

“Why didn’t you want me to know about the letters? Specifically me?”

Harry hears a sharp breath. He’s entirely convinced that he really isn’t going to respond, until he does. His voice shakes.

“You are the one person I know who manages to be so selflessly caring, even when faced with an enemy,” Draco says, and the truth in his tone makes Harry’s head hurt. “I knew that if you heard about what was going on, you’d insert yourself. I wasn’t quite sure, at the time, that I’d be able to face that. I thought keeping you out of it was for the better.”

Harry doesn’t answer this. He doesn’t know if words would do him justice. So he rolls over, blanket to his chest, and closes his eyes to a million flying thoughts ready to attack his subconscious. The last thought that makes an appearance before drifting off to his dreams almost jolts him awake all over again. 

Would they really be so ridiculous?

Chapter Text

December seems to go by in a flash. 

It is mostly filled with the library, to be honest, so Harry supposes that the pace of it is a good thing. It’s also filled with apologising to Ron that he won’t be back for Christmas, with Ron saying it’s not him that he has to be worried about, it’s his mum. It's filled with subsequently endless owls from Molly, telling him that he’s got something wrong with him if he thinks that she’s going to allow him to not be at home on Christmas Day. It’s filled with glaring at Zacharias Smith and keeping an eye out for those other two boys. It’s filled with trying to convince Draco that he won’t be ripped apart by a pack of wolves if he joins them on Christmas Day. 

Everybody has already headed home from Hogwarts for the holidays. It’s Christmas Eve. Harry and Draco still haven’t come to an agreement on whether to head to the Burrow or not, tomorrow. 

He also hasn’t done his Christmas shopping.

“—Can’t believe that you’ve left it so late!” Draco huffs as they make their way down the lane to Hogsmeade, both of them stuffed full of lunch. 

“I heard you the first time. You sound like Hermione.” Harry laughs, watching his breath in the air in front of him. 

“Good. Maybe it’ll remind you that you should’ve gotten her a present already.” 

“I know! I know. I forgot, okay?” he says. They enter the village at last, and the shopping commences. 

It turns out that it’s a bit of a hobby of Draco’s. He enjoys it more than Harry normally does, anyway, but that’s alright. Harry watches him flit around different areas of the shops like he runs them, giving Harry his recommendations for this friend or that. Harry has ended up walking around with at least ten bags dangling from his arms. Draco’s only just finished asking if Hagrid would be offended or pleased with dragonhide boots (because they really make a very good gift, however he knows of his affinity with dragons and wouldn’t want to waste the money because it would certainly cost a lot of money to custom order them in his size), when Harry mentions that he’ll need something for Ginny. 

“Oh,” Draco says, picking at one of his nails. “Yes, of course. She — She’s a particularly talented Quidditch player, isn’t she? Spintwitches will have something.”

“Right,” Harry agrees, and they dredge up the snowy road. 

Spintwitches is quiet, and Draco is, too. He’s looking at the broomsticks with a curious solemnity, running his fingers down the wood. 

“She doesn’t need a broom,” Harry tells him. 

“Oh.” Draco nods. “Okay. How about these? Gwenog Jones actually uses these very same goggles, did you know? She needs to have good ones, what with the weather in Wales…”

Harry chuckles. “They’re nice, but a bit… Too nice.”

Draco frowns at him, placing the goggles back down onto the counter. “How can something be too nice?”

“Well, they’re a bit expensive. I don’t, you know, want to give her the wrong idea.”

His eyebrows raise up his forehead, his lips parting minutely. He says, “The wrong idea.”

“I’m not planning on getting back together with her any time soon.” He shrugs. “I don’t want her to think that’s what I want. I certainly don’t want Ron or Mrs. Weasley to think that, either.” 

“Oh,” Draco says, and turns around. After a few seconds, he picks up a bog-standard broomstick repair kit. “It’s not the cheapest, so it’s not thoughtless.”

Harry grins at him, taking it from him. “You do know that the thoughtfulness of gifts isn’t measured by how much they cost?”

“You’re the one who started going on about prices, Potter.”

Harry buys the kit with a smile, adding yet another bag to the mountains on his arms. He tells Draco that they could probably split the pile, and he’s told firmly that they’re Harry’s gifts, not his. He’s wearing fluffy brown earmuffs that ruffle his hair more than the wind when they step outside of the shop again, back into the snow. Harry loves them. 

“Back to the Castle?” Draco asks. “You’ve surely not got anybody else to buy something for.”

“Nope, that’s me all done,” he says. “We can pop into the Hog’s Head, if you’d like. It’d give us a break before we have to head back with… All of this.”

Draco agrees, though does tell him that they can’t stay for too long; if he leaves it too late, there’s no way that all of the presents will get to their recipients in time. They clamber inside the dingy pub, giving Aberforth a wave as they find a corner for themselves. Harry’s just glad to dump all of the bags. 

“He has that deal on, doesn’t he?” Draco says. “Shall we share a bottle of wine?”

“A bottle?” Harry laughs. “I thought you didn’t want to stay for long.”

He shrugs. “It’s been forever since I sat down with a glass of wine.”

“Well, I don’t think you’ll find anything to your standard in this pub,” he tells him, still grinning. “Besides, I’m fine without. I want to try and stay vigilant, like McGonagall said.”

With a sigh, Draco tells him, “You’re probably right. About all of that. Merlin, I would kill for a nice Elf-made wine, though.”

“That’s… Better, right?”

“Yes, Potter, that’s better,” Draco scoffs. “Don’t tell me you don’t know the difference.”

“I’ve not really had a lot of wine,” he admits. “So I can’t say that it’s ever really been a priority of mine to know about.”

“But —” He shifts in his seat. “You’ve never had Elf-made wine?”

Harry shakes his head. 

Draco shakes his own right back at him. “You must. You simply must. I promise you, Potter, it will change your life.”

He grins. “Well, I’ll have to, then.” 

They stay a while, just talking until Aberforth tells them to order something or get out. They make it clear that they spent enough money there the last time they were there, and the two of them pile the bags of presents back onto Harry’s arms. Draco takes two (how kind) and they leave one behind on their table, with a card on top reading ‘Merry Christmas, Aberforth!’

They’re waddling through the snow back up to the Castle again when Harry hears his name being called. It’s startling enough that he almost drops one of the bags, almost slips right over when he turns on the ice. 

“Madam Rosmerta?” Harry says, as she runs close enough to hear him. “Are you okay?”

She takes a moment to catch her breath. When she looks up again, her gaze lingers upon Draco. She gulps. Then turns back to Harry. 

“I thought I ought to tell you,” she rushes. “‘Was just about to owl Minnie when I saw the two of you.”

“What happened?” Harry asks. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” she reassures him, but then she’s nodding her head towards Draco, and saying, “He may not be, though.”

Harry takes a side-step closer to him. He asks her once again, “What happened?”

“I overheard some chatter, just a bit ago when I was taking out the bins,” she explains. “I only heard him, didn’t see the boy. Could only just make out by his voice that he’s a kid at all. He was talking to someone about something, some sort of plan… A plan to hurt you, Mr. Malfoy.” 

Draco gulps. He doesn’t say anything. 

Harry presses on. “Did they say anything about the plan? Dates, times?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Just that it seemed like the plan to… Well, he didn’t use very nice language, I will tell you that. The plan to rough him up was going too far, he said. Someone was worrying them.”

Harry’s brow furrows. “Going too far?” 

“That’s what he said.”

He stares at the ground, thinking. Had it been a group all along? Had they been looking for just one perpetrator when all along it could have been multiple, never seeming too suspicious because their gazes took it in turns to watch them?

“We have to go to McGonagall,” Harry says suddenly. “Thanks, Rosmerta. Draco, come on.”

He goes to leave, already moving his legs away, but Draco remains still. He’s still looking at her. Harry can feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins, desperate to get to the Headmistress’s office, but he doesn’t pressure him. He knows their history.

“Thank you,” Draco says to her softly, voice just audible above the whirl of wind. “You didn’t need to tell us, at all.”

Rosmerta takes a deep breath in and out, and gives him a small smile. “Of course I did,” she tells him. “I hear our Harry’s been a good influence on you, anyway. So… You know. Bygones will be bygones.” She places a hand on his shoulder. “Keep yourself safe, lad.”

He nods at her, smiling right back, and then the two of them are running back to Castle, bags knocking into one another. It’s only when they reach the Courtyard that Draco speaks again, stopping Harry’s sprint.

“Let’s go to the Owlery, first,” he says. 

Harry just looks at him as though he has three heads. “Erm. No?” 

Draco rolls his eyes. “Not to mention convenience, Potter, with all of these bags, but they really won’t get to everyone before tomorrow unless we go now. And what exactly would your plan be if McGonagall tells us to go straight back to our room and stay there?”

He sighs, because he knows that it makes sense. It’s his own fault for leaving it so late, he supposes, but he’s desperate to get to McGonagall, because it feels like it’s on the tip of his tongue. Facer had declared the perpetrator to be a muggle-born, but there was no evidence for that, just probability. And Harry’s brain can’t stop thinking about one particular line in that horrid letter…

“Will you make a decision?” Draco says, interrupting his thoughts as he so often does. “I’m freezing .”

“Fine,” he says. “But then we’re going straight to her office.”

“Fine,” Draco echoes. 

They run to the Owlery and walk up the many stairs, all covered in ice, because Harry would be damned if either of them died from slipping and breaking their necks after everything. The sheer amount of bags on Harry’s arms is almost too wide to get through the archway at the top but they manage, and Harry gives the birds an apology before starting to hand the gifts out. 

His fingers get nipped multiple times when he’s not paying attention to what he’s doing, instead staring over at the silhouette of Draco against the quickly darkening sky, the Winter sun having grown bored of its short day already. He sees Draco talking to a small owl and stroking it, and it makes Harry think.

“You had an Eagle Owl, didn’t you?”

Draco turns to look at him, a half-smile of recollection appearing on his face. “Ulysses, yes.”

Harry debates asking, for a moment. Then he does. “What happened to him?”

Draco turns back to the bird beneath his finger, rubbing his head. He clears his throat around an obvious lump and tells him, “He made too much noise, when… People were trying to sleep in the Manor.”

Harry feels a chill run through him. “I’m sorry. I… I lost Hedwig, too, in the War.” 

“I had heard,” he replies, and he looks back up at him again. “I’m sorry, too.” 

Harry offers a small smile, and quickly yelps as the owl he’d been neglecting decides to bite him again. 

*

They’re all too lucky that McGonagall hasn’t decided to change the password to her office, and so they let themselves in, just hoping that she’s not in the middle of a meeting. When Harry knocks at the door, it opens at once. It turns out that luck truly is on their side, because she’s alone, scribbling something onto a piece of parchment at her desk. 

“Well, hello, Mr. Potter. Hello, Mr. Malfoy,” she greets, placing down her quill and peering up at them through her glasses. “What may I do for you? Has something happened?”

“Yes. Sort of,” Harry tells her, still catching his breath from the run from the Owlery. “We— We were out, you see. In Hogsmeade. We were just walking back when we got stopped by Madam Rosmerta.”

It’s a minute action, but Harry sees her eyes shoot to Draco. He stiffens at his side, and Harry knows that he’d seen it, too. 

“Yes?” she prompts. “Is everything okay?”

“She told us that she’d overheard a boy telling someone else that their plan for Draco has —” Harry lifts his fingers to act as air quotes, “ gone too far. She was about to send you an owl when she saw us.” 

Her expression turns serious at once. “So there are multiple people involved?”

“Yes. And it has to be at least three,” Harry says. “It was one boy talking to someone else about a third person, someone who was worrying them both.”

“It may have first been the three of them, and two of them lost control of the third, you mean?” McGonagall asks.

“Exactly.” Harry clenches his jaw. “And Zacharias Smith hasn’t gone home for Christmas.”

She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes. “Mr. Potter—”

“No, I know that Facer didn’t find anything on him, or on the other two, but they could be writing them anywhere! Using spare parchment in the library, even! I’m not saying that Smith is the one who has gotten out of hand, but Professor…” He sighs. “It’s the three of them. I just — I just know it.”

“You know how much your word means to me, Harry,” she says gently. “But I’m afraid that if we cannot find the parchment or quills to link them back to the letters, we’re unable to take action.” 

Harry falters at that. He’s staring at his feet, trying to think of something else to say that would help his cause. 

“It makes sense,” Draco says, the first thing since entering the room. “I wasn’t convinced that it was Smith either, but… The first Owls that you received, Headmistress, they were simply demanding that I was not to return. That must have been the three of them, coming together to try and think of a way to ensure I don’t come back. Once it didn’t work… One of them took it upon themselves to begin threatening me.”

“That may be the case, Mr. Malfoy, but it doesn’t implicate Mr. Smith, nor the other two. I’m sorry, but without hard evidence, you cannot go throwing around accusations. I thought that especially you knew this now, Mr. Potter.”

Harry can’t help but dig his fingernails into his palm. Beside him, Draco sniffles. When he looks over, he’s not crying. Just cold. 

“Well, I don’t think they’re muggle-borns, either,” Harry tells her. “I think Facer is completely wrong about that, and not just because I think he’s useless anyway. I’ve been thinking about it, and the most recent letter… The line about pure-bloods, about having no class… To me, it just feels like they’re chastising Draco from inside the house, so to speak.”

McGonagall just looks at him, then, fingers tapping on her desk. She releases another long breath. “You may be correct about that.” 

“You said that all three of them, Smith and the other two, are pure-bloods,” he says, and hates how pleading he sounds. “Professor… It all adds up.”

“I will contact Auror Facer again,” she tells them. “In the meantime, I know that you were hoping to see Mr. Weasley and his family tomorrow. I think it would be a good idea to get away from Hogwarts for the day, especially as we know that at least two of them have stayed behind for the holidays, if they were in Hogsmeade.” She turns to Draco. “I am sorry, Mr. Malfoy, but France is simply too far away to safely get to you in time, in case anything happens.” 

“That’s alright,” he says. Harry’s gaze lingers on his face, but his expression betrays nothing of his true thoughts. He sniffles again. 

“When would you want us back from the Burrow, Professor?” Harry asks. 

“Oh, Boxing Day, if you would. I do feel safer knowing that you’re in the Castle, especially with the protective enchantments on your room.” She gives him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry it can’t be longer.”

“That’s fine,” Harry tells her. 

“You can both Floo from here in the morning. If I’m not in here, let yourselves in. It’s Christmas, so I won’t impose a time limit on either of you.” 

They thank her and wish her a preemptive Merry Christmas, showing themselves out of her office. The corridors are still deserted as they make their way back to the Eighth-Year dormitories, and they end up walking a little closer to one another than usual. Harry has to bless him on three separate occasions when Draco sneezes. 

Just as they reach the adjacent corridor to the dorms, Draco releases a breathy laugh. 

“What?” Harry asks. 

“It’s just… I can’t believe that you lived like this,” he tells him, shaking his head. “You’ve lived basically every year at Hogwarts having to look over your shoulder because someone was trying to kill you. You didn’t have anyone to protect you, like you are for me.”

“Erm, yes, I did?” Harry says. “I always had Ron and Hermione watching out for me. And, you know, Dumbledore as well. He was basically omniscient with what went on around here.”

Draco’s gaze lingers on his face, and Harry feels it heat up. He doesn’t have to look to know that it’s an appreciative stare that the man is giving him. Harry knows by now that all Draco needs sometimes is some reassurance. 

They enter the Common Room, Harry’s eyes scanning it at once. They find that which he had not wanted to: Smith sitting in front of the fire all alone, watching the flames flicker. 

“You two been out on a date?” he asks, and Draco has to physically pull on Harry’s arm to stop him from approaching him. 

“McGonagall’s office, actually,” Harry tells him. If he really is involved, he hopes that it invokes fear in the man. 

“Not the most romantic of settings,” Smith remarks. “But I suppose romance is low on the list when you’re just using him for a shag.”

Harry doesn’t know which one of them that’s directed towards, but Draco doesn’t let him stick around to find out. He pulls him towards the stairs and up to their bedroom, and when they finally get there, Harry slams the door behind them. 

“That tosser, ” Harry spits. He throws himself onto his bed, at which he simply hears Draco snort. Harry turns to him. “How does he not piss you off?!”

“He does, especially if he’s trying to kill me,” Draco tells him, sitting on his own bed. “But apparently everybody is saying the same sort of thing as he just has.”

“Okay, so they’re all tossers.” Harry sighs. “All weird perverts. But he’s an extra-tosser, anyway.”

Draco just nods, kicking his shoes off and pushing them under his bed. Then he leans back on the bed, picking up his bright red water bottle from the bedside table and taking a long sip before sneezing. 

“Uh oh,” Harry says. Draco looks at him, eyebrows furrowed, before sneezing again. Harry smiles and says once more, “Uh oh.”

“What?” he asks defensively, and Harry can hear how nasally he is, now. 

“You’ve been sniffling and sneezing since we got back from the Owlery,” Harry responds. “You’ve caught a cold.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, and then he sneezes again. 

“Uh oh,” Harry says, laughing at him now. “Draco’s got a cold.”

“I do not!” Draco protests, sniffing once again. 

Harry pushes himself up from his bed, grinning. “You can’t go to the Weasley’s like that. Not only will it be miserable, but you’ll probably pass it on to everyone. Come on, let’s see if Madam Pomfrey has any Pepper-Up left.”

At once, Draco says, “No.”

“Draco, you can’t just —”

“I’m not going there!” he shouts, and the grin slips from Harry’s face. Draco has brought his knees to his chest, his eyes firmly planted on the bedsheets. 

Harry sits himself next to him. “Can you please tell me what this is all about?”

Draco doesn’t say anything, keeping his eyes down. Harry watches his fingers tighten around the fabric of his trousers, knuckles turning white. 

Harry speaks again. “I don’t want to push you or anything, but I’d really like to know.”

The man sniffles again, and this time Harry has to check to make sure that he’s not crying. But no, his eyes are dry, just wide and still. 

“It’s embarrassing,” he mumbles, and Harry releases a quiet sigh.

“I’d bet money that it’s not.” 

Draco looks up at him, then, finally meeting his eyes. “Well, you have an odd concept of what’s embarrassing, anyway.”

“All the more reason to tell me,” he says, offering him a smile. 

Draco doesn’t return it, but it seems to comfort him some. After a moment, he tells him, “After the War and everything… I had terrible nightmares.”

Harry nods, because that’s something he can understand all too well. He keeps his eyes fixated on Draco’s face, trying to push out of his mind every terror that had been plaguing his dreams for years, now. 

“Mother sent me to St. Mungo’s, but as you can imagine, it was overwhelmed with patients. They gave me a prescription of dreamless sleep, and they sent me on my way.”

Harry was no stranger to dreamless sleep. He had first encountered it after Voldemort had returned — after Cedric. But he had succumbed to using it on a few occasions over the Summer, when his eyes wouldn’t shut without showing him a corpse. 

“St. Mungo’s was obviously not too busy to liaise with McGonagall and Pomfrey when news spread that I was to be returning. She visited me in August, after the first letter had been sent, and offered me a —” He pauses, rolls his eyes, “— A Mind-Healer. I told her that if she could get me some more dreamless sleep, then I wouldn’t need to talk to anyone at all. That’s when she asked how I could have possibly ran out of a year’s supply so quickly, and… Well.” 

Harry stares at him. “What? Draco, you’re not meant to take that—”

“More than once a week, I know.” He glares at him. “But, Potter, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t sleep without it after it was given to me, and the dreams kept getting worse — You can ask Mother, I was like a walking corpse. The bloody letters didn’t help, either.” 

All he can do is shake his head. “You could’ve died.”

“I didn’t, unfortunately for some students.” He shrugs. “Pomfrey has been on my hide ever since then, making sure that I hadn’t found a way to start taking it again. And I haven’t,” he adds quickly, most likely upon seeing the look on Harry’s face. “I haven’t touched it since she visited me. I’m not stupid.”

“Good,” Harry says, nudging closer to the bed. “But I… I haven’t heard you have any nightmares, even though you stopped taking it.”

“Of course, you haven’t,” Draco says, and he appears confused. “I silence myself.”

Harry blinks at him. “ What ?” 

“What?” Draco asks, and he seems genuinely bewildered. “You don’t want to hear me waking up screaming, Potter.”

“No, I — Do you know how dangerous that is?” he rebuts. “What if someone had broken in? What if you needed help and I couldn’t hear you?”

Draco scoffs. “This room is protected.”

“Oh, and nobody has ever surpassed protective enchantments?” Harry asks. “You and I both know that if there is a will, there is a way.” 

“So what do you suggest, exactly? I keep us both awake at night? The last time that I forgot to silence myself, I—” He pauses, clears his throat, a pink betrayal sneaking up his neck to his cheeks. “You know what happened. Do you really want a repeat of that? If I recall, you’d never been so irritable as the day afterwards.”

Harry tries to force the memory out of his head, too angry to become distracted by a haze of arousal. He doesn’t allow himself to entertain the possibility of it happening again, either — the thought too selfish for him to keep. 

“Then we’ll deal with it,” he says.

“That’s easy enough for you to say!” Draco growls. “You’re not the one who’ll have to wake up wondering if Harry fucking Potter has heard you having a dream about getting murdered, or getting fucked.” 

Harry shakes his head again. “I don’t mind—”

“Well, I do! I —” he begins, and is cut off by another sneeze, interrupting his flow of rage. The glare that Harry receives tells him enough that he knows not to make a comment. Draco continues, “I mind, Potter. Even you have to admit that the concept is mortifying.”

Harry sighs, because he can’t exactly argue against it. He doesn’t know what he would do if he were in Draco’s place. He’s found as of late that his nightmares no longer result in sweaty convulsions and deafening screams, but silent gasps and a racing heart, and whilst it feels the same to him, it's been kinder on those he’s had to share rooms with. 

“Okay, yeah,” Harry concedes. “It’s bad. But it’s better than being murdered.”

Draco’s jaw clenches, his knuckles whitening again as he grips the sheets again. “You’re a complete arse, Potter.” 

He shrugs his shoulders. “If it keeps you alive.”

“Ugh, fine. Fine. But I don’t want to hear about it, alright? Any of it. I don’t want to know if you get woken up. I don’t want to know what kind of dream you think you hear about. I don’t want your comfort or your awkwardness. You make sure you forget anything that I say, any — any names that you may hear.” His glare is sharp. “You keep your mouth shut. ”

“Of course,” Harry tells him. “I won’t say a word.”

Draco stares at him, as if trying to decipher whether he’s telling the truth or not, and then nods. He says, “Okay, then,” and promptly sneezes once more.

“You need Pepper-Up, still,” he tells him, because he figures that Draco can’t get in much worse of a mood.  

“I just told you that —”

Harry interrupts him. “You told me that Pomfrey cares enough about you to offer you a Mind-Healer and stop you from killing yourself via potion overdose. She’s worried about you, and you haven’t been making sure she knows that you’re fine?”

Draco groans, and, with some hesitance, tells him, “Well. I… May have told her and McGonagall that you’re aware of the issue.”

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up his head. “You what? ”

He holds his hand up, fingers splayed. “I know that it was probably not the best thing to do, but—”

“Not the best? If anything happened, that would’ve been on me! What if I’d accidentally heard one and offered you some? Would you have said no?”

“Yes!” he says. “For crying out loud, I’m not a bloody addict!” 

“Taking it every night for months, Draco? That sounds like you were addicted.”

“Forgive me for wanting to escape my subconscious,” he spits. “It wasn’t my first choice, believe me.” 

Harry sighs, dropping his head into his hands. The amount of things that could’ve gone wrong plague his head with anxiety. Since the War, there’d been an almost endless demand and supply of dreamless sleep. Harry could’ve had some, himself, in the very room that he shared with him. But then again, Harry thinks, the cupboards must be so stocked with it that Draco could’ve gotten his hands on it, if he wanted to. 

He raises his head from his hands, lips pursed. “I’m really pissed that you neglected to mention this.”

“I’m pissed that you’re forcing me to let you listen to me sleep,” he snaps back, folding his arms over his chest.

“Well, I’m pissed you never told me about you silencing yourself, either!”

“I’m pissed you’re making me go to the Weasley’s!” Draco says, almost shouting now. “Merlin, Potter, I’m going to ruin their entire day!”

“I’m not making you do anything, McGonagall said—”

“Oh, and it’s awfully convenient for you that she’s making us go,” he says. “It’s going to — It’s going to be awful.” 

“No, it won’t,” Harry tells him. “They’re nice people, Draco. They’ll make you feel welcome.”

“I’m not going to be able to look them in the eye! I can barely do it with Ronald!” he declares, and when the light hits his face just right, Harry can see glistening in his eyes. He chokes on his words as he continues, “Their brother — Their son. It’s their first Christmas without him. How can you possibly think that they’d welcome me in?” 

Harry feels himself fill with sorrow, the reminder of Fred a harsh sting in his chest. There’s a lump in his own throat, blocking the way for words Harry can’t even think of. He doesn’t quite know what to say to him. 

So he touches him instead. 

There’s no hair over his face and no tears yet spilling from his eyes, but Harry reaches for him anyway. He cups his cheek and brushes the corner of his eye with his thumb. The fury in his expression quickly slips away second by second, and his arms unfold from across his chest, settling at his sides on the bed. His brow is furrowed as he looks at him, and Harry knows that he must think of something to say before he does something stupid. 

“Ron and I will be there,” he tells him softly. He can feel Draco’s eyelashes brush the tip of his thumb when he blinks. “And we’ll make sure it’s okay. You know that Ron is fine with you, now. And I…” He pauses. “We’re friends. They’ll be fine with you.”

“Friends,” Draco says. Both bite and bark have slipped from his face and his voice. “We’re friends?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, beginning to feel slightly foolish. He drops his hand from the man’s face. “We are.”

He watches the man visibly gulp, sees his glossy eyes scanning his face. “Okay,” he mumbles. “If that’s what this is.”

The words almost knock Harry to the floor. But he must be misunderstanding, and so he doesn’t let himself react. He forces a smile on his face, and replies, “Of course it is.” 

“If that’s what this is... If we’re friends,” he says. “Then I’ll stay here whilst you go and get the Pepper-Up for me.”

Harry wants to fight him. He wants to sate Pomfrey’s worries by forcing Draco to come along with him, but he knows that the man is far too stubborn to consider it.

He does it. Because they’re friends. 

Madam Pomfrey gasps when she sees him alone, knowing everything about Draco’s situation and fearing the worst. Harry does his best to avoid mentioning the fact that he hadn’t known about Draco’s potion problem, not wanting to get him into any trouble, and he tells her what he considers to be the truth: Draco hasn’t touched the stuff since she’d warned him off of it. He tells her that he hasn’t been avoiding her, but has just been busy, and the knowing look on her face breaks his heart. She’s not angry in the slightest — she’s just worried. 

“It made him so ill, Mr. Potter,” she tells him softly, as she places the Pepper-Up gently in his hand. “But he wasn’t well before taking it, either. Please ask him to talk to me about meeting with a Mind-Healer again. If anyone can convince him, it’s you.”

Harry offers her a small smile and tells her he’ll try his best, wishing her a Merry Christmas before leaving. Pepper-Up in his pocket, he heads back up to the dormitories, hoping against hope that Draco’s in a better mood when he gets back.

He thinks he’ll leave the Mind-Healer conversation until the holidays are over. 

Chapter Text

The air is frosty and somehow just that extra bit more cheerful when he opens his eyes the next morning. His heart is thumping with an excitement that should make him feel childish, but seeing as he was never given the chance to feel like this as a child, he thinks it’s something that he deserves.

Harry stretches his arms out and grunts with relaxation, a good night’s rest behind him. The room is quiet, and it takes him more than a few moments before he puts on his glasses and realises why: Draco is still asleep. 

It’s an odd thing to see. Harry had gotten used to waking up after the man every morning, most days never catching him in bed during the daylight at all. Harry, as of late, had begun waking up actually expecting him to be in the shower already. But not today. Today, Draco is laying on his front, hair utterly wild, eyes peacefully closed with rhythmic slow breaths coming out of his nose. He’s tucked up in the blanket, clearly feeling the cold just as much as Harry had upon waking, and he can’t seem to think of another word to describe him other than adorable. 

It was an odd thing, to wonder about what a younger version of himself might think upon seeing this moment. Never would Harry have thought before this year that he would be pleased to turn his head and look upon Draco Malfoy’s sleeping form, wondering about the thoughts that may be plaguing his head. It’s this which causes the sudden realisation that he can actually hear his gentle breaths, and he can’t help but grin at it. He had not silenced himself in his sleep, as Harry had asked of him. Even better, he hadn’t even had a nightmare. 

Or, you know. The other one.

Harry was dreading the day in which he’d have to deal with that again. Not so much the nightmares; Harry knows how to deal with nightmares, both his own and other’s. But sex dreams? Dreams that make the man sharing a room with him moan and whimper and cum? Harry can only hold out hope that he’s able to sleep through it when one of those occurs, lest he be distracted from the world for another lost twenty-four hours. 

He finally forces himself out of the warmth of his bed, only comforted by the thought of the hot shower that awaits him. He’s never been the first one in there, and there’s an odd sort of freedom that he feels knowing that he’s the only one awake — he almost feels like singing a carol. He brushes his teeth and jumps right in, gasping with delight at the sensation of the hot water pouring onto his cold body. 

He washes as normal, taking his time because he can. When he reaches his groin, he bites his lip, the temptation too strong to ignore. Draco’s still asleep, and that means that he doesn’t even have to worry about the man hearing what he’s doing. He doesn’t resist himself the pleasure. His hand works over himself slowly until he’s hard, the heat only making it feel all the more better. 

He doesn’t even try and pretend as if he’s not going to think about Draco. The days of denying that to himself are long gone, although he’s still unable to avoid the pangs of guilt that come when he sees him afterwards. He’s almost the only thing that can get Harry going now, the only person that pops into his head when he touches himself, like some odd kind of Pavlovian response. 

Today, he thinks about Draco’s lips. He thinks of the many times he’s seen them drinking out of the bright red water-bottle from Harry, thinks of the way that he bites at them when he’s anxious. He slides the pad of his thumb over his tip and pictures Draco’s mouth there in its stead, his pretty lips parting to show his tongue. He tries to imagine the wet heat that it would feel like, subconsciously thinking back to how Ginny’s tongue had been — but he doesn’t linger on that. Draco’s tongue is so sharp with his words that he must be a whole new experience, a diamond talent undiscovered to the world. 

When he finishes, it’s because he’s unable to stop himself from imagining doing so all over Draco’s mouth. He pictures himself shooting down his throat, onto his tongue, painting his lips. He can’t help but simultaneously wonder about what Draco would look like down on his knees, and whether or not this makes him a terribly shitty friend. The static in his head buzzes through his orgasm, and he takes slow breaths, trying not to feel too bad about it. 

Draco is still in bed when he walks out of the bathroom, towel hanging from his hips. He’s not asleep though, as Harry had thought whilst leaving, and he suddenly feels very self-conscious despite showing no more skin than he regularly does at night. He grips at the knot in the towel and pulls it up a little, smiling. He has to physically force himself to not look at the lips that he’d just orgasmed over, to not imagine the pink splattered with white once again. 

“Good morning,” he says to him, as nonchalant as one can be after cumming so hard you see static. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Draco says back. He’s very pointedly not looking at Harry, bunching up his duvet over his legs. “It feels like I slept for an age.”

“You must’ve, if I woke up before you,” Harry jokes.

Draco chuckles. “It was most probably because of the Pepper-Up, it must’ve knocked me clean out. But I feel better.”

“Good!” Harry grins. He needs to get dressed, having forgotten to bring his clothes into the bathroom with him because of the change in routine. “Erm, why don’t you shower, and then we can head over to McGonagall’s office?”

Draco nods slowly, rubbing his eyes free of the remnants of sleep. He throws his feet over the side of his bed and then quickly turns his back to him as he gets up, and Harry just stands there, watching him. It doesn’t feel like there’s much else to do. There’s droplets of water still rolling down his back and his chest from where he hadn’t dried his hair properly, and he tries to focus on that instead of the fact that he’s standing basically naked in the same room as Draco. 

“Did you,” Draco begins, and stops to clear his throat when it comes out croaky. In his arms, he’s holding his shirt, trousers, underwear. Everything that Harry should’ve brought in with him. Draco still doesn’t look directly at him, even as he speaks. “Did you forget your clothes?”

Harry tightens his hold on the towel. Again. “Yeah. Sorry.”

He sees him shake his head, the smallest movement, and shuffle to the bathroom without another word.

Harry’s unsure how long Draco usually takes in the shower, but he certainly takes quite a while today. He’s not complaining, though, because it gives him time to unpack several items out from his bag under his bed. He packs them underneath his duvet, an obvious lump there that would fool nobody, but that’s fine for now. By the time Draco exits the bathroom, steam tumbling out of the door behind him, Harry’s hair has almost entirely air-dried. 

He’s dressed, obviously, having been more prepared than him, and so he heads straight to his wand at the bedside table. He spells his own hair dry and eyes the lump curiously, brows furrowed. He asks, “Are you hiding a human under there?”

“No,” Harry says, and he laughs. “It’s your Christmas present.”

“My Christmas present?” he asks. “You didn’t have time to get me anything in Hogsmeade.”

He shrugs. “I got it before we went to Hogsmeade.”

Draco just looks at him for a moment, his gaze feeling like it’s shooting all over him, examining him like he’s just confessed something and wants confirmation. 

“Right,” Draco whispers, seemingly to himself, and he sits himself down on his bed. For the millionth time, their knees knock and their feet slide side by side. 

“Here,” Harry says, smiling, and he pulls back the sheets. He picks up the box, heavy as it is despite its enchantments, and hands it to Draco, settling it on his lap. 

“Merlin, that’s heavy!” he says, steadying it. “I’m impressed, Potter. You even wrapped it.”

“Well, I had extra time for this one,” he explains bashfully. “Go on, open it!”

Draco lets himself laugh and then he’s ripping open the wrapping paper with delicate fingers. It takes him about twice as long as it would take Harry to get it all off, but when he does, his mouth is agape.

“Potter…” he whispers with awe. “What…?”

Harry shrugs his shoulders once again, the heat in his cheeks burning as he wonders whether it’s too much. The cauldron is copper, and it was not cheap, Harry can attest to that. Engraved upon its side is Property of Draco Malfoy, in swirling letters that Harry had thought sufficiently fancy. It’s brand-spanking-new and shining to show it; Harry can see his face reflected back at himself. 

“It was my fault that your other one melted,” he says. “I owed you.”

“Not this! Mine was pewter!” 

“And now it’s copper,” Harry says. “I felt bad, okay? Besides, you’re used to the best.”

Draco blinks at him, mouth still agape. He doesn’t say anything, and so Harry asks, “Do you like it?”

“I love it,” Draco says, still looking at him. “Thank you.” 

Harry feels his anxiety slip away, feels his face split with a grin. He watches Draco mirror him, his face quickly becoming adorned with a smile that just lights up the room, that makes Harry’s breath hitch and almost stop in his throat. He has to remind himself to blink, no matter how much he doesn’t want to. 

“Um,” Draco mumbles, and his wide smile morphs into something more shy. “I have something for you, too.”

“You do?” Harry’s eyebrows shoot up with surprise. An echo of Draco’s words fill his head, the man had specifically said that they wouldn’t be doing Christmas presents. 

“Yes,” he responds with an exaggerated sigh. “But don’t let it give you an inflated sense of self-importance.”

He smirks. “Never.”

Draco rolls his eyes as he pushes himself off of the bed, but he doesn’t stand. He sinks to his knees, and for half a second, — an absolutely insane, out of body half a second, — Harry dares to let himself resurface his unholy thoughts from the shower. Draco’s on his knees and he wonders if that’s his present, like somehow the man has read his mind and knows exactly what he wants. But then he’s turning around, ruffling under his bed in this box or that, and Harry wants to slap himself. 

At last, he finds it, and Harry’s heart skips another beat as he watches him rise up from the ground with a gift bag in his hand, emerald green and tall. He’s red and smiling sheepishly, and he hands it to Harry to take with deep breath.

“If you hate it, I’ll return it,” he tells him. “So don’t you dare lie.”

“I won’t hate it,” Harry murmurs, and it’s true, even though he doesn’t know what it is yet. He reaches inside and retrieves from it a long box, bound with what seems like leather. 

He can feel Draco’s anxious eyes watching his every move, every reaction, and so he opens it to hopefully sate his panic. A breath of wonder slips from his lips as he feasts his eyes upon it, and he rushes to remove it.

It’s beautiful. Most likely the most beautiful wrist watch that Harry has ever seen in his life. The straps are a gorgeous dyed burgundy leather, the watch itself a shimmering gold. It’s face is white and appears to tell him more than just the hour and minute — it’s telling him that it’s the 25th of December (next to a small image of a Christmas Tree), that it’s -3°C outside, and it also appears to have memorised his (and by extension, Draco’s) class schedule, telling him that he doesn’t have his next lesson for another eight days, eighteen hours and seven minutes. He can only imagine the look on Mr. Dursley’s face if he ever caught wind of Harry owning such a gorgeous watch, never having seen the man’s wrist without one on. 

“Fuck, Draco,” he breathes out, holding it delicately, terrified to drop it. “It’s… It’s beautiful.”

Draco’s voice makes him look up again, and the man’s almost as red as the straps on the watch. “They had one that was green, but I thought you’d appreciate this more.”

“I wouldn’t have complained about the green, are you kidding? It would be stunning either way. God, this…” Harry shakes his head with awe. “It’s too nice for me.”

He watches the man laugh at that, and he can’t take his eyes off of his smile again. Draco says, “Well, then we’ve both spent a disgusting amount of money on each other.”

Harry can’t help but laugh at that, because it’s true, and he looks back at the watch again. He’s never been one to appreciate accessories, probably because he’s never had any apart from his glasses, but he’s genuinely shocked at the overwhelming adoration he feels for this. He puts it on his wrist at once, still being deliberately careful with it, and holds his arm out to look at it. 

“Does it suit me?” he asks. 

Draco takes a moment to answer, but when he does, he answers, “Yes. It really does.”

*

They get themselves packed and ready to go. Harry has to be reminded that yes, they do need to pack, because they’re staying overnight. He’d almost forgotten, and had to messily shove some clothes into his bag, not looking at what they were. They pass Smith again as they carry their luggage through the Common Room, and he wishes them a Happy Christmas. Harry snarls the same back. 

Draco frets on the entire way to McGonagall’s office. He’s worried mainly about the reception of him to the Weasley family, but also the small details; he hadn’t even brought with him a gift to thank them for welcoming him into their home, and what if they were arriving too early? What if McGonagall hadn’t told them that they’d be arriving, and there wasn’t enough room or food at the table for them?

Harry tells him repeatedly that there’s no need to worry, whilst silently doing so himself. As much as he wants to see his adopted family today, he’d give anything for Draco not to have to deal with a single one of them whilst they’re furious. Perhaps it’s foolish of him, but he wants Draco to be accepted. He wants him to get on with all of them. Ron had managed. He had managed, too. But those had taken time — the Weasleys only had today. 

He just has to hope, and it’s not hard to. He knows their kind nature too well. He also knows how much they love him, how much they think of him as a son, and how much they consequently trust his judgment. If Harry brings somebody into their home, he thinks, surely they’ll try to be understanding?

McGonagall isn’t in her office when they finally make it there, but she had warned them of that. What is in her office, atop of her desk, is a small pile of gifts. As they step closer, they can see that it’s labelled clearly: Draco Malfoy.

“These must be from your mum,” Harry says happily. “And from Pansy, Blaise and that.”

Draco seems to cheer up at once. He picks up the first gift and reads the note attached to it, a smile appearing across his face. 

“Oh, she’s brilliant,” he says aloud, opening up the present at once. “Have you ever tried one of these? Potter, they’re like… Heaven in your mouth.”

“What are they?”

“Madeleines,” he replies, placing one into Harry’s open palm. “Oh, thank you, Pansy.” 

Harry tries not to become bitter about the fact that Draco hadn’t called him brilliant, and instead focuses on throwing the madeleine into his mouth. And he’s right, it is wonderful. 

Clearly, it shows on his face, because Draco chuckles and tells him, “I told you. I’ll save these for when we’re back.” 

He continues to open the rest, including an expensive looking hourglass from Blaise, a box of fancy chocolates from Theodore, and a small journal from Goyle. The letter attached, Draco tells him with a dry laugh, says that his Mind-Healer had recommended them. Then he asks why everyone seems to think that he’s so muddled in the head. Harry decides not to comment on that. 

From Narcissa, Draco receives a gorgeous set of robes. Really, Harry hasn’t seen any quite so nice, and part of him wonders when he’ll be able to see him in them. Perhaps he should ask McGonagall about organising another ball. 

There’s just one more gift left, then. Draco reads the label attached to it, and his grin stretches even wider. He picks it up, but doesn’t open it. Instead, for some reason, he hands it to Harry. 

“It’s for you,” he tells him. 

Harry blinks. “Me? From your mother?”

“Yes, you.” He pushes the bag into his chest. “Take it.”

Harry does as he says, opening the bag with some hesitance. Then he pulls out the bottle within, reads the label, and splutters a laugh. 

“I can’t actually believe the owls got there and back in time,” Draco is saying. “I sent one to her while you were sending yours.”

Harry grins at the bottle of Elf-made wine and then at him. “It better be as good as you claim it is.” 

“It’ll change your perception of alcohol forever, Potter. Trust me.”

Harry hums his approval, makes a note to himself to send a letter thanking Narcissa. Then he thinks — and he says, “Why don’t you take it to the Weasley’s?”

Draco blinks at him. “What?”

“You were stressed about not bringing anything, right? I mean — The last thing that I want to be is rude. But maybe we can all share it? Together?” Harry offers.

Draco bites his lip, takes the bottle from Harry when he holds it out to him, and says, “Thank you, Potter.”

“No problem.” He smiles, and rubs his hands together as he steps towards the fireplace. “You ready?”

“No,” Draco breathes. “But let’s go anyway. You first.”

Harry nods, grabs a fistful of Floo Powder, and steps inside the fireplace. “The Burrow!”

He sees the green flames flare up around him and then he’s flying, hundreds of different rooms appearing before him before he stumbles out at the right one. There’s eight red-heads staring straight back at him, anyway, so thankfully, it’s hard to miss. 

The Weasleys had been able to put in a brand new Floo with the money received from the Ministry for outstanding services to the Wizarding World during the War, along with a few more piled rooms and fixed fire damage. It’s quite disjointed, awkwardly placed onto the edge of the living room, but it’s just like the rest of the house, and Harry loves it. He steps onto the new carpet in front of the fireplace dedicated to wiping off soot and does so, wiping off his sleeves (and his watch) for good measure, takes a deep breath, and says, “Merry Christmas.”

“Harry!” Molly gasps, running towards him with her open arms. She envelopes him in a tight hug, rocking him side to side and making him drop his overnight bag. “Oh, we’re so glad that you made it!”

“Alright, mate?” Ron grins, standing up and giving him a short hug after Molly is finished with him. “McGonagall sent an Owl last night, told us you’d be coming. But where’s—”

He’s interrupted by the rising flames behind them again, and there’s Draco, stepping out so elegantly, only a speck of dust on his cheek and nowhere else. Still, he wipes his shoes on the provided carpet, holding the bottle of wine in one hand against his side. He looks so proper, Harry thinks. So polite and put together, despite the panic that Harry knows is flooding through his veins. 

“Merry Christmas,” he says to the room as a whole, though when his eyes land on Harry, he can feel the anxiety. 

The room is mostly silent at his arrival, despite Harry knowing that they would’ve been told of his presence. It almost makes him angry, but his anger is unneeded. His best friend is his best friend for a reason, and Ron steps forward, making the first move towards civility, and extends his hand. 

Draco puts down his bag and takes it, giving it a firm shake as Ron says loudly, “Merry Christmas, Malfoy. Glad you could make it.”

“Thank you for having me,” Draco replies, and this time, his eyes are on Molly. When Ron moves away, he steps towards her meekly, giving her the chance to recoil. She doesn't. All she does is watch him. Draco extends the Elf-made wine, offering it to her and her eyes flicker to that, instead. “I hope this is satisfactory as a display of my gratitude for allowing me here today. I understand that my presence is not ideal.”

Molly takes the bottle off of him, her eyes widening as she reads the label, probably recognising how expensive it must be. She squints at him, and Harry can predict the thoughts that must enter her brain; is he trying to buy them? Show off? But her gaze softens as she looks upon his face, his softly pleading eyes and nervous smile. 

“This will do beautifully for the dinner,” she says to him, the skin at her eyes creasing as she smiles. “Thank you, Draco. Any friend of Harry’s is a friend of ours.” She turns to the rest of her family, sternly raising one eyebrow. “Correct?”

There’s a chorus of agreement, and then chairs are being pushed out. The Weasleys hug Harry and shake Draco’s hand, with the exception of Fleur kissing both of their cheeks, instead. Arthur must give his hand an extra-tight squeeze, because Draco actually squeaks a little. Clearly, Draco understands the feud that Arthur and his father had held for years, before they were even born, and offers Arthur a short, polite nod. Arthur eyes him for a second more before visibly relaxing, giving him a wink and one more firm shake of the hand. 

It could be smoother, at some points. George ruffles Harry’s hair as he leaves the hug and then only shakes Draco’s hand for a second, barely makes eye-contact before appearing to pull himself together. He clears his throat, leans in close to Draco and whispers something in his ear that leaves George chuckling and Draco bright red. When it comes to Ginny, it’s a different story. Harry can feel a piercing glare on him as he welcomes her hug, but when he releases her it’s impossible to tell where it had come from. Draco poises himself, standing upright and waiting for her first move. Harry wonders why, until he figures that as a posh, poncy pure-blood child, Draco had been raised to greet women not with handshakes, but with something akin to a kiss on the hand or the cheek. He’d been saved by the bottle with Molly, and it made sense to do it with Fleur because Fleur does it with everybody, but with Ginny, he seems frozen. Harry actually thinks it’s for the best — he’s not sure that Ginny would react too pleased to a kiss on the cheek from a Malfoy. 

He looks at her, and she looks at him, and it’s as if something is being said between them. She turns to look back at Harry for just a moment and he furrows his brow in confusion, not that she provides any sort of explanation. She simply turns back to Draco, releases a small sigh and claps him on the shoulder before telling him, “Glad to see that you’ve finally pulled that stick out of your arse, Malfoy.” 

Molly scolds her for her language before rushing off to put the bottle in the kitchen, and it’s only then that Harry notices the beautiful smell emanating through the house. There are little things in life that he thinks smell better than treacle tarts, but a cooking roast dinner is most definitely up there. He can smell the turkey, the stuffing, the roast potatoes, parsnips, peas, carrots, swede, cauliflower, Yorkshire pudding! No offense intended to the House Elves of Hogwarts, but Harry is almost certain that nothing can beat a roast dinner by Molly Weasley.

Harry turns to Draco as the chatter starts up again. Draco looks so relieved that Harry wants to hug him, but he doesn’t. Instead, he offers him a toothy grin and a big thumbs up. Draco rolls his eyes as he smiles back, automatically heading to his side. For a moment, just a moment, Harry has an odd instinct to wrap an arm around his waist, and has to shake his head to bring himself back to reality. 

They talk to Charlie for a good while, asking him about Romania and joking about young Draco’s involvement with Norberta the Norwegian Ridgeback (who is thriving, actually). They ask Arthur about work, which has become increasingly busy since the War, but he’s loving it. They ask Percy, too, who nearly talks their ears off before stopping abruptly when asked about his now apparently ex- fiancée. George makes jokes about what Rita Skeeter must think of the two of them, and Ginny laughs before telling him to be quiet. Ron laments about Hermione’s absence, but tells Harry that her and her parents are doing better. They talk to Bill and Fleur last, and they tell them the news that they’re trying for a baby. It’s only a shame that she may lose her perfect figure, she tells them as Harry gives them both tight hugs, and he can picture Ginny rolling her eyes. Molly pokes her head around the door to tell them that they’re doing presents after they eat, as they wanted to wait for the two of them to arrive first.

Draco and Harry soon fall into their own conversation, everyone else wrapped up talking to each other. Harry can’t hide the smile on his face at the reception that Draco has had, and it seems Draco can’t, either. They’re both giddy as they speak. 

“Do you want kids?” Harry asks, thinking of Bill and Fleur.

“Just the one, actually,” Draco answers. “Malfoy’s have only ever been able to have only children.”

“Not answering my question.”

“I have to have a child, Potter,” he tells him, his tone laced with a joking condescension. “I have to have an heir.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “You know, that’s still not answering my question.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Yes, then. I want a child of my own, some day. I think… It would be nice.”

“Me too,” Harry tells him. “Maybe it’s because of how I grew up, or how much I’ve loved being a part of the family here… But I think I would love loads of them.”

He scoffs at that. “Your poor wife.”

Harry laughs, shrugging. “True.” 

He wonders if there’s such a thing as Wizarding adoption. There has to be, he figures. Or… Wizarding immaculate conception? Less probable, more dangerous. Wizarding surrogates? Harry would be able to afford it. Draco definitely could, too. 

“Would you want more than one, if you could?” Harry asks him quietly. “I mean, what if you marry a witch whose family is and always has been destined to have ten children? How do the rules apply then?”

“I don’t know, don’t be ridiculous,” Draco tells him, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Maybe more than one would be alright. I remember being lonely as a child, too.”

Harry smiles at him, and Draco smiles back, and Molly calls them all for dinner. 

The food is delicious, obviously. Harry can tell that Draco is genuinely surprised at the quality of it, even though he tries to hide it. He compliments Molly with fervour for her work on the dishes, and when George jokes about him eating food not made by an Elf for the first time in his life, it’s not awkward. In fact, Draco nods and tells him that he’s probably right. George grins at his response, and then at Harry, raising his eyebrows and nodding. 

The wine is nowhere near a let down, either. It’s gorgeous, and Harry finally understands why people can enjoy the stuff. It’s a damn sight better than the stuff that Bill and Fleur had handed out at their wedding, at least, but he doesn’t mention that out loud. Harry isn’t sure how, but the bottle, quite average sized as far as wine bottles go, somehow contains enough for every person at the table to be on their second glass each. Harry’s not the best at maths, but it seems wrong.

When inquired about it, Draco simply shrugs and says, “It’s Elf-made. It does more than just taste nice.”

Harry doesn’t complain, though. There’s a nice buzz settling in his head, and even though he’d promised himself no more alcohol, he feels like he deserves a pass. If not today, Christmas day, then when? Besides, they’re in the Burrow, away from Hogwarts and pricks like Zacharias Smith. Harry feels safe here, and always has done. Looking over at Draco, at the smile on his face as he partakes in a pleasant conversation with Charlie and Bill, Harry thinks that Draco does, too. 

Harry watches him slowly begin to get used to the fact that dinner isn’t so strict here. He watches the way Draco watches the others, laughing with their mouths full and leaning over each other to reach for the salt. Draco looks on with more intrigue than judgment. He’s almost overcome with wonder when Ron wipes his mouth with the back of his hand instead of a napkin and Molly spills gravy over the tablecloth. 

“You know,” Draco says to him. “I can’t remember the last time I had a meal, one that wasn’t at Hogwarts, and it didn’t feel like a test.”

Harry shoves a forkful of turkey into his mouth. “A test?”

Swirling his wine in his hand, he nods. “They’re formal affairs. Each and every one of them. Once, when I was… Oh, I couldn’t have been older than ten, Father had a potential business associate over for a dinner. I used my salad fork instead of the dinner fork to cut my meat, and I didn’t hear the end of it for a fortnight.” 

“Seriously?” Harry asks. He’d thought that the Dursleys had been uptight when they’d whacked him over the head for putting his elbows on the table. But then again, the closest he’d gotten to formal dining was the Slug Club. 

Draco nods, sipping now at his wine, savouring it in his mouth, and then swallowing. “Seriously,” he tells him, and places his wine glass down before picking up his cutlery again. 

Harry reaches for his glass, licking his lips in anticipation and mentally cursing out Lucius Malfoy. Just as he wraps his fingers around the stem, he hears Ron exclaim, “Blimey, Harry! Where’d you get that?”

The table all pause their conversations and turn to look at him, and Harry suddenly feels terribly, terribly hot. He knows what Ron’s talking about, of course, and Draco does too. He stiffens slightly beside him, knuckles turning white around the silver. 

“Draco’s Christmas present for me,” Harry explains, and takes a long sip from his glass. 

“That looks insane,” Ron says, and turns to Draco. “What did you get him something like that for?” 

Harry feels the table’s gaze shift, and at once, he feels transparent. Like everyone there has had an insight into their… Complicated friendship. Like they’ve all figured out something that Draco and himself aren’t quite at the stage at yet. He sees George and Ginny share an amused look but he doesn’t even know how to joke his way out of this. It all sounds too real. 

“I owe Potter a lot,” Draco answers, and Harry releases a heavy breath. “I know it can’t be measured in galleons. But I thought that he rather deserved a nice Christmas present, anyway.” 

Ron, bless him, still appears to be entirely unaware of the otherwise family-wide epiphany going on. “Fair enough. Tell you what, Malfoy, next time you need something, ask me instead of Harry. I could do with a posh watch.” 

Harry’s breath is still slowly coming back, and he feels too awkward to make eye contact with anyone, too afraid that they may demand him to explain the exact nature of the relationship between himself and Draco. He wouldn’t be able to. He doesn’t think it’s possible. 

But in the following silence, Draco laughs gently and tells Ron, “Blaise was the one on your broomstick, and his mother was married to a watchmaker. You know who to ask.”

Ron hums, nodding to himself, and stuffs a whole parsnip into his mouth. Conversation around the table resumes like normal. Harry finishes his glass of wine and pours himself another. Perhaps he’s being over-dramatic. 

When the time has come to finally open their Christmas presents, they’re all a good few glasses of wine in, and all feeling quite jolly. There’s simply too many of them to go one by one, and so they all open their presents in unison, apart from Draco, who only has one present before him. This present, along with everyone else’s first ones, is lumpy and soft and familiar — at least, familiar to Harry and the Weasleys.

Draco unwraps the gift looking very confused indeed, until he holds up the hand-knitted jumper. It’s made from the same orange wool as Harry’s, emblazoned with a chunky ‘D’ on its chest. Draco, not wanting to be impolite, pulls it on over his head at the same time as everyone else does. He looks fucking ridiculous and fucking adorable.

Harry almost loses his entire mind. 

He sits next to him on the sofa in the living room and lets him choose which ones to open in which order. Molly cries as she opens each and every present, and Harry almost does the same as he opens gift after gift. Even his present from Hagrid is there, and he notes in the back of his mind that they should go to visit him as soon as they’re back. 

Every so often in the kerfuffle of torn wrapping paper, Harry will hear somebody shouting him a thank you for their gift, to which he feels the tipsy need to go over and hug them. He can feel Draco’s smugness with each enthusiastic show of gratitude, knowing that he either helped or was the sole reason for said present. Harry resists the urge to run a finger over the red wool on Draco’s arm, and shoves it instead.

Draco picks up a gift wrapped in pretty gold and reads the label before he hands it to Harry, letting him know that it’s from Hermione. Harry’s had just the right amount of wine that he’s not going to get upset about the fact that she’s not there — just slightly melancholy. 

They go and go and go until there’s no presents left under the tree at all, just a scattered mess of colourful paper strewn across the carpet. Everyone’s filled to the brim with good food and wine, exhausted from eating and drinking and being too excited to sleep the night before, and so for a while they just sit there. There are some quiet conversations in twos, and Arthur does start to snore, whilst they all gaze at and examine their new gifts. 

“These are very nice,” Draco comments on one of Harry’s gifts, holding it up in front of him. It’s a pair of trousers from Bill and Fleur, though Harry guesses that Bill hadn’t had much to do with the choosing of presents. The inside of the trousers is a deep purple, the outside black. 

“ Merci ,” Fleur says with a smile. “I agree. They will look beautiful on him.”

Draco folds them carefully and places them back inside the gift bag they’d come in. Harry’s ready to listen to their conversation as he leans back into the comfort of the couch, too tired to join in. Clearly, they have other ideas. 

Draco responds in French. Perfect, clear cut, confident French. And the conversation continues between them, back and forth in the most sensual language on Earth. He’d known that Draco could speak French ever since Hermione had told him, but that had all been in theory. It hadn’t even entered his mind as they’d discussed his cancelled holiday in France. To know it was one thing. To hear it, however… Harry has to cross one leg over the other. 

“Care to let the common English folk in on the conversation?” Bill says after a while. Fleur simply giggles, turning from Draco to her husband and whispering in his ear. Draco leans back into the couch with his cheeks dusted a light pink. When Fleur finishes what she’s saying, Bill pulls back, eyebrows raised, and says, “Never mind. Carry on.”

There’s a scratching at the window, then, an Owl carrying an envelope tapping its beak on the glass. Molly opens it at once, giving the Owl a chunk of carrot to fly away with. It doesn’t take the carrot and stays at the window, head down and kicking its feet.

“Oh, Draco!” she calls. “It’s for you.”

Harry narrows his eyes as she walks over, placing it into Draco’s hand. He says, “Nobody else knows that you’re here.” 

Draco looks at him, fingers pausing just as he begins to rip open the envelope. From the floor, Ron says, “It’s probably just from McGonagall.” 

“Why wouldn’t she have left it on her desk?” he asks. “That’s where the rest of them were.” 

Draco keeps his eyes on him, his fingers still frozen. “What should I do?”

If the letter contains more of the same that Harry had read last time, he can’t risk allowing Draco to read it. Not on Christmas day. He doesn’t need that kind of thing getting in his head. Forgetting about the rest of them, forgetting about keeping this a secret, Harry says, “I’ll open it.”

The entire room has their eyes on them again, a mixture of intrigue, curiosity and worry at their voices. Draco does as he says, handing him the envelope with a gulp.

Harry opens it, reaches inside, and the last thing that he hears before his head hits the floor is Draco’s panicked shout of his name.

Chapter Text

“Is he okay?” he hears.

“He hit his head.”

“He should be okay…”

“Oh, poor boy!”

“Why isn’t he waking up!?”

“Calm down, Malfoy, he’s— Oh, look!”

Harry gasps in a breath as he opens his eyes, the back of his head throbbing. There’s a million red and two blonde heads swimming over him, watching him, and he panics.

“You’re okay, mate,” Ron’s saying to him, patting him on the shoulder. “You’re alright, sit up.”

Harry allows him to pull him up, leaning his weight onto Ron’s arm. His eyes are swimming, and his throat feels sore. He has no idea what’s going on. 

Distantly, he hears Arthur say, “Molly, send for Poppy. And Minerva.”

“Are you okay?” Draco is asking, and Harry blinks a few times. Draco frowns, looks up at Bill, and says, “Why isn’t he—”

“I’m fine,” Harry says through a cough. “What— What happened?”

“You started choking,” Arthur tells him softly. “And you banged your head a little when you fell.”

Molly runs back holding a bag of frozen peas, and gently presses it to the back of his head. “You’re all okay now, sweetheart.” 

“Bill stopped it for you,” Ginny explains, and carefully holds up the envelope, looking inside. “It’s Cursed.”

Harry looks at Draco, and all he can think is how fucking glad he is that he didn’t let Draco open it as intended. “You’re okay, Draco?”

“Me?” Draco splutters. “Yes, Merlin, I’m completely fine.”

Ron, Arthur, George and Charlie help pull Harry up, settling him back onto the sofa that he’d fallen from. He thanks them, tells them again that he’s okay, and takes the peas from Molly to hold himself. Draco sits himself next to him, Ron on his other side. 

“For Goodness sake, Ginny, give that to your brother!” Molly says, and she startles but does as she says. Bill takes the envelope, peering inside, and pulls out his wand to inspect it. 

“I should’ve opened it,” Draco says. “I’m so sorry.” 

Harry shakes his head, bile rising in his throat at just the thought. “Don’t say that.” 

“What I want to know is who sent it,” Charlie says. “That was meant to kill you.”

Harry coughs again, and Molly now rushes to get him a glass of water. He’s glad for it when it comes; his throat feels like it’s been shredded apart. He looks at Draco with a question in his gaze — it’s up to him. Draco peers between his eyes, worry still evident there, and he takes a deep breath.

“We don’t know who’s doing it,” Draco says quietly. “But someone has been trying to kill me all year.”

Ron’s eyes practically bulge out of his head as he looks between the two of them. “What? That’s why you’ve been hanging around him, Harry? To protect him?”

Harry nods, coughs, and takes another sip of water. 

“They appointed you?” Ginny asks. “What, as if every other school year was too boring for you?”

He furrows his brows at her, shaking his head. He tells them, “I volunteered.”

Ron’s mouth somehow falls open further. Ginny raises her eyebrows. George, despite the seriousness of the room, has to hide a laugh behind his hand. 

“I had an Auror with me,” Draco explains. “Twenty-four hour surveillance. Potter here didn’t think he was doing a good enough job and convinced McGonagall to let him take his place.”

“He thought it was me!” Harry defends himself, and takes another sip of water. 

Arthur, from behind the couch, places a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “Which Auror was it?”

“Facer,” Draco tells him.

“Oh. I suppose this explains his mood.” He sighs. “But are you alright, son? Someone’s trying to actually…?”

“They’ve been sending letters,” Harry says, before Draco can answer. “Detailing all the ways that they’ll do it. They’re normally vetted before getting to him, in Hogwarts, but…”

“Nobody would think to check the mail coming here. Especially not on Christmas,” Draco finishes. “I’m so sorry to do this to you all.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Molly says at once. “This is not your fault. For Heaven’s sake, you’re only a boy!”

Charlie nods. “Mum’s right. What else is the Ministry doing?” 

Draco hesitates, and says, “Nothing, I suppose.”

“Nothing?” Ron blanches. “They can’t do that!”

“Facer is handling the investigation from the Ministry,” he says. “Potter is…”

“Doing everything else?” Ginny scoffs. “Fuck the Ministry. How is that even allowed?”

“Ginny!” Molly scolds, but then her face softens with agreement.

Draco sighs. “They’re just letters. Facer has been investigating, he’s still been in and out of Hogwarts for it, but they don’t have any solid proof that anyone’s going to try and attack me. They’re not exactly the only angry letters that I’ve gotten since May.”

“They have some bloody proof now,” Ron says. “And about ten witnesses. Whoever this idiot is, he almost just killed Harry Potter, they’ll be all over it.”

Harry knows that’s true. His head throbs again just as the thought enters his head — would they appoint someone else to Draco, now that there has been an actual attempt on his life? Harry can’t stand the thought. He won’t let it happen. He turns to Draco and meets his gaze, hoping that the man can read his mind. 

Bill places the item back inside the envelope with a heavy thud. The room turns to him, and he says, “This should’ve ripped your throat apart.” 

Harry blinks, hand rising to touch his Adam’s apple. He takes another sip of water. The concentrated pain makes a bit more sense, now. He coughs again. 

“Blimey,” Ron whispers. “They proper hate you, Malfoy. Like, hate you, hate you.”

“Yeah, I think he gets that,” George says. 

“I just don’t understand how they knew that I was here,” Draco says. “We didn’t tell anybody at all, and we ourselves were only told yesterday.”

“Could they be a Ministry employee?” Percy asks. “They could’ve intercepted and read the Owl that McGonagall sent us?” 

“No,” Harry croaks, though his throat is starting to feel better. “They’re pretty sure it’s a student.”

“A student?” Molly gasps, and the sentiment is the same from the rest of them. “Surely not!”

“I think it is,” Harry tells them. “I think there’s a group of them doing it, and I think it’s led by Zacharias Smith.”

Draco, thank God, no longer thinks that Harry is overreacting about Smith and so doesn’t do anything like roll his eyes. He just furrows his brow for a moment, thinking, and then looks to Harry with wide eyes, filled with realisation. With no context, he says, “That’s how.”

Harry frowns. “That’s how, what?”

“Smith was in the Common Room, last night and this morning. He saw us leave with our bags, he must’ve assumed that we’d be coming here,” he rushes. 

“You’re right!” Harry says. “That bugger! Surely McGonagall will have to listen —”

Harry is interrupted as the Floo quickly activates and dies down in a second. There she stands, as if the mention of her name had summoned her (with far purer meaning than the last person who had tried that), poised and tall yet with a face riddled with worry, and she’s marching over towards them in an instant. Before she’s even made it over, the Floo is activating again, and Madam Pomfrey steps out of the tall green flames. She’s carrying a bag that’s half as big as herself. At once, Draco stiffens.

“Potter,” McGonagall says, as Harry watches Charlie and George rush to help Pomfrey with the bag. “Are you alright? Poppy, would you please…”

Madam Pomfrey hurries over before he can even nod his head yes to McGonagall’s question. At once, he’s directed to carry out this action and that as the nurse examines his mouth and his hands, his neck and his nose, his eyes and his ears.

 McGonagall checks in with Draco before turning and thanking Bill for his help, asking him about the contents of the envelope. She does the same as Bill, lifting it with her wand and when Pomfrey moves out of his way, he can see what it really is. It appears to be a small necklace, too big to be a bracelet and adorning a clasp and centrepiece to lay on a chest. Harry squints at it. 

“You said it was meant to rip the throat apart, Bill?” he asks, as Pomfrey pushes back hair on the back of his head to get to the bump. “It looks like it’s meant to be wrapped around it, too.” 

“Indeed,” McGonagall hums, twirling it with her wand. “A cursed necklace…”

Draco says it first, and he chokes on it, “Like the one I gave Katie Bell.”

McGonagall sighs and looks at him, lips pursed. “Quite, I’m afraid.”

“Hold on,” Ginny says, standing up and peering closer at the necklace. “There’s a B on that. Right there, Headmistress. Do you see it?” She raises her eyebrows. “B for Bell?”

Harry’s head feels funny at that, but he’s not sure it’s because of how Pomfrey’s prodding it. “Katie? Katie wouldn’t. This isn’t Katie.”

“You think she wants revenge for what Malfoy did?” Arthur asks. 

“No,” Harry says, and Ginny says it at the same time. He looks at her, nods his agreement. “It’s just like when— In Sixth-Year. Katie’s the sweetest person ever, she wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“Maybe that’s why?” Percy chimes in. “Malfoy forced her to do it before, though she didn’t want to.”

Beside him, he both hears and feels Draco’s breathing quicken. Harry stands his ground. “No, it’s not Katie. She’s half-blood, and I’m sure that whoever it is, is a pure-blood. And I’m sure it’s a bloke. Some of the things in that letter I read, well. I can’t say for sure, but I can’t picture a girl writing it.” 

McGonagall nods. “And Katie Bell is no longer a student. In the latest letter, the perpetrator mentioned his anger towards Mr. Malfoy for what he did to Rosmerta, and I suppose consequently, Ms. Bell. This may have been their way of getting the point across.”

“So, a relative of Katie?” Ginny asks. “Someone else who wants revenge?” 

It all feels wrong. “I really don’t think Katie has anything to do with it. I think… What if the — Ow!”

Pomfrey stands up away from his head, tucking her wand back inside her sleeve. “Your head will be perfectly fine now, Mr. Potter.”

“…Thanks,” he grunts, hand raising to rub the back of his head. “What if the necklace is a red herring?” 

“In what way?” Draco asks. 

“Your cursed necklace is the first thing that all of our minds went to,” he explains, and it’s not hard to see why. Every moment of Draco’s trials was plastered over the front page of The Prophet, with the necklace, Rosmerta, Katie and the attempt on Dumbledore’s life making extremely bold headlines. Everyone knew about it. Harry continues, “What if the necklace has another meaning? I mean, I don’t know about the other letters that have been sent in between, but Draco, you said the first one you received said… Something about you tasting your own throat.”

“My larynx, yes.” He nods.

“And the latest one that I saw detailed how he wanted to… How he wants to cut your throat and — Yeah. And now he sends something that goes around your throat? Something that’s literally cursed to shred your throat apart? It can’t be a coincidence.” He redirects his eyes back to McGonagall. “It can’t be.”

Nobody speaks for a moment. McGonagall is clearly deep in thought, and Pomfrey seems to be searching for something in her massive bag. Ron is the one to break the silence, saying, “You’ve been dealing with threats like that since Summer?”

Draco only gives a small shrug as a response. He places a hand to his own throat, slim fingers slipping over his Adam’s apple. Harry doesn’t even have time to stop himself staring because it’s already done for him — Pomfrey is tipping his head back and opening his mouth before he even knows it, shining the tip of her wand down his throat. The only plus side to it is that he can see in his peripheral vision the way that it makes Draco quietly laugh.

“Well done, Mr. Weasley,” she says after a moment, turning to Bill. “A moment later and the blood would’ve started.”

Harry feels himself shiver. He looks up at Bill, too, and says, “Thanks, mate. Really.”

Bill smiles at him and gives a selfless shrug. “I’ve missed cursebreaking.”

“Mr. Malfoy,” Pomfrey says, and Harry sees the smile fall from his face at once. “May I have a word with you in privacy?” 

Draco’s eyes grow wide. All attention on him, Harry knows that he won’t make a scene. He nods stiffly, pushing himself to stand. Molly directs them to the kitchen as Draco meets his eye, regret more than evident in his gaze. Harry can only offer him a look of encouragement; the conversation needs to happen. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt your Christmas, Professor,” Harry says. 

McGonagall looks up from the necklace and places it back inside the envelope. “No need, Mr. Potter. It was quite dull, save for Hagrid lighting his own beard at the same time as his Christmas pudding.” She lets herself laugh. “Oh, and don’t tell Mr. Malfoy, but I did steal one of his madeleines, too.”

Harry mimics zipping his lips. “So… What’s the plan now?”

McGonagall sighs, looking around at them all. “Well, I sent an Owl to Kingsley as soon as I heard what happened. No more post shall arrive here until the two of you are back in Hogwarts. Is that alright, Molly, Arthur?”

“Of course,” Molly says at once, Arthur nodding at her side. 

“Thank you. And thank you all for being so understanding about Mr. Malfoy’s burden. I understand that it’s a shock…”

“You can say that again,” Ron mumbles. 

She continues, ignoring him, “I believe Mr. Malfoy would prefer if this was kept under wraps, so to say. Please don’t spread the word. I, however, will be getting in touch with Kingsley again… This attempt on his life cannot be ignored, no matter how much the Aurors want nothing to do with him…”

Harry frowns, his eyebrows knitting together. “That’s why he hasn’t been helped?”

Once again, she sighs. “Many of the Aurors are under the impression that the ruling at Mr. Malfoy’s trials was far too light on him. Kingsley didn’t trust to send just anybody to watch over him, and Facer was… The most neutral option.” 

“So, what now? He sends Aurors who still want to see him in Azkaban?” Harry scoffs. 

“I shall have them nowhere near Mr. Malfoy if they wish him harm,” McGonagall says sternly. “You should know that, Harry.”

Harry feels the knot untwist from his face, and nods, looking down. “I know.”

“I’ll let it be known to Kingsley to get in touch with Robards,” she says, addressing Arthur. “He knows the men better than anyone, but do you know of his attitude?”

“He’s, er, not the biggest fan of the Malfoy’s,” Arthur admits, and Harry gets the sense that he isn’t exactly quiet about his distaste. “But given direct instruction from Kingsley… Gawain can be trusted.”

McGonagall nods, nervously tapping at her lips. “And it is okay for the two of them to still stay here tonight? I understand how unsettling this must be, having such an object sent to your home.”

“Of course,” Molly says. “It’s Harry’s home, too.”

McGonagall smiles at her. “Thank you. I shall be off, then, if I’m to catch the Minister before his evening meal.”

They wave her goodbye and she extends her regards towards Draco, for when he returns. She tells Harry to rest himself and only steps into the Floo once he promises that he will, and then she’s vanishing in another bloom of green fire, taking the necklace and envelope with her.

Conversation is spurred along the sofas, but Harry’s mind is on the kitchen. He hasn’t heard a sound from inside, but then he didn’t exactly expect the two of them to start shouting at each other. He wonders about the contents of the conversation, the worried notes of Pomfrey fretting over him, or else giving him a bollocking for ignoring her for months. It’s only then that Harry realises that she’d taken her large bag in with her, and he wonders if she’s doing a check up on him, too. One long overdue, he’d be inclined to think. Could overuse of dreamless sleep bring on long-term effects? Harry wasn’t sure.

“How you feeling?” Ron asks him softly. “You had a right smack on your head, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. I felt it,” Harry tells him with a quiet laugh. “I’m alright. Madam Pomfrey sorted me out.”

Ron nods, his head turning towards the closed kitchen door and then back to Harry. “What do you reckon they’re talking about in there?” 

Harry only shrugs, not wanting to air out Draco’s private issues. Too many of them have been shared around today. 

Ron doesn’t push it, but leans closer to him and asks, “You know that we have to tell Hermione now, right?”

Harry laughs again, nodding his agreement, because of course. If Ron knows, after all, it’s only fair. Plus, she’d probably kill them both if she found out they both knew and she didn’t. 

Madam Pomfrey leaves the kitchen alone, but with a small smile on her face. She struggles again to carry the large bag with her but ultimately manages, and then the whole room is flooding her with thank you’s and goodbye’s. Harry gets in there quickly, bouncing his foot as he tries his best to be polite. Every morsel of his body is aching to run to the kitchen and see why Draco hasn’t yet emerged. She gives him in particular a smile and also tells him to get his rest tonight, and he feels a little bad for wishing her away so soon, but then green flames are back, engulfing her anyway. 

He wastes no time sprinting towards the kitchen, knowing how odd it must look to the rest of them. Or maybe not, at this point. He has no idea what the family thinks of the two of them now. Perhaps their close-to-home ideas with raised eyebrows and laughs behind hands have now been explained away. Perhaps they’ll think that the only reason Harry has been so doting is because of his promise to protect him. He doesn’t know if it quite explains his staring, or the red in his cheeks, or the thumping in his chest when he looks at him that’s most probably audible, for how hard it goes.

He bursts through the door without knocking and closes it behind him, knowing the nosey nature of his favourite people. Draco is leaning against the kitchen counter, tapping his fingers in succession and staring at Harry with a raised eyebrow. He’s a little red in the face but not in the least bit blotchy, which Harry can only figure is a good thing because that would mean an embarrassed Draco, and that’s a version of the man that Harry does not want to be dealing with in the presence of the Weasleys. 

“Everything okay?” he asks, acting so nonchalant, acting as if he hadn’t ran over there the moment that he could. 

Draco nods before he sighs, fingers still tapping away on the surface of the counter. After a few moments, he answers, “As Healers go, she’s most certainly one of the more frightening ones.”

Harry breathes out a laugh. “Gave you a talking to, did she?”

“Quite,” he says. “But she’s satisfied that I was telling the truth about not indulging again, anyway. Less satisfied that I don’t want to see a Mind Healer, still.” 

He doesn’t quite know how to respond to that, because he’s really not on Draco’s side about it. Pomfrey is the best Mediwitch that Harry knows (of the few that he does, anyway) and it doesn’t really take her to see that Draco has some issues that he definitely needs to unpack with someone. It’s not just him, either. Harry knows more people who have seen Mind Healers now than those who haven’t. If Draco thinks that it’s shameful to go to one, then he should say so about him as well, Harry thinks, before deciding to tell it to his face. 

“I’ve seen one,” Harry admits. “You do know that you don’t have to be completely barmy to talk to one, don’t you?”

Draco blinks at him. “You?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I went back a few times, too, actually.”

He can see Draco drink in the information, swallow it down his throat and try to understand the taste of it. He’s looking at Harry like he thinks that he may be lying to him, suspicious and confused, eyebrows knit together. His fingers cease their tapped-out rhythm on the counter to give him time and silence to think. 

After what feels like an age, all he asks is, “Really?”

Harry supposes that he can understand some of Draco’s reasoning. Whenever Mind Healers had been brought up, at least before the War, Harry associated them less with Muggle therapists and more with the people who helped take care of people like Professor Lockhart, or Neville’s mum and dad. But since then, there’s been a turn over; everyone has seen death, seen things that haunt them late at night in their terrifying subconscious. Even the Mind Healers have Mind Healers, nowadays. 

“Yeah,” he says again, nodding his head. “Hermione has, too. Pretty much all of the Weasleys have. It’s not… You know. It’s not as big of a deal as you think it is.” 

“Oh,” is all that Draco says, and then he’s squinting at the floor for a few moments before pushing away from the counter and walking towards him. Changing the subject rather abruptly, he eyes Harry’s throat and asks, “Does it still hurt?”

Harry shakes his head no, though he does gulp under the closeness of the man’s gaze. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know anyone else that can do it to him.

“Good,” Draco hums. “I’m sorry, again.”

“Stop it,” Harry tells him. He’s about to tell him it’s my job but falls short of it, because yes, it is technically what he’s been told to do in lieu of a Ministry employee, but it’s not what it feels like anymore. It’s starting to feel like it’s not a job at all — it’s starting to feel like making sure Draco is safe is as natural to him as breathing. So, instead, he says, “Rather me than you.”

Draco rolls his eyes and mutters something about Harry being a martyr before he’s leaning over Harry and opening the door, and they’re heading back into the living room. There’s a few less eyes on them now, but it’s not for disinterest. Ron tells them as they approach the couches again that Bill and Fleur had retired to their bedroom and Percy had followed to his own, and that he knew that his mum and dad weren’t going to be far behind. 

“Well, it’s all been a bit too much excitement,” Molly says when she overhears him. Beside her, Arthur stretches his arms above his head with a mighty yawn. 

“And a bit too much wine,” Charlie whispers to them with a wink as he stands up, too. He tells the room, “Night all,” before kissing his mother on the cheek and retreating. 

Draco and Harry sit down and have another glass of the same Elf-made wine each, and Harry may be imagining things but it feels like Draco’s sitting closer than normal. There’s a heat emanating from the proximity of his leg that makes Harry pull on his collar multiple times. The wine doesn’t help in the slightest with the mild excitement he feels at it, the thrumming of static that’s summoned by the fact that he’s touching Draco’s thigh, even if it’s with his own. 

Perhaps he shouldn’t even be drinking alcohol after his injury, but it’s Christmas. So what if he’s a little drunk and a little aroused. 

“You must be completely exhausted, Harry… They said to give you your rest, why don’t you two head upstairs now?” Molly says to them, interrupting Harry’s unrelenting flow of consciousness that was starting to get him in trouble with his trousers. “I know you must stay together, so you two are in the room opposite Ron’s.” 

The two of them say their thanks and their goodnights, Harry not thinking about how odd it feels to be dismissed as a pair, not thinking about the fact that he’d been this close to popping a boner in the presence of his adopted family. Ginny and George start whispering and laughing as soon as they start to walk away, a conversation which Ron demands to be a part of but, from the sound of his disappointment, gets denied access to. 

Harry leads the way upstairs and only now recognises how nice it’ll be to sink into bed, eyes getting a little drowsy. He yawns and rubs the back of his neck, and, just as they reach the right floor, feels Draco tap him on the shoulder. 

“Potter,” he says quietly, so as not to disturb any of the others that had already gone to bed. “I know that we made an agreement… But I was wondering, because there’s so many other people here…”

Harry knows what he’s trying to say, even as he trails off. He places his hand onto the doorknob to their shared room for the night, sighing, already shaking his head. “It’s too dangerous, Draco. I’m sorry, I am. But he knows that you’re here now, and there’s nowhere near as many protective enchantments here as there are on our room in Hogwarts.”

He takes in Draco’s pointed silence and clenched jaw for a moment before he opens up the door and pushes inside. He observes the scene before him with a blank brain, and feels Draco do the same behind him. 

Hm. 

There’s a bundle of old pillows and a thin blanket on the hard floor that looks just about as inviting as having to sleep in the shed. Next to it, an obviously new grand four-poster bed, cream coloured and pristinely made, pillows fluffed and multiple sheets pulled to fit the queen-sized mattress. 

Harry clears his throat, breaking the silence that had settled upon their viewing. “Erm, I’ll take the floor.” 

Draco pushes past him and steps inside, making his way quickly towards the ratty bundle on the ground. He says, “Don’t be ridiculous. Even if Pomfrey fixed you up, you still really do need rest. Consider yourself lucky, because if you hadn’t just saved my neck — literally — then you wouldn’t have a choice but to sleep down here.”

Harry frowns. As posh as he is, and as annoyed as it’s made Harry over the years, he can’t imagine Draco laying down to sleep in such a display. Harry, on the other hand, was used to it. It only made sense. He steps forward towards the makeshift bed of grey, shaking his head. “Come on, I feel fine. You don’t want to sleep on the ground.”

“Well, you don’t want to sleep on the ground either,” Draco argues. 

“No, obviously neither of us want to sleep on the ground,” he says, biting back. “But you don’t have to.”

“You don’t have to either!” he says. “Neither of us want to or have to sleep on the floor.” 

Harry blinks at him. The idea slips into his mind and he’s not sure if it’s from that same demon of lust that sometimes shoves unholy thoughts into his head, or if it’s smart. It’s probably not smart. Not smart at all. But, wine-fuelled, he suggests it anyway. 

“Why don’t we both just take the bed?”

Draco’s gaze feels like it burns a hole right into his face. The two of them turn from each other to the bed, examining its width, debating this or that or this or that in their heads. Then they look at one another once again. Draco takes one extraordinarily long breath in. Then out. 

Then, he nods, and he says, “Of course. Why don’t we.”

Chapter Text

For whatever reason, the anticipation is the worst part of all of this. Harry shows Draco to the nearest bathroom and one by one they brush their teeth, Harry going second and having to change into his pyjamas whilst Draco’s in the room, because he’s stupid and didn’t take them in with him. His heart is beating too fast at the prospect of sharing a bed with the man that he has to look in the mirror and tell himself to calm down. He doesn’t. 

It’s freezing in the room, and he half-debates leaving on his shirt before going against it. The bed looks warm enough, he thinks, as he watches Draco pull back the multiple sheets and sit himself directly onto the mattress, and he’s quite sure that he’s nervous enough about the whole situation that he wouldn’t put it past his disloyal body to sweat his worries out. Draco leaves his Weasley jumper on, though, instead of adorning his usual silk button-up. The sight of him in bed wearing it genuinely makes Harry dizzy.

Harry crosses the room in his joggers, goosebumps spreading up his arms and his chest, and places his new watch on the bedside table beside him, face up to avoid scratching the glass. He wastes no time pulling back the sheets and jumps into bed, an even line of undisturbed fabric between them. He sinks into the mattress and the sheet warms him up at once, and he can’t help but wonder what the rest of the beds in the house must feel like if this is the one reserved for the guest bedroom. There’s one for him in Ron’s room, he knows, but Harry’s grateful for the privacy. Plus, Ron snores. Loudly.

Harry’s too scared to turn his head. He doesn’t know why. His body feels stiff, and he wants to blame it on the cold air of the room but knows realistically that he can’t. In his peripheral vision, he can see Draco laying down flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling of the four-poster. Harry wonders if the man feels as rigid as he does; if he’s quite as scared to move. They’re lucky that the bed is big, he supposes, because if they were any closer to each other, Draco would most likely be able to feel him softly shaking. 

“Have you had a nice day?” he asks, because something needs to break the silence and neither of them are pretending to fall asleep yet. The sound of his own voice settles him some, and he finds the courage to move himself, laying his head down on his pillow in exactly the same manner as the man next to him. 

He hears Draco give a small laugh. “Aside from your near-death experience, you mean?”

Harry can’t help but smile. “Yeah, apart from that.”

“Then, yes,” he hears Draco say. Neither of them look at each other, still. Harry can’t articulate his reasoning for it. Perhaps there’s a part of him that knows that if he turns his head and sees Draco laying beside him in the very same bed, he’s never going to be able to unsee it. It may very well plant its roots in Harry’s brain and remain there, sticking out and tripping him up when he least expects it. Thoughts of Draco have a way of doing that, no matter how hard Harry tries to fight it. 

“I’m glad,” Harry says quietly. And he really is. For all the anxiety that the both of them had held over how the day would go, it really hadn’t been that bad. It had been good, even. Of course, there had been the near-death experience, but those come to Harry like paper-cuts now. 

Another silence settles between them, but still neither of them sleep. Harry listens out for the small tells, the soft breathing or occasional unconscious shuffle. None of them come. He wonders for a long while whether Draco’s waiting for him to fall asleep first, in case he’s worried about any dreams giving him away or not, before Harry realises that he doesn’t have to — he knows that Harry is still awake, because Harry is stupid, and hasn’t taken off his glasses yet. 

He feels too awkward to do anything about it just yet, even though there’s no reason to. It’s not as if Draco is going to call him out for it. There’s nothing wrong with it, anyway. It’s not a crime to wear your glasses for a while in bed. Harry feels the need to slap himself in the forehead just to shut up his mind. 

“I wanted to say thank you again,” Draco speaks into the darkness. 

“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” Harry says, and it feels like he says it too quickly, all in one breath. 

Harry feels a movement between them, and from the still position of his head he sees the smoothness of the gap between them break. What must be Draco’s hand slips under the covers, and Harry’s mind is purely filled with static. Is it purposeful? Is Harry supposed to do something with that hand, or move closer towards it? The unholy demon in Harry’s mind pictures Draco’s hand moving closer, towards his hip and further, intending on showing his gratitude with more than just words. 

Harry allows a shaky breath to leave his lips as he imagines it. These dark, quiet nights bring with them a daring that Summer nights do not, the light too constant for secrets to feel secret. Now, he allows himself the thought under the privacy of the Winter night. He imagines the fingers of the man laying next to him, long and slim just like him. He imagines them sliding closer, brushing his hip, naked because of his ever-slipping baggy joggers. He imagines the trimmed and shaped fingertips pushing beneath his waistband, smoothing over the skin dusted with kempt hair. 

He holds his breath, squeezes his eyes shut and wills himself to calm down at the bubbling of heat that’s summoned to his lower abdomen. He can’t allow himself to get carried away. Not now.

It’s only when Draco speaks again that Harry remembers they were in a sort-of conversation at all. 

“I do,” Draco says quietly. “I think my life from this year onwards will have to revolve around apologising to you and thanking you.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say, again, and curses his mind for it. He wants to say that it’s unnecessary but he knows that his words will just fall on deaf ears. He almost says something, opens his mouth to do so even though he has no idea what it’ll be, but Draco rolls over onto his side. He’s facing him now, and Harry still refuses to move a muscle, so he has no idea how much of him the man is able to see in the moonlight. Can he see the way his mouth is slightly open, because his breathing has become too heavy for his nose to cope with? Can he see the sweat that must be trickling down his temple despite the cold? Anything that Harry planned on saying is squashed down like an insect, static blooming from his head to his toes as he feels those fucking fingertips brush his waist. It’s just for a moment, and it may even be an accident, but it happens and Harry forgets who he even is.

“We’re two different ends of a ridiculous spectrum,” Draco continues, apparently unaware of the small heart attack he’d caused under Harry’s chest. He only just manages to hear what he’s saying.

“Oh?” is his wondrous reply, so eloquent that he belongs in the Lake District, with all the other poets.

“The Saint and the Sinner,” Draco hums. “It’s no wonder that people are gossiping about us. They don’t want me to be your friend, so they come up with queer ideas about what I must be letting you do to me so that you want to keep me around.”

The heat in Harry’s groin practically feels like it explodes, and no matter how dark it is, he knows that he can no longer remain laying on his back. His arousal has beaten his frozen fear. He clears his throat as he turns just as Draco had done, rolling over to face him, his glasses digging into his nose. They’re closer now than they had been, and Harry can make out small features of his face. He pushes one leg out further than the other so that the sheets don’t betray him with a silhouette. 

Static pounds in his head as he tries to remain coherent. He pushes away thoughts like what Draco would let Harry do to him, of words like queer and what people have been fucking gossiping about. Unfortunately, it leaves him with absolutely nothing to contribute to the conversation. It’s a good thing that Draco keeps talking.

“Theo had a copy of The Prophet, not too long ago, and it had a section on public opinion about us. People had written in to share their thoughts and feelings,” he tells him. “Most people were expressing that people should keep their noses out of our business, but some others… I really don’t know how they got printed.”

At some point, Harry’s mouth had become flooded with saliva. He swallows thickly before responding with a dumb, “Yeah?”

“What confuses me is how so many people that worship you, and hate me, would think that you would do that,” Draco whispers. “I know I’ve said that before. I still want to know.”

Harry shrugs his shoulders. He finds his voice, his ability to share a sentence again, and what comes out is, “Maybe it’s a kinky thing.”

Draco breathes a laugh. Harry can’t see it, can’t even make out the expression on his face, but he hears the man gulp before he continues talking, humour evident in his tone. “Less fighting and more… Of that?” 

It’s a mistake to keep the conversation going, but Harry feels his fear from beforehand blossom into a steady confidence. Perhaps it’s the darkness, or the fact that Draco brought it all up first, or the fact that there’s a surge of testosterone rushing through him right now — his thick, heavy erection against his thigh doing all of the thinking instead of his actual head. 

He says to him, bold Gryffindor glory shooting through his veins, “You said you’re never going to stop thanking me and apologising to me. Maybe people have certain ideas on how you can do that.” 

The wine from earlier on in the day must be catching up with him. With both of them, in fact. It’s the only explanation for how this can be happening. Or perhaps Harry’s still unconscious from touching the cursed necklace, and this is some kind of sick dream that he’s going to wake up from and yearn for for the rest of his life. Either way, it feels fucking electric, and he has to squeeze his thighs together again just to satisfy the heated thrum in his crotch. 

There’s enough light that he can see the way Draco’s mouth falls open, and for all of what he’s been saying, he’s quiet for what feels like a minute or two. Harry hears a rustling in the bedsheets, but he’s not sure where it comes from. 

“Maybe people do,” Draco says back in a whisper. “Some sick people.”

“Really sick,” Harry mumbles. 

He wonders then if that’ll be the end of it. Perhaps he’s pushed his luck too far and anything further will send him plummeting over the invisible line that has been drawn for an indistinct while now. 

Or maybe not. The universe may still have one more Christmas present to give him yet. 

Draco asks him, more warm breath than his actual voice, “Like what?”

Harry feels his cock twitch, perking up impossibly more within the loose confines of his joggers and pants. He shouldn’t have worn grey, he thinks to himself absently, because he knows that there’ll be certain evidence giving him away. Rubbing his thighs together again, he confirms it, a wetness that for once makes him feel more aroused than disgusted. 

His will to hold back has never been more weak, even though there’s a tiny voice in the back of his mind telling him to be careful, still. He’s never been very good at following directions.

“They probably think you could thank me by getting on your knees,” Harry murmurs, his voice low and thick. 

In an instant, there’s a sharp intake of breath. There’s more rustling of the sheets, movement that Harry only wishes he could pin down. Harry is most certainly sweating now for a myriad of reasons, and he fights down the urge to wipe his forehead or fan himself. No sudden movements, he thinks, approaching the situation like a wild animal. If nothing breaks the illusion, the blind agreement that seems to be stirring up between them, then why should this have to stop?

When Draco’s reply comes, it’s somehow even more breathy than his voice had been before. He says, “What do you think they suppose I do for you down there?” 

If Harry were in a clearer mind, he might take note of Draco’s tone and the way he phrases his responses, might do something with it all that doesn’t just get his cock harder. The man is speaking like he wants Harry to start talking and never stop — like he wants the appearance of someone who doesn’t have an idea of what’s going on; some plausible deniability to boot. As it is, Harry can’t comprehend any of that at the moment. All that's in his mind is the clear image of Draco Malfoy down on his knees, and for once, he doesn’t have to try and hide it. 

“I reckon they think you can’t wait to get me out of these joggers,” he says, and though his voice is thick with his breathing, his tone is conversational. “They think you pull them down and s—” He stops, catching his breath that seems to be running away from him, “— Suck me off.”

Draco’s breathing is starting to sound as thick as his own, but he doesn’t dare to assume anything from it. He doesn’t let himself assume that Draco is thinking the exact same as he is, now, picturing in vivid detail a blind head sinking down and pawing at his waistline, mouthing at the tent in his underwear. Draco is most definitely not imagining getting his lips around Harry’s naked erection, licking him into his mouth and moving forward until he’s accepting him all the way down that fucking throat of his. 

“Do you think they think you like it?” Draco asks. “Or just tolerate it?”

“Like it,” Harry answers at once. “Definitely like it. That question is for you.” 

“Me?” 

Harry nods, the frame of his glasses digging even further into his nose, but he barely registers the pain. “They probably wonder if you’d like doing it for me. Or if it’s just as a thanks.”

“Oh,” Draco says quietly. “I don’t think they’d need to wonder too much about that.” 

Harry bites down on his lip. He doesn’t know what the Hell they’re doing. “I think they’d wonder whether you would switch things up at all.”

Draco hums. “What do you mean?”

“Would you suck me off just as a thanks?” It’s an accident, but the pretense of the imaginary they is dropped, and Harry has goosebumps again. “What would you do as an apology?”

“Oh,” he says again, and it’s a pretty sound, soft and breathy still like the rest of their conversation. “The people writing into The Prophet certainly had their ideas.”

He hadn’t even been aware that he was doing it, but his knuckles are white from his tight grip on the bed sheets. He says to him, “Tell me?”

Draco shifts in the bed a little, and ends up somehow even closer. If Harry moved even a centimetre, their knees would be touching. 

“It’s all quite uncouth, of course,” he tells Harry. “A complete lack of decorum. They really seem to want me to make it up to you, and so it’s… A big act.” 

Again, with bated breath, Harry says, “Tell me,”

“They want you to fuck me,” Draco finally says, and he’s so blunt about it that it takes Harry a moment to process the words. He’s barely even done when he hears Draco continue speaking. “They want you to bend me over whenever you so feel like it. As I said, a lifetime of making it up to you.” 

His cock reacts before he does, another jerk and another spill of excitement beading against the unforgiving grey fabric. Otherwise, he can’t help but audibly trip over his breath, gripping onto the sheets so hard that his fingernails almost penetrate them, digging into his palms through the layers. 

“They really printed that in The Prophet?” he asks. 

“Not in so many words,” Draco admits. “But it was the general idea. Public opinion seems to be, with how much time we’re spending together, that you’ve been fucking me every single night since Hallowe’en.”

“When I took you back to the room,” Harry says. There’s something about the way that Draco keeps saying fuck me and fucking me that’s making him impossibly more aroused, the language almost feeling like the man’s doing it on purpose. 

“Obviously someone saw.” Draco nods. “I wonder what they’d think if they saw us now.”

“I don’t even know what I’m thinking,” Harry admits. “Let alone what they would be.”

“Probably that we’ve already started,” he says, and for a brief second, Harry can see the light of the moon reflected on the wetness of his lips. 

Harry licks his own. “Probably that I’ve already got you beneath me.” 

Another rustling of sheets. Harry still can’t make out where it’s coming from. Draco nods once again, and Harry can just make out the dark silhouette of his shoulder moving, though the location of his arm and where it’s leading is a mystery. 

Slowly, he moves his own. The growing pressure between his legs is almost so strong that it’s getting painful, and the image of Draco being pinned down beneath him does nothing at all to help with the feeling. He reaches down, desperately trying to remain silent, and slips his hand beneath his joggers and his underwear, wrapping his fingers around the length of his erection and practically hissing with relief at the sensation. He waits for any kind of disgusted reaction from Draco that’ll tell him that he’s been caught out, but it doesn’t come. 

Draco does speak, but it’s not with disgust. It’s simply to continue their conversation. “Maybe they think that we’re already naked.”

Harry squeezes the base of his cock, releases a long breath, and says, “Or that I’m already touching you.”

His breath is mirrored by Draco at once, and his voice is just an octave higher than normal when he asks, “Where?”

 He doesn’t even try to steady his voice anymore. “Kissing your neck. My hand on your —” His wrist twitches, jerking himself into his fist, “— On your dick.”

Draco’s shoulder’s moving more now, the rustle of sheets more constant. He asks, “Are you doing it to get me off, or to tease me?” and Harry feels like the question has more meaning than the hypothetical. 

“To get you off,” he tells him. “But maybe also to get you impatient. To get you to start begging.”

“Begging for what?” Draco asks, and turns his head for a moment, muffling an indistinct noise into the pillow. 

Harry’s hips unwittingly jerk forwards as he opens his mouth to speak, and he slips his hand up and down his shaft more generously now, giving into his body. He bites his lip as he thinks of his answer, choking down the ungodly noises that threaten to spill out. He tells him, “To get me inside you.”

Draco physically jumps at that, his arm hitting the sheet. “ Fuck,” he whispers, and he sounds so fucking desperate that it makes Harry’s jaw slack. 

“Yeah?” Harry hums, spurred on with too much confidence. “They think you’d like that.”

“Yeah,” Draco whispers back, nodding fervently, his arm moving now in a steady, fast rhythm. 

Harry’s not sure that his head is still on his body. He’s not sure he’s still even in the same universe. He attempts to match what he can only assume is Draco’s tempo, his breathing becoming progressively unsteady. The sound of wet slaps slowly takes up the silence of the room. 

“They think I’d like it, too. I must, if it’s all for me. Getting on top of you and p— pushing inside, fucking into you and watching your face,” he rambles, and there’s no mistake anymore over what’s going on between them. Draco’s eyes are closed and now Harry can see the exact place that his cock must be getting held and jerked, the shape and dent of his fist evident even in the darkness. 

Draco doesn’t speak, but he also doesn’t seem capable of putting together any kind of string of words. All that leaves his lips now is a constant thrum of moans and whines, and it’s only as Harry watches him and forgets to keep talking that Draco opens his eyes again. 

“Please,” Draco whimpers, and Harry does as he believes he’s asked.

“Have you on your back,” Harry begins again. “So I could watch you as I fucked you. I’d push into you so good, you wouldn’t even be able to speak. But you wouldn’t need to ask for more, I’d give it all to you. So good, so fast—” He feels like he’s hyperventilating, his arm getting the workout of its life. “I’d jerk you off as I fuck you, so I can make you cum and watch it happen.”

Harry throws his head back and he seems to lose control of his legs as they straighten, his toes curling, his back arching. His cock is rigid in his grasp, impossibly wet with anticipation of orgasm, and he can’t hold back his own moans anymore. He’s on the verge of throwing back the sheets and getting a good look at what their conversation has done to the man beside him, but he doesn’t get the chance. He’s shooting out over his fist, over the inside of his underwear, the situation finally climaxing upon him. The static in his head blocks his vision from the strength of his orgasm, jaw dropping from the intensity, mind absolutely blown. 

His one regret for that moment is that it means that he’s unable to watch the physicality of Draco as he cums, too. He’s only sure that it happens because of his heavenly noises, a litany of whimpers that carry him through it. It must be the heat of the moment that causes Draco to reach out and grab Harry’s arm, like an anchor to the moment that’s dangerously fizzling away. 

They lay there panting, looking everywhere and nowhere, at each other and not, and Harry doesn’t know how at all to proceed. He’s coming down from his high but slowly, even though he can start to feel the tinges of worry and regret and disgust at the sticky sensation in his underwear. He doesn’t let himself think about it or make the first move — the wild animal is back and he’s just as scared to move again. 

“Fuck,” Draco whispers, but he doesn’t let go of Harry’s bicep just yet. He’s closer than Harry had realised he was, and all he can do is stare. He doesn’t even dare to reach for his wand to clean them up. Draco’s hand is softly shaking, and he says again, “ Fuck , Potter.”

“Yeah,” is all Harry can force himself to say. “Fuck.” 

They continue to lay there for a few more minutes, maybe two, or maybe twenty, Harry’s not sure. All Harry knows is that he’s still struggling to find his breath, and, from the sound of it, so is Draco. It’s when he finally releases his grip on his arm that he allows himself to start wholly worrying. 

What a fucking mistake. Harry had gone so long suppressing his feelings and all for what — nothing? A hasty masturbation session was not worth the awkwardness that will undoubtedly rise from this. If Harry had touched him, then maybe. If he had been acting upon the words that he was saying, then definitely. A large part of him regrets staying to his side of the bed. He should’ve moved in as soon as Draco had whispered to him please. 

But he hadn’t. And now, there was probably to be nothing but silence. Draco may write to McGonagall, maybe even straight to Kingsley, and request someone else to watch over him. Harry wouldn’t blame him, but he would blame himself for the rest of his goddamn life. 

Draco pushes himself up without a word, settling his feet on the floor and standing. He doesn’t even pause to face Harry as he stands and walks to the door, opening and closing it behind him in a flash, leaving Harry to his own poisonous mind. As soon as it’s latched again, Harry rolls over and slams his face into his pillow, letting it muffle his scream. 

It’s all he can do to hope that he hasn’t woken up Ron across the hall with his scream, and that’s what triggers the next load of anxiety — what if somebody had heard them? He hadn’t been complaining at the time — far from it, though he doesn’t let his mind linger on the topic, because Draco’s moans were so pretty that Harry hadn’t wanted them to stop. But oh, God, the walls are thin and the floors are thinner. Harry does a mental check of the floor plan, trying to figure out who might be beneath them, hoping it’s someone with bad hearing or falls asleep quickly. That would be the cherry on top of the awkwardness, wouldn’t it? Trying to ignore it the next morning only to have one of the Weasleys bring it up to their faces. 

Harry finally comes to some sense and grabs his wand to clean himself up. He still feels dirty because it’s never the same as showering, but there’s nothing that he can do about that now — Draco’s in there still , doing God knows what. Bathing, or having a panic attack. Harry would understand either. 

He rolls over and wipes the sweat off of his forehead with a heavy sigh, his heart still pumping with adrenaline. It’s not until a dozen minutes later, in which Harry doesn’t even attempt to fall asleep, that Draco returns with still shaking hands. 

“You okay?” Harry asks against his better judgment. Perhaps he should’ve kept his mouth shut — perhaps he should’ve done that far earlier on in the night. That would’ve avoided some heartache. 

Draco hums because once the door is closed, Harry can barely see him again. There’s no hesitance in the way that he gets back into the bed, and it’s fucking scary. 

“It was the wine,” Draco says. 

Harry shifts over to look at him again, and it feels suddenly inappropriate that he’s shirtless. He asks, “What?”

“It was a side effect of the wine,” he tells him. “I checked the bottle.”

Harry may be a little obtuse at times, but he’s not stupid. He knows that Draco isn’t telling the truth, but there’s that embarrassment that he knows the man can’t handle. He nods even though he knows Draco can’t see him, not believing a word that’s being said. 

“Is it normal for Elf-wine to do that?” he asks because he can, because he doesn’t want to ignore that it’s happened. So, though minutely, he calls his bluff. “Or just the kind that your mother sent us?”

He hears Draco gulp, a huff of air that could either be filled with humour or annoyance, and then, “Shut up, Potter.”

Harry bites his lip, places his glasses on the bedside table, and closes his eyes. 

Their dreams tonight will be interesting.

Chapter Text

He has no idea of the time. It’s still dark outside, but a deep blue instead of black. He can’t smell breakfast cooking yet, but there’s a jet of steam outside the window that tells him at least one person is running some hot water. He allows himself to relax for the need not to rush to get up, to bask in this moment in bed where he may or may not go back to sleep, he hasn’t decided yet. Then it hits him.

Despite their activities from the night before, Harry’s body seems to forget the brief satisfaction that it had experienced, and he’s rock hard. It may or may not have something to do with the fact that Draco is basically draped on top of him. Jury’s out on that. 

There’s a leg across his waist and an arm across his chest, like a bear hug. The man’s face is in the crook of his neck and each small breath coming out of his nose slightly tickles. When Harry looks down at him, he can see the blank calm in the sleeping expression on his face, and hates that he has to interrupt it. He’s not forced to interrupt it, but knows that realistically he should; especially after last night, as Harry has a feeling that Draco is going to be particularly difficult to deal with this morning.

“Draco,” he says quietly, reaching up and tapping him on the shoulder. “Wake up.”

Draco does not wake up. 

“Draco,” he says again, giving his shoulder a shake now. The man stirs, but only lightly, humming his disagreement with the prospect of being woken and creating a scenario the exact opposite of what Harry had intended: he’s shuffling closer. His lower body flushes against Harry now and God, he’s going to absolutely kill him, because Harry isn’t the only one with something straining his underwear. 

“Draco!” Harry tries one last time, half-shouting. It works, at least, startling the man’s eyes open. 

“Ah!” Draco gasps, looking down at him with what seems to be intense confusion. “What — What?!”

“You’re on me,” Harry explains, and Draco’s turning bright red in a flash. Things must occur to him all at once — their proximity, their erections, their pre-sleep activity, and his cheeks grow to become an even darker red. 

He launches himself back, so far that he only just stops himself from falling backwards off of the bed. Harry sits up as he watches it, ready to pull him back up and save his back from hitting the floor, but he doesn’t need to. In the growing light, Harry gets a better view of the tenting in Draco’s pyjama bottoms that he’d been kept from the night before. So does Draco.

Harry looks down at his own lap and gulps. He doesn’t have to say anything. They could both feign ignorance and pretend, still, like nothing that has unravelled in this room ever occurred; what happens in the Burrow stays in the Burrow. But Harry can’t bring himself to ignore it. 

“Does the Elf-wine come with after-effects?” he asks as he reaches for his glasses, placing them on his face just in time to see the embarrassment twist its way onto Draco’s face. Harry doesn’t care if it puts him in a mood. This is something he won’t budge on.

“Shut up,” Draco responds, pointedly pulling the duvet over his legs and his lap. 

“Thought not,” Harry says quietly, laying down once again on his back, head sinking into the pillow. He gazes at Draco, wondering how far he can push. 

He watches as the man drops his head in his hands and leaves it there for a good few minutes, and wishes that he could read his mind. It must be filled with disgust at himself, but there’s the smallest of chances that he’s wondering how to make it happen again. If he’s anything like Harry, anyway. 

When he finally lifts his head again, Draco says to him, “We were drunk, Potter. I don’t want you to delude or worry your daft head about it. Forget it.”

Harry sterns his jaw. They weren’t drunk, and they both know it, but he wonders if it’s even worth the teasing if Draco’s going to be so stubborn. So touchy. Surely it would be easier for him to move on from the incident if they acknowledged it? With the added bonus of potentially doing it again, he thinks, and maybe hates himself a little for attempting to be sly about it. 

“Sure,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “We were absolutely fucking out of it.”

*

They wait until Harry’s watch tells them that it’s nine o’clock and there’s an echo of many footsteps heading up and down the stairs. They’re both already showered by the time they head downstairs then, the scent of sausage and egg and bacon filling his nostrils and acting like a compass. 

Molly asks how they slept and Ginny and George snort into their coffee, but Harry’s not worried that they heard anything. Their rooms are perhaps the furthest from where Draco and Harry had slept the night before, but Draco doesn’t seem to know that. Harry tells Molly that they’d slept great, thank you, and shakes his head at the blond man next to him to calm his nerves. He has no idea if it works. 

It takes Harry the majority of the morning to gather together his gifts and Draco doesn’t help him. Harry skulks around the living room, picking up item after item as he watches Draco partake in an extraordinarily friendly conversation with Charlie and Percy. He talks with Percy about the Ministry, and Charlie about dragons, as if they hadn’t spoken enough about that with each other yesterday. Harry glares at the way that Draco laughs and says, “You know, my name actually means dragon…?” whilst staring at Charlie’s bright eyes and freckles. He has to shake his head to bring himself back to reality, just coming short of accidentally exploding the glass in his hand. 

Facer, Pansy, and now Charlie. Maybe Harry really does need help with his jealousy. 

He slams item after item into his bag as he ponders. Something had happened between them last night. Harry knows it, and Draco knows it. They’d crossed the line that had been drawn, whether they liked it or not — whether Draco liked it or not. Did this give Harry some kind of claim over his jealousy, now? Was he no longer frivolously possessive — was it now allowed? Passable? Warranted?

He looks up just in time to see Draco’s polite laughter, cheeks stretched and eyes crinkled nearly closed. It’s a picture, and it’s been painted by Charlie Weasley, not him. Charlie Weasley, who, admittedly, is fucking gorgeous, with a stocky masculinity and warm, welcoming aura that could draw anyone in. Clearly, Draco has been drawn. Harry’s never held any animosity towards the man before, and it’s not that he particularly does now. He’s not doing anything wrong, after all. But, God, Harry has the inexplicable urge to tell him to stop fucking smiling like that.

There’s a static buzzing in his head that makes him want to rip his hair out. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s all absolutely nothing. Draco Malfoy has always had a way of making him feel insane, in one way or another. 

*

Harry and Draco get back to Hogwarts, and it’s awful. Really, really awful. 

It’s nothing but awkwardness for days upon lonely days. Draco barely looks at him, and Harry barely looks back. He knows that the reasoning on both sides is flawed; Draco is angry and embarrassed and trying to pretend that nothing happened between them. Harry wants to kill him, because every time a room quietens, he can hear Draco’s soft moans and every time he closes his eyes, he can see the wide smile that had been directed at Charlie. They don’t talk to each other unless it’s necessary, and it rarely is. 

Perhaps tensions are so high on this particular night because they’re not going to be able to pretend that everything is fine. It’s the evening before their classmates and friends are due to return to the Castle, and they’re getting ready for bed in another thick bout of silence. New Year's Eve had come and gone with little impact, no great celebration, only McGonagall allowing those who had stayed over the holidays to stay out after curfew. They hadn’t ventured out, only exchanging a tight-lipped “ Happy New Year,” to one another before heading to sleep. 

Now, the two of them settle into their respective beds and try not to think about what they’ll inevitably have to say to their friends when quizzed about the rift between them. Harry doesn’t know whether Draco would tell Pansy and the others the truth. He seems to be very open with them, but the shame of it all might stop him sorely in his tracks about sharing this . Harry’s in a similar boat. He knows he can’t tell Hermione and Ron the details, and certainly they wouldn’t particularly want to hear them, but he’s all too aware of the fact that he can’t lie to them to save his life. 

The silence is as thick as ever with the prospect of acting normally or being found out, and Harry wishes that he could say something. But no matter what potential words he conjures in his mind, he’s sure that something will be wrong. Draco will find something offensive and it will add an entirely new layer of distance between them, despite Harry’s wanting to fix it. He doesn’t understand. Why doesn’t Draco want to fix it too?

He’s been laying down for a while now, mind whirring and forcing him away from sleep. He’s excited to see his friends, but the anxiety is getting harder and harder to ignore. He allows himself to quietly, nestling himself underneath the warmth of the covers and resting his hands on his stomach. A dangerous thought plagues his mind, and he can’t help but ponder it. After all, it had always helped him sleep before…

But he’s not certain whether Draco is yet asleep, and doesn’t know if the tension between them would be helped by the man overhearing such a thing. And then the devil in his mind makes himself known again, because maybe he wouldn’t be angry, maybe they could…

Harry slips his fingers beneath both the waistband of his joggers and his underwear, taking in a sharp breath of air. The soft hair under his touch is all too inviting, like it always is, and he can already feel himself stirring, his cock rising to the occasion. He turns his head to the right, cheek against the cold pillow as he tries to make out Draco’s position. It’s dark and he doesn’t even have his glasses on, but he looks over at him anyway, excitement thrumming through his veins as he wraps his fingers around himself and begins to jerk his wrist. 

All that’s in his line of sight is a shaded blur and still it spurs him on, his hand working faster and faster over himself. He tries to keep the noise to a minimum but discovers that he can’t quite control his breathing. His mouth seems to be permanently ajar, jaw twitching as his heavy breath spills out. He gives himself a firm squeeze as one particular throb of pleasure shoots through him. His instinct is to close his eyes and bask in the feeling, but he forces himself not to, his gaze remaining on the man in the next bed. 

The man in the next bed, who stirs. Who rolls now onto his side, facing Harry. Who, though Harry still only sees in an unfocused haze, appears to have his grey eyes wide open and directed right at him. 

He pauses his arm movements, staring right back, his chest heaving. More than anything, he wishes that he had his glasses on, because he can’t make out a single thing about the man’s expression. He doesn’t even move, just appears to be watching him, and Harry is so hard that it hurts. 

It hits him then that Draco doesn’t need glasses. Draco can see everything that the dim light allows him to see. Harry allows himself another tight squeeze of his erection and quickly begins to jerk his fist once again. The heat of the gaze on him is making him sweat, and he pushes the sheets down slightly, exposing his chest. It may or may not be on purpose, just to make the sight more appealing to the man in the next bed. Just to tease him, a little. Entice him, maybe. 

Still, Harry catches no sign of movement from the other bed, and he’s been staring for so long that he’s not sure that Draco’s not asleep — perhaps he sometimes sleeps with his eyes open? But then Harry pushes the sheets down further, to his knees, and though he’s still touching himself under the cover of his underwear and joggers, it’s a clearer view than anything Draco has had before. That’s what ends up giving him away, because Harry hears a sharp gasp in response and can’t help but lift his hips off the bed to fuck into his fist. 

He’s half-tempted to reach over and grab his glasses to shove them on his face, but he doesn’t. He’s also half-tempted to kick the sheets off of himself completely and jump into Draco’s bed, pull his body flush against his own and get the both of them off at once. He could take hold of Draco’s cock and slide it against his own, thrust against him until they’re both insane with want. Harry thinks he’s already halfway there, anyway. 

He wants to rip Draco’s posh pyjamas off of him and press hot kisses across every pale inch of his body. He wants to take Draco’s erection into his mouth and let him finish there, down his throat. He wants to spread Draco’s legs and sink himself into the tight heat there — like they had spoken about, like Draco had said on that fateful night that he would actually like. 

“Fuck,” Harry breathes. His hand tightens and his pace increases. 

Harry had told him that he’d take him on his back, and Draco had orgasmed. He’d jerked himself off to Harry’s filthy words, brought himself to finish listening to his loose promises on how he’d fuck him so good , so well that he’d lose his ability to speak and cum all over himself just from Harry’s cock and Harry’s hand and —

“ Fuck,” Harry chokes, and there are fucking tears in his eyes from the intensity of it as he feels himself get closer and closer to climax. It’s so vibrant that he gives up on caring and quickly reaches for his glasses, slamming them onto his face without worry for consequence. He stares at Draco, his face flushed entirely red, so much so that it’s visible even in this light. He’s looking at Harry with an indistinguishable heat, but his hands are nowhere near his crotch. Harry doesn’t care. It’s still more than enough for him. 

He cums hard, sticky whiteness shooting up and over his stomach, directed away from the fabric. He watches Draco watch it happen, eyes blown impossibly wide, more black than grey. It’s such an overwhelming feeling, such a hot image before him that Harry thinks he’ll be fully able to go again, if you give him ten minutes. If Draco approaches him now, you need only give him two minutes. He feels himself twitch at the thought… Maybe you need only give him seconds. 

But Draco does not approach him. He watches Harry for a moment or two longer before seemingly coming to his senses, running his long fingers through his hair and turning to face away from him once again. Harry, still catching his breath, says nothing. He grabs his wand and vanishes his mess before placing it, and his glasses, back on the bedside table. 

At least he can find solace in the fact that he had been right about one thing: it really does help him fall asleep quickly. 

*

Though sleep comes quickly to him, it does not remain unscathed. 

Harry’s eyes blearily open to a room half-lit with the beginnings of a Winter morning when he realises that it’s still far too early for breakfast. Tell-tale whimpers from beside him tell him that Draco is still holding true to his promise of not using silencing charms, and as soon as he’s sure that the man isn’t having a nightmare, he tries to fall back asleep. 

It’s hard, and so is he again, because he can’t help but wonder whether it’s because of him. He closes his eyes and holds a hand to his ear, but his brain does most of the damage. Was Draco dreaming about him jerking off? About watching him? About what could have happened if he’d swallowed his pride and joined him? 

Shakily, he releases a long breath. Sleep seems to evade him as images blast his mind. He really needs to have a word with himself. He rolls over, releasing his ears from the muffled safety of his hand and the pillow to reach for his new watch and check the time. It’s barely scratching six A.M. and Harry doesn’t know whether it’ll be worth starting his day now and remaining tired for the rest of it, or remaining in bed and trying to get back to sleep, trying to ignore the man’s moans and his own dangerous mind. 

Then, as he’s placing his watch back on the bedside table, he hears something that genuinely makes him almost fall out of bed — Draco’s soft, sleep-ridden voice gasping, “ Potter!” 

Harry elects to acknowledge that he will be physically unable to go back to sleep after hearing such a thing, and knows realistically that Draco would kill him for it. He heads to the bathroom, brushes his teeth whilst avoiding looking at himself in the mirror, and steps into the shower. 

He stays under the hot stream of water for a very, very long time. 

*

Though he’s sure it should really not be the case, Harry feels entirely less awkward than he has for the past week and a bit. In fact, he doesn’t feel awkward at all. Despite their ongoing silence, Harry almost senses the tension between them has changed from thick ignorance to a heavy heat. From the very moment that he had stepped out of his long shower and Draco, now awake, had become speechless as his gaze had lingered on his glistening, naked torso — to now, as they walk side by side down to breakfast. They brush shoulders a few times and Harry hears his breathing stutter. 

There’s still a few hours until their classmates are due to arrive back, and so the two of them sit together. Harry pushes his knee into Draco’s and Draco throws a glare at him. Harry simply looks back, eyes falling down very obviously to his lips. Draco just grows bright red and takes an aggressive bite of his toast. 

God, he wants him. It’s bad. 

Is this a conflict of interest, he wonders? Is that why Draco seems so intent on ignoring… Whatever this is between them? Does he think that Harry will be removed from his protective position? 

Or perhaps he’s in denial, Harry muses, though it feels like there’s a bit too much to deny at this point. 

The few other Eighth years who had not returned home (and there were really very few) are down at the other end of the table. Sue Li and Lisa Turpin are picking at their porridge, and Zacharias Smith sits with his head in his hands, ignoring them for once. He has a full plate in front of him, barely touched. Harry wonders why he hadn’t returned home for Christmas at all, what could’ve possibly rocked the Smith household enough to not want to see each other? 

Smith looks up, then, as if able to sense Harry’s eyes on him. He looks up, his face pale, and scowls at him with all of the malice he can seemingly muster. In a second, he’s slamming his hands onto the table and storming out of the Hall. 

Draco, along with the rest of the small population in the Hall, watches him leave before turning his head to look at Harry. For the first time in what feels like forever, there’s no underlying apprehension in his voice when he speaks to him and asks, “What just happened?”

“I don’t know,” Harry tells him truthfully, and to be honest, it’s already slipping from his mind. He’s allowing his eyes to take in Draco’s face, remembering how he had watched him the night before. With all the gaul that he can muster, he asks in return, “Are you talking to me again?” 

Harry watches the colour spread slowly into his cheeks. Draco tells him, “I’m quite sure that I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Harry clears his throat, gives a courteous look around them before leaning in towards the other man’s ear, blond hair tickling his nose, and whispering, “If you want to do something other than talk, we can arrange that, too.” 

Draco’s instinct is clearly to panic, because he quite literally jumps off of the bench and slams his knees into the table. It’s no longer just his cheeks that are red — his entire face is brightly coloured with crimson, blotchy all the way down his neck. His eyes are wider than Harry knew was physically possible, and he turns them upon him, mouth agape to match. 

Harry simply leans on his hand, staring at him with a smug grin. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even shrug as if to ask “ what about it?”, but just waits for a response. Draco takes an age to give him one, taking a million moments to first open and close his mouth like a guppy. He looks as though he starts to and fails to speak, stuttering a few times. 

“Fuck you, Potter,” is the eloquence that is returned to him. 

“I could be open to that,” he says at once. 

Draco takes a shaky breath, grabs his bright red water bottle — the same shade as his skin, now — and takes several long glugs. Then he stands, not looking at Harry, already walking away from him. Harry rushes to stand up and follow, having to take on an odd sort of half-jog to catch up. 

“Where are we going?” Harry asks, and part of him expects (whilst all of him wants) Draco to answer with something scandalous like the bedroom or that one tight broom cupboard . 

Instead, he answers swiftly and firmly, “The library.”

He tries not to let the disappointment show on his face. Ah, well, he thinks. For the first time in his life, he believes that the library may still provide some good entertainment for him yet.

The library is entirely deserted, save for Madam Pince and her ever-looming presence. She peers at them over her spectacles before returning to her books, apparently satisfied with Harry’s reputation and Draco’s exhibited respect for her treasures. Together, they sit at a wide table opposite one another, where Draco splays about ten books in front of him and Harry pretends to read his own. 

In reality, he’s watching the man in front of him, who is far more easy on the eyes compared to words droning on and on about charms. Harry chews on the nail of his thumb as his gaze takes in the attractiveness of Draco’s focus. There’s a crease between his eyebrows when he gets so enraptured in a book like he is now, and Harry doesn’t believe for a second that it’s because he’s interested in… Harry looks, and no, there’s no bloody way that he’s so interested in doxies, for crying out loud. He’s doing it to annoy Harry, or ignore him, and it may be incredibly conceited to think but God, is it enticing.  

Is Draco making his best effort at this very moment to push memories of Harry wanking out of his head? Or perhaps even trying to ignore the recollection of the dream that he had had the night before; the dream that had had him writhing and calling out Harry’s name? Harry feels the heat rise to his face as he stares at the man’s lips, imagining his name falling from them yet again. The things he wants to do to make that happen…

And what had Draco been dreaming of? What on earth could his mind have whipped up from his subconscious that imaginary-Harry had been doing? Perhaps he had been making good on his promise, just as he’d been fantasising about. Perhaps Draco had been dreaming about Harry’s hand on him, jerking him off slowly as he kissed his neck, leaving a trail behind of purple love-bites that told everyone else to back off, including Facer, Pansy, and fucking Charlie (sorry, Charlie). Perhaps Draco had been dreaming of being on his own knees, opening those pretty lips and taking Harry’s dick between them, welcoming him onto his sharp tongue. Or perhaps even the best of the suggestions that had been exchanged between them; he could have been dreaming about Harry spreading him open, slipping his cock inside him and driving him crazy on it. He can picture it now, and doesn’t have to try hard; the image of Draco splayed out before him, for him, partnered with that perfect whine of his name that he hadn’t stopped thinking about for hours on hours. 

“Potter!” he hears a hiss, and as it’s far harsher than the way it’s being hummed in his head, it drags him right back to reality. He shakes his head and blinks, refocusing his eyes on Draco’s unimpressed face. “Pince will kill you!”

“For what?” Harry asks, half-worried suddenly that Draco had been reading his mind. 

“For destroying her books?” Draco scoffs, and it’s only then that Harry realises that he’s balled up one of the pages in his hand, the corner of it ripping away from the spine. He yanks his hand away at once, and Draco rolls his eyes, flicking his wand and casting for him, “ Reparo.”

Harry laughs quietly at himself, rubbing at his eyes. “Thanks.”

“You shouldn’t let yourself get so distracted,” Draco tells him, pointedly not looking at him anymore. He’s holding his quill again, scribbling something down on a piece of parchment, and Harry can’t help but become entranced with the way his fingers wrap around it, so slender and delicate. Harry’s thinking of how they’d looked wrapped around himself before he can stop himself. 

He clears his throat and breathes out one long, hot breath. He tells him, “I have no one to blame but you. You’re my built-in distraction.” 

Draco’s grip on his quill tightens, and his eyes flicker up to meet his gaze. Harry watches him swallow thickly. He says to him, quite confused, “I’m not doing anything.”

Harry just laughs again, breathlessly. “You really don’t need to be.”

The quill is tapped on the table multiple times. Then it stops dead. Draco is still looking at him, puzzled, like he’s trying to decipher something written plainly across Harry’s face. Harry simply smiles at him and pushes his glasses up his nose. 

Draco just returns his attention to the paper before him, not giving him another word. He had obviously not reached a conclusion to his deep thoughts — not quite yet, anyway. Harry doesn’t mind, and he doesn’t press. He just sits back in his chair, charms book abandoned in front of him, and is happy with the view. He pays close attention to the way Draco’s fingertips dance over the tip of his bright red water bottle, and doesn’t get bored once. 

*

It turns out that Harry’s late night masturbation session, along with Draco’s close observation, is the best possible thing that could have happened to ease the tension upon their classmate’s return. They greet their friends down at the station and not a single person comments on any lingering awkwardness. Nobody comments on anything to Harry, at least, and he keeps his eyes on Draco as he exchanges quiet, rushed words with Pansy, Blaise and Theodore. He’s sure that they’re asking him a million questions, but to Harry, there’s nothing. Nothing still as they return to the Castle and sit down to eat. Harry’s sure that if they suddenly had decided to sit apart, people would notice. It may even be in the Prophet within the week. 

Hermione thanks Harry for his Christmas present as they serve themselves dinner, and asks question after question about how the day had gone, and what on earth Ron had meant by Harry ‘nearly dying,’ because he wouldn’t expand on the matter further in his letters. Harry just has to tell her to lower her voice, and let it known that he’ll tell her everything later. He thanks Ron with a grin for not putting it all in a letter to her — he rather agrees that it’s far too big a situation for that. The letter may very well be too heavy for an owl to carry. 

Harry nudges Draco’s leg with his own underneath the table several times during the meal. It’s an amusement each and every time Draco seems to splutter into his drink and straighten his back, before turning a hot glare on him. Yeah, Harry thinks. He far prefers these kinds of exchanges to blatantly ignoring each other. At least this way, there’s only one of them pretending that nothing is going on between them. Harry is more than content to continue to be the one pushing it. 

The build up is just getting exciting. Harry bites down on his lip, accidentally ignoring a question from Dean and Seamus in favour of staring at Draco again. There’s something brewing now, bubbling and threatening to spill over the rim. Harry is more than happy to continue stoking the fire beneath them, pursuing and encouraging the boil to keep going, to go as far as possible until it explodes. No matter how much Draco tries to make it seem that he’s blowing at the flames to extinguish them, the heat in his eyes just fans it. The fire is spreading, and Harry feels it all over his body — a static now more familiar to him than not. 

Harry, for one, cannot wait to see the situation boil over and blow up. 

Chapter Text

Explaining everything to Hermione does, in fact, take a relatively long time. 

She is understandably shocked at the extent of the danger of the situation. She had been aware of there being a situation at all for a long while now, because she’s fucking Hermione Granger, but the look on her face portrays her shock and her worry. It extends not only to Harry, but to Draco as well, and Harry knows that he cannot hide his gratitude from her. She has known about that for a while, too, and is still the only one — Harry doesn’t know whether he’s ready to have a sober conversation about that, yet. 

“I can’t believe the Ministry isn't doing more,” she says with her arms folded, pacing back and forth the floor of Harry and Draco’s bedroom. Her words echo every single member of the Weasley family. Ron, from Harry’s bed, nods fervently. 

Draco simply sighs. He had resigned himself to the company, but secretly, Harry thinks he’s not too bothered about their presence. He says, “The Headmistress has made it clear that they’ll be doing further and more intensive investigation, since what happened at Christmas.”

“That’s good, but why did it have to take something happening to Harry for anything to happen at all?” she huffs, then waves a hand. “Obviously, I know why… But that doesn’t make it any better.”

“Kingsley is getting involved, so hopefully they won’t be messing about anymore,” Ron says. “Right?”

“Yeah.” Harry nods. 

“You really must both want this over and done with,” Ron comments further. “Can’t imagine how annoying it’s been, having to spend every day with each other. Especially when it’s you two.”

Harry feels it intensely when Hermione looks at him, and then bites his lip as she looks over at Draco. Neither of the two men say anything, so she does.

“I actually think it’s been quite a silver lining,” she tells him. “After all, anyone can see that a friendship has bloomed between the school’s most infamous rivals. Believe it or not, but your farce has actually been effective; inter-house unity has truly been on the rise. I’ve seen Slytherins interacting with other Houses more than ever.”

Harry tries not to be embarrassed by their relationship being mentioned again, but the use of the word bloomed is a bit much, isn’t it? Evidently, no matter how much he would’ve liked it to be, their relationship is not just between them. Eyes on eyes on eyes haunt him. He really needs to get used to people commenting on it.

“And anyway, Ron,” she continues. “Do you really think you would’ve been able to sit here without cursing Draco if this… relationship that Harry and Draco have wasn’t quite stable? I doubt they’re in so much of a rush to be rid of each other.” 

She finishes with an increased speed, seemingly becoming aware that with each word, she’s saying too much. She gulps, blinks a few times quickly, and frowns a quick apology to Harry. He gives her a small shrug, and turns to Draco, whose expression is almost entirely unreadable. Suddenly, Harry feels a wave of anxiety. If her words had embarrassed him, who knows what they could’ve done to Draco?

But when Hermione and Ron leave them for the evening, Draco doesn’t say a word about it. He mentions that he appreciates the support from Harry’s friends and agrees that Kingsley should be getting things done properly, because at least he seems like a competent Minister for Magic, compared to the last few. They brush their teeth in succession and tell each other goodnight, and settle into bed. 

Harry falls asleep wondering if he should be worried about the lack of reaction to Hermione’s words. 

*

It takes over a month, filled with the business of a new term and somehow even more homework than the last term, for anything else momentous to occur. 

Harry does not let up on his close touches or his staring, because he no longer needs to. He tries to subdue himself around the others, but when it’s just the two of them, he can just barely hold himself back from taking his hand or rubbing his thigh. Draco continues fervently in his attempt to ignore it all, but Harry catches the way his pupils blow wide and his breathing quickens, the way his cheeks grow red and he stumbles over his words. It’s mesmerising.

In their first lesson back in potions, Harry hadn’t even needed to do anything to elicit the response; Ernie Macmillan cooed at Draco’s new cauldron, and a bout of attention was drawn. Pansy commented on how much it must have cost, Hermione mentioned how beautiful it is, and even Slughorn hummed his approval for how it’ll improve the quality of their potions. Blaise had asked where he’d gotten it from, because they’d been limited in every shop in Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley. His cheeks had grown that gorgeous red again, and Harry had been unable to tear his eyes away from him as he stuttered out, “It was a gift.” 

Now, in the fresh February air, they walk side-by-side to the first Gryffindor vs Slytherin match of the new year, and Harry quite fancies seeing the colour again. 

“Fancy a bet?”

“On the game?” Draco shrugs. “Okay. I’ll say Slytherin wins, for a galleon.”

Harry nudges him, hitting his shoulder with his own. “I was thinking we could bet with something other than money.”

Draco simply raises an eyebrow at him. “What do you propose, then?”

He gives him a wide grin. “If Gryffindor wins, you sleep naked. If Slytherin wins, I do.”

Draco seems unable to hold back a laugh at this, placing a hand over his mouth to cover it. “I don’t think I win in either scenario, Potter.”

“Okay,” Harry says, because he hadn’t thought that would work, anyway. “You decide, then.”

Draco seems to consider this. He doesn’t say anything, not until they reach the stadium and settle into their seats. The benches are so crowded that their bodies are entirely flush against one another, so that Harry can feel every shift of his hips and every twitch of his fingers. Every little movement warms Harry up in the cold of the day. 

Eventually, just after kick-off, Draco moves under the cloak of applause and whooping surrounding them and leans in close to Harry’s ear. Harry’s breath stutters and he almost chokes on it as he feels the tip of his nose brush over the shell of his ear. 

“If Slytherin wins,” he says, “I get to dress you. For a week,” he adds quickly. 

Harry huffs. “Really?”

“Absolutely. Your taste is abhorrent. Plus, I heard that Finnigan is looking to organise another party, and I can’t show up with you in jeans and a tatty T-shirt again.” 

He rolls his eyes, missing why the entire crowd hisses and shouts suddenly. He says, “Fine. I’m changing my consequence for you, though.”

“Do your worst, Potter. Our new seeker is even better than you, some are saying.”

“I don’t know about that,” Harry responds confidently, because really, he doesn’t know about that. He’s not heard a thing. “If Gryffindor wins — and we will — I say that you have to give up your bed and come and sleep in mine.” 

Draco blinks at him. “Well—”

“For a week,” he adds, just the same as Draco had done. “Not indefinitely. Unless, of course, you decide you like it too much to leave.”

He watches the man bury his face in his scarf and relishes in knowing he’s trying to hide the heat in his face. He grins at him, waiting for a response, and holds out his hand for him to shake. 

“Fine,” he concedes, and as he takes Harry’s hand in his own, his grip firm and his shake strong, Gryffindor scores their first goal. 

Harry’s grin widens. “May the best team win.”

Though the roars of Gryffindors around the stadium echo around them, Draco’s expression remains unperturbed and unworried. Harry has to give it to him, he has faith in his team. Even as Gryffindor bats another goal, and then another, he doesn’t even flinch. Slytherin puts up a good fight but they begin to behind, resulting in Pansy standing up and shrilly screaming her head off. 

“Scared, yet?” Harry asks him, as Gryffindor takes a whopping one-hundred and twenty point lead. 

Draco just rolls his eyes at him, taking the edge of his Slytherin scarf and throwing it at Harry’s face. 

“Woah! No need to play dirty, Draco,” he says, and leans in closer. “Plenty of time for that — Yes!” 

Gryffindor scores once again — one-hundred and thirty points up. 

“Gloating doesn’t look good on you,” Draco tells him, nudging him with his elbow. 

He smirks. “It really does.” 

Draco says nothing to this. 

The game continues brutally. Slytherin manages to garner a total of seven further fouls, including one which sent one of the Gryffindor beaters plummeting to the ground head-first. The points rack up and up but for every goal Slytherin scores, Gryffindor is right behind them. Harry’s eyes shoot occasionally towards the seekers, but every time they do, they’re nowhere to be seen. 

“Rubbish!” Ron is shouting at Slytherin’s next goal. “That hit the side! It hit the ruddy side!”

“Through the hoop is the only requirement, Weasley!” Pansy shouts back. “You never were an expert at the game!”

“Better than you!” Ron says, and Harry’s about to tug at his sleeve when Gryffindor scores once more, landing them an even further lead — one-hundred and forty ahead. Ron’s sufficiently distracted from any potential arguments, then.

Harry hasn’t felt this much adrenaline at a Quidditch game in ages , it feels. Whether it’s because of the intense lead — because soon enough it won’t matter who catches the snitch — or because of his bet with Draco, his heart is thumping hard. His palms are sweating as he watches every duck and turn of the players on their brooms. He yearns to be out there again, wishes he was one of them, but McGonagall had deemed it unfair. He understood the logic. It didn’t mean he had to like it. 

“We should do a seeker’s game at some point,” he says to Draco on an impulse. “It would be great.”

Draco rips his eyes away from the game, turning to face him with a smile, even though his team is losing terribly. “That does sound fun.” 

Harry nods. “Good. I’ll hold you to it.”

Another round of applause and gasps — the two of them whip their heads around. Ron is jumping down, and even Hermione has shot up onto her feet, clapping. Gryffindor are in the lead, one-hundred and fifty ahead. Harry practically screams his happiness, getting to his feet, too, and pulling Draco up with him. Draco doesn’t cheer, obviously, but when Harry looks at him he’s not groaning like the rest of his Slytherin peers — he’s just watching Harry with a grin. 

“Ready to accept defeat?” he asks. 

“The game’s not over yet,” Draco tells him with a shake of his head. 

“I wish it was over already!” Pansy grunts, stomping one foot. “Stupid bloody team. Useless since you left, Draco, I swear!”

Draco turns his grin on her, quietly agreeing with some gratitude. Blaise leans over to talk to him, then, and Harry finds himself watching the game closely once more. They zip around the pitch, clearly feeling the pressure now. The Slytherin players seem to be angrier than ever, and Harry knows that the Gryffindors are most probably rubbing it in with jives and barbs. Harry looks around and finally located the Gryffindor seeker, high above the rest of their team, head shooting here, there and everywhere. Apparently they can’t seem to find the Slytherin seeker, either — and they’re beginning to panic. 

Calm down! Harry wants to yell at them. Don’t look for the other seeker, look for the goddamn snitch!  

But they’re panicking now, and a lot. They’re lowering their broom, shouting to their teammates, looking as though they’re asking them if they can see the seeker anywhere. The Slytherin players are too smart and too conniving to not take advantage of the confusion of the situation, and one of their beaters is lurching towards a bludger. They send it flying with a heavy whack! that echoes throughout the stadium and it plummets right at the Gryffindor seeker, hitting them hard in the chest. 

Boos and hisses are heard from all sides but the Slytherin stands. Draco is beside him, clearly trying to hold back a smirk. 

“That was their own fault,” Draco says when he notices Harry’s unimpressed glare. “You can’t even deny it.”

Harry wants to, but it’s true: he can’t. At least they weren’t wiped off of their broom.

At last, the Slytherin player emerges from wherever they’d been hiding, and Harry has to wonder if the whole thing had been a ploy to confuse Gryffindor. He has to admit that it’s clever, if not snakey to the highest degree. They’re on the move at once, impressively fast even by Harry’s standards, as if they’d had their eye on the snitch for the entirety of the game and had been waiting for the perfect opportunity to go for it. They’re zipping forward with a focused intent, hand outreached in front of them. 

Harry’s leaning forward, jaw hung open, eyes wide with anticipation the same as everyone else around him. The crowd all gasp as one as the seeker narrowly avoids a bludger hit by one of the Gryffindor beaters. Harry, despite himself and his motives, actually finds himself rooting for the opposition, wanting the kid to grab it and gain themselves a victory. 

The thing is that he knows exactly how the kid must be feeling. He knows that adrenaline rush all too well, the close promise of victory at his fingertips. He can picture himself in his place, so close to glory, so close to winning the favour of his House, for being congratulated on being the sole reason for winning for his team. Harry misses it desperately and finds himself subconsciously putting himself in their place, and without thinking, he shouts aloud, “Go on!” 

Ron looks at him as if he’s lost his mind, but it’s at that moment that the seeker does it — they manage to finally wrap their gloved hand around the golden snitch, and flip around a few times with the momentum. The stadium explodes, with boos from most Gryffindors but even Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs joining Slytherin with the cheers, for the quality of the game.

Harry claps his hands as Ron whines about Harry having lost all loyalty to his House. He hears Hermione laugh at him and tell him to stop whinging, because they didn’t even lose, after all. And that’s only when it occurs to Harry — they’d tied. Of course they had. Gryffindor had held a one-hundred and fifty point lead before the Slytherin had gone for the snitch. 

He whips his head around to Draco, who is already looking at him expectantly. He’s clutching his bright red water bottle and raising an eyebrow, and Harry suddenly feels as though he should be also adorning something green in turn. Harry gives him a shrug and smiles at him sheepishly. It seems they had hit a bit of a stalemate. 

“A tie,” he says needlessly.

“We both lose,” Draco hums. 

“Or we both win,” Harry offers. “I think I prefer that.”

“We can’t both win, Potter.”

“If we can both lose, we can both win,” he argues. “That way, you get to control my ‘abhorrent’ fashion… And we’ll both be warmer every night.” 

Draco pouts his lips and Harry genuinely struggles to not lean forward and capture his lips on his own. Not the time, nor the place, really. When he weighs up the pros and cons of their tie he can’t actually see any downsides — Draco may elect to dress him as a prat on purpose, but it would be worth it. It would most certainly be worth it for the evenings and nights he would be spending in close contact with the man, under covers of secrecy and cotton. Who knows what might happen. He wonders if Draco is thinking the same thing, perhaps weighing up his options on whether to argue further just for the sake of keeping up with his nonchalant appearance towards Harry’s affections. 

“Fine,” he says instead, and visibly tries to hold back a smile as Harry’s face lights up. Draco shoves him gently. He tells him quietly, “Don’t get any ideas.”

Ron tumbles into Harry at that moment, the crowd beginning to all move to leave. Harry stumbles on his feet and almost falls straight into Draco, which would have no doubt caused an unfortunate domino effect on the rest of the row. Thankfully, he manages to steady himself, grabbing hold of the seat in front of him and Draco’s waist in order to do so. 

He catches his breath and realises just how close they are now. It had been packed beforehand, but now their proximity wanted for nothing. The tip of Harry’s nose practically touches Draco’s. Despite his flirtations 

and bravado lately, Harry falls short of words for a moment. He squeezes Draco’s waist and blinks rapidly, peering between the two grey eyes staring back at him, filled with surprise.

“Too late,” he says at last, before stepping away. He clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck as Draco remains as he was, frozen in place. He only moves when Pansy taps him on the shoulder and tells him to get a move on. Harry can hear his heartbeat, even over the sound of hundreds of footsteps and chatter around him, and he realises that despite all the promises that Draco has heard from him lately, he may really be all bark, no bite. 

*

They sneak away from the celebration in the Eighth Year’s common room. Hermione had deemed the school’s high mood as a truly impressive show of inter-house unity — one that wouldn’t have been possible without Harry and Draco. There’s a few angry loyalists, of course, and Pansy and Ron have to be kept far away from each other for the entirety of the evening, lest the whole Castle burn down. Again. 

A few bottles of firewhisky had been passed around the room in a show of casual triumph for all, but neither Harry or Draco let a single drop splash past their lips. Not only did Harry still want to stay alert and aware of threats — especially with the odd mood that Zacharias Smith had been parading around with for a while now — but there was now an addition to the roster of things to be aware of; his behaviour in bed. 

Not like that. Not officially, and not yet anyway. But Harry couldn’t allow himself the risk of acting out when Draco had entrusted himself and his body to the shared presence in bed. He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if the alcohol took over his inhibitions and he ended up crossing an even further line, breaking his trust and doing something entirely untoward. The same could be said for why he had been so pleased to see that Draco was refusing every glass that he was offered, too; if Draco was drunk and attempted something, how was Harry to know if it was real or not? If he refused him — which he would do, if the man was drunk and he was not, what if Draco and his ferocious fear of embarrassment committed to never trying again, even while sober? 

Now, having brushed his teeth and pulled on his jogger bottoms, Harry wishes that he’d indulged in at least a shot of the stuff. His hands are clammy and he can’t seem to slow his breathing in the slightest. He hears the tap stop running in the bathroom. A few taps of bare feet on the tiled floor. Harry can feel everything working in overdrive. The premise of potential twinges at his groin, and he attempts to force it down. 

Yeah, he definitely could’ve had at least one to soothe his nerves. 

Draco exits the bathroom quietly, and Harry’s anxious enough to not turn around so he keeps his back to him, staring at the bed they were to share. He tries to calm himself down, wipes his palms on his joggers to free them of sweat. He doesn’t say anything, so Draco has to speak first.

When he does, it’s to ask, “What do you think you’re doing?” 

Harry turns to him then, eyebrow cocked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that if we’re to start sharing a bed tonight, my side of the offer is to begin as well. Get out of those, they’re horrific.” 

Harry stares at him, wondering if he’s going to make him wear a silk pyjama set like the one that he’s dressed in, now. Harry calls his bluff, wanting to offset the balance again, no longer satisfied being the one with the anxiety. He had chosen this, after all. Let his Gryffindor confidence flood back. 

He bends his knees, grabs the waistband of his joggers and pulls them down to his ankles before standing up straight again. He tries not to feel silly as he steps out of them, shaking them off of his feet. Once they’re discarded halfway across the room, he takes a deep breath and plasters himself with an assured smile, turning his face back to Draco.

“You want me like this?” he asks, voice a little lower. He allows his confidence to build at the attention Draco is paying to his body with his eyes, and widens his stance to mirror that. He doesn’t quite take a step closer, not yet, but he does turn his body more towards him. 

Draco clears his throat and tears his eyes away from Harry’s underwear. He says, “No. I’d have you try some of my own pyjama bottoms, instead. You’ll be positively unable to make fun of me after you get a taste of the comfort for yourself.”

Harry can only breathe out a surprised laugh as he watches Draco turn to his chest of drawers, pulling out a set of green silk trousers. He’d been right. He can’t actually believe it. 

“Really?” he asks.

“Yes!” Draco stresses, walking back and pushing the trousers to his chest. “Put them on.” 

Harry shrugs and takes them, resigning himself to his fate. It’s not until the silk trousers are halfway up his legs that he realises that they may have a slight issue, but that’s not his problem anymore. This was Draco’s wish, after all. He’ll take it as he takes it. 

When they’re pulled up all the way, Harry simply places his hands on his hips and allows Draco to drink in the sight of what he’d created. They’re too long for him, scrunching up at his heels, but that’s not the worst part of it. Whilst Draco bested him in height, he certainly didn’t in width or tone. Evidently, because the silk stretches tight over both his thighs and his hips, crudely accentuating his crotch. He has no words for it. Neither, apparently, does Draco. 

He watches the way Draco’s mouth opens and closes, eyes intently staring at the trousers with an expression that appears almost painful. Harry understands. He doesn’t know how to feel about it either. 

“Should I just get back into my underwear?” he asks, and Draco sighs, relinquishing him with a nod. Now, Harry kicks the silk away from him. Either neither of them remember the fact that Harry could just pull on the joggers, or they don’t mention them because they don’t want to. It’s anyone’s guess.

Nor is a pyjama shirt mentioned at any one point. Not when Draco is originally deciding upon his state of dress, nor now, as they head to their opposite sides of the bed. Harry’s trying to push down any poisonous thoughts that seep into his mind because in only this pair of thin underwear, he’ll be unable to hide his true reaction to them. 

Draco slips beside him once he kicks off his slippers, peeling back Harry’s sheets and settling down. Harry relishes in the strangely familiar feeling of the man denting the mattress, thinking back to the last time that they had shared a bed like this and feeling a sudden gratitude for the blanket covering his lap. The Hogwarts-sanctioned bed they’re in now is far smaller than the one that the Weasleys had bought with their Ministry-given grant, and it’s noticeable at once. Their long limbs make contact at each and every point that they can, and though Draco flinches at the initial touch, he eventually settles into it. 

Harry has yet to take off his glasses but Draco is close enough with his head on his pillow that he’d be entirely fine without them. Still, he watches the man become comfortable beside him and lets the arm of his glasses dig into the side of his head. He rather thinks it’s worth it.

Draco moves a little bit and Harry feels cold fingers brush his side. The result is an instantaneous gasp from the both of them — Harry’s from the sudden temperature drop and Draco’s from… Well, Harry isn’t sure of the reason for Draco’s gasp. 

“Sorry,” Harry says, though he knows that he hasn't done anything. 

Draco laughs quietly, and there’s a slight tremor in his speech as he asks, “Sorry for what?” 

Harry mirrors a chuckle. “I don’t know. Are you comfortable?”

He can feel the responding nod, and he feels like the situation deserves a higher degree of mystery than it has, now. Harry slips off his glasses and retrieves his wand, casting a silent nox and dimming the lights at once. In the privacy-granting dark, it’s almost intense how quickly he can feel them both relax. 

Harry lays on his back and resolves to try and calm his breathing yet again as Draco’s arm slots directly against his own. He’d never known that such a mundane touch could be so mind-wrecking. The silence between them stretches on, but neither of them yet give the room the soft sighs of sleep. Together, they just lay wide awake. Harry wants so terribly to break it and yet, for whatever reason, doesn’t quite believe that it’s his place, which is why he breathes out such a sigh of relief when he hears the man next to him speak once again. 

“Is this what you had in mind,” Draco asks, “When you decided this as my penalty?”

Harry hums. “I had a lot in mind.”

“I’m sure that you did,” Draco says, and maybe it’s Harry’s imagination, but he sounds almost… Sultry? Perhaps it’s the proximity, he thinks, and the cover of night that requests a softer tone. 

Nonetheless, it grants him a further spur of will, and he asks him, “Want me to talk you through it again?”

Beside him, there’s a sharp intake of breath that Harry can’t initially read. Draco whispers, “Without any prerequisite wine? I’m not quite so easy, Potter.”

“No,” Harry agrees. “Definitely not easy.” 

There’s further movement next to him, cold fingers yet again drifting over his skin for just a moment, closer to his chest now. Laying on his side, facing him now, Draco’s breath tickles Harry’s face and his knuckles press against Harry’s bicep. Every moment of it makes him feel too awake, static tingling his every inch, toes to top. 

“You don’t seem tired,” Draco notes. 

Harry swears that the man wants him dead; the teasing cannot be unintentional. He says, “I’m not.”

“Regretting inviting me into your bed, then?”

Harry gulps. “It’s bold of you to assume that you’re the reason I’m so awake.”

Then — Then. Harry’s Gryffindor confidence must have overflowed, must have bubbled over and rubbed off on the man sharing his sheets, because then… Then Draco says simply, “Oh?” and bends a knee, brushing his smooth, silk-laden leg over Harry’s thighs and crotch, over the erection at Harry’s groin that he’d been desperately trying to ignore. 

The contact makes him hiss, almost makes him sit straight up. A bizarre part of him wants to buck his hips up and feel even more of that leg, but it’s already retreating by the time that the thought shoots through his mind. He turns wide, wild eyes upon Draco, lips parted to allow through his heavy breath. He wants to ask a million questions but doesn’t see a reality in which his voice will work, and so he stares and he stares at Draco’s mischievous face. He stares at the deliciously cruel smirk on his lips and at how wide his pupils appear to have grown. He stares at the break in the collar at his pyjama shirt, half-tempted to say fuck it and press his lips to the teasing glimpses of skin there. He stares until his eyes grow dry and he must force himself to blink. 

Draco is wicked, he decides at once, and his cock throbs within his underwear. Clearly, it has decided that it quite enjoys the diabolical attitude. Harry’s brain, however, thinks that he has never hated the man more — a thought which is only reaffirmed and exacerbated when Draco rolls his body over, away from him, smirk going with him. Clearly, he has had enough of weathering Harry’s ongoing flirtations — making Harry blush the way Harry has been doing to him for the last month is now a new agenda.  

“Goodnight, Potter,” he says sadistically. Harry cannot even fathom giving him a verbal response. 

Of course it would be down to Draco bloody Malfoy to turn this situation, perfect on paper, into one so torturous for Harry. He most certainly does not know if a good night is on the table, at all. 

Chapter Text

The proceeding morning, a Sunday, begins with no shocks or surprises, if you don’t count the fact that Draco is still in bed when Harry wakes up, or that Harry’s hips are against his back and his nose is against the nape of his neck. 

He grumbles his dissatisfaction at being awoken and his hands automatically reach for their hips to pull the body in front of him closer. His fingertips make contact with bare skin, sliding underneath fabric, and he makes the hazy decision to tighten his grip and press into the soft flesh. The pressure of the body against his crotch when he pulls him in euphoric, and he can’t help but make another low, throaty noise — this time from pure pleasure.

A gasp from in front of him is what finally gets him to open his eyes, faced with a messy blond headful. Harry realises where he is and what he’s doing in an anxiety-inducing instant, but knows that it’s a little bit too late for him to act innocent. It’s during his attempt to back away that he discovers that he’s physically unable; any further and he’d topple right off and onto the floor. He’d thought there’d been more space in the bed, the night before, even with the both of them taking it up.

Harry lifts his head off the pillow, leaning over the shoulder of the man in front. In fact, there’s plenty of room in front of them — and it’s Draco who has him cornered, not the other way around. He brings his lips to the man’s ear, close enough that they just brush against his helix. 

“Sorry,” he whispers. 

“Mm,” is Draco’s original response, and from this angle, Harry can see his fair eyelashes fluttering. “Good.”

Harry releases a shaky breath, desperate to thrust forward his hips, to push into the warmth of the ass positioned just right before him. An even wilder thought comes to him and he almost succumbs to it, almost leans down to press a small kiss to his cheek or his jaw or his throat. He doesn’t. He’s becoming far too relaxed with this.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks.

“Not as well as you, evidently,” Draco says, and because he’s a snake, the devil incarnate, in fact, he pushes back once hard into Harry’s crotch before rolling out of the bed. Harry watches as his blurry body heads to the bathroom without another word.

Harry slaps his hands to his face, rolls over onto his front, and wonders if anyone on planet earth has ever suffered such a terrible case of blue balls as this.

*

Draco dresses Harry in a stupidly fancy shirt and corduroy waistcoat, to keep it casual, so he says. Instead of the usual jeans that he would dorn, he is forced into a set of dark slacks that remind Harry of school trousers. Despite this, he has to concede that they most certainly don’t look bad on him. He allows himself to admire himself in the mirror before turning and catching a glimpse of Draco doing the same, before turning away with a face the shade of beetroot. The mirror had interrupted the tense moment and proclaimed to him, “For once, you don’t look too bad!”

The jokes occur at once at breakfast, but so do the compliments, and it feels strangely good to be appreciated for clothing instead of heroism and fame. Seamus takes to wolf-whistling every time he stands or fixes his collar. Ron asks him if he’s also sporting a pocket watch. Dean wonders aloud whether he’s off to meet the Minister for Magic or the Prime Minister first. Hermione laughs along with the jokes, but tells him that he really does scrub up well. Neville agrees, and Pansy can’t seem to rate his change of style enough — it’s all she’s seemingly able to talk about with Draco all day. Harry hears her call him positively ravishing when you look at him properly and Draco seems to subsequently lose his temper, for whatever reason, telling her to just shut up about it. Harry bites his tongue. 

The next day unravels in similar fashion. Monday morning sees Draco’s back against his front once again, and the man’s reluctant acceptance that Harry needn’t be dressed by him until lessons are over in the afternoon. When he rids himself of his school robes for dinner, Draco dresses him once more with an elegance far beyond him. It still feels good to look good, but doesn’t let it show on his face. He’s hailed as a fashion pioneer once again as they eat, and Draco simply sits with an air of cockiness about him. Harry can basically feel the I told you so emanating off of him. 

Tuesday is the same. And Wednesday, and Thursday. It has become a familiar routine so quickly, and Harry thinks that it’s driving him halfway insane. Every waking moment is spent waiting to get back into bed, so they can pretend like they’re both unaffected by the contact. So they can pretend like it’s not the sexiest, most arousing thing that Harry, at least, has ever experienced. 

Thursday evening sees them fall asleep after several days of settling into the awkwardness, and they find themselves drifting away in the same manner as they have been waking up. Harry easily welcomes the body against his front at night, gets into the routine of hiding his pleased sighs as he feels the man back up against his lap. He wraps an arm around Draco’s midriff and doesn’t remove it because Draco doesn’t ask him to. It’s actually the most blissful sleep that Harry has had in a long, long while. 

It’s no bliss compared to that Friday morning, though. He doesn’t know if anything will ever compare to it again in his life. 

It’s a routine awakening; Harry’s eyes slowly open as he comes around to reality, pulling the heat closer into him subconsciously. He rubs a thumb over the skin he has access to underneath the man’s pyjama top, and mumbles to him, “Good morning.”

The skin beneath his palm erupts with goosebumps, and Harry feels the man’s breathing quicken. In an instant, he responds with a whisper of, “Morning, Potter.”

Harry wants to ask him if he’s okay, but he doesn’t have the time to do so. Draco is turning his face into the pillow to muffle his progressively heavier breathing, and rolling his body back, very purposefully, into Harry’s crotch. Harry’s own breath practically makes him choke at once. He presses his fingers hard into Draco’s skin to ground himself.

“Don’t do that,” he whispers, bringing his mouth closer again to his ear. 

Draco gulps, and does it again. 

“Draco,” Harry breathes. His grip on his hip tightens. “Don’t start something you don’t want to finish.”

There’s another shaky breath expelled from the man in front of him, but still no verbal response. Instead, Draco makes clear with his body the fact that he has no intention of stopping — or, apparently, of not finishing this. He rolls back once again, and Harry feels his erection slide perfectly in between the silk-laden cheeks before him (which is probably the only thing that material is good for). Then he does it again. And again. 

And again , and Harry is unable to find a balance between biting down hard enough to make his lip bleed, or allowing his jaw to remain hanging open with awe. He’s blowing Draco’s strands of hair with how heavy his breathing is becoming, emulating a Summer wind. Draco is matching him for every breath, though far shakier than Harry’s own. 

Draco’s movements become a pattern, a rhythmic grinding of his ass into Harry’s crotch, and it’s an unbelievable feeling. Harry doesn’t know if he’s ever going to just be able to use his hand ever again, now that he’s had a taste of this. He wonders if he should feel silly for thinking that, because it’s barely any contact, really, just pressure through several layers of clothing. But God, it somehow feels like the best thing he’s felt in his life. 

“Fuck,” Harry gasps, an unholy instinct seeping into him as Draco seemingly grasps at the mattress for further leverage, grinding back even harder. Harry can feel sweat on the skin beneath his fingers and succumbs to impulse, flattening his palm and dragging it along Draco’s navel. There’s a hope deep within him that echoes the thought of whether Draco’s feeling the same deep intensity as Harry is, over where he now lays his hand. 

He can’t help himself. Using the hand he has on his lower stomach, Harry begins to push and then relax his hand, following the rhythm of Draco’s movements. He begins to use it as leverage, guiding him back and forth into his crotch, and Draco doesn’t even attempt to fight against the control. Instead, he begins releasing regular whimpers, interrupting his heavy breath, and Harry simply takes that as confirmation; he’s definitely feeling the same deep heat. 

He rocks Draco’s body against him and decides that being bold has gotten him this far, and so delves somehow further into his confidence and begins to roll his hips forward, matching the thrusts. He can picture it so clearly, doing this very same thing unclothed, bucking into Draco’s ass like it’s a new mission. At least then he wouldn’t be making a mess of their clothes; the light fabric of his underwear has begun to bleed darker with the evidence how fucking good this feels. He wouldn’t be surprised if it starts to rub off onto the undoubtedly expensive pyjama bottoms that Draco is still wearing, for some reason, but Harry doesn’t much care about that — he had started this, after all. 

He ignores the urge to close his eyes and imagine that he really is fucking him, because he doesn’t want to miss a second of this. He allows himself the privilege of watching Draco’s face turn with blind pleasure as he accepts the ache in his neck from holding his head up. It’s entirely worth it. For the first time, there is a hint of Winter morning sun blessing Harry with the gift of light, allowing him to observe the way that the man’s eyes crinkle at the sides as he screws them shut, or the crease that forms between his fair brows as he furrows them together, too focused indeed on the sensations. Harry wants more. Harry wants to give him more. He wants to give him a reason to unwind completely, to forget himself and have no need to focus on the pleasure because he’ll be unaware of anything but.

He slips his hand down further, fingers just brushing underneath the silk elastic of his waistband. He brings himself closer to his ear once again and breathes, “Can I touch you?”

Draco’s eyes snap open, and for a second, Harry’s deathly afraid that he’s ruined everything. He expects Draco to jump away from him, refuse to ever stay in the bed with him again and curse him out — or worse, ignore him for the foreseeable. But he doesn’t. Harry has the sudden need to thank whatever higher power there is out there, because Draco Malfoy doesn’t freak out at the prospect, he actually welcomes it.

“Yeah,” Draco whispers, and he even turns his red face to meet Harry’s close gaze. He peers between his wide eyes, looking deeply into one and then the other. For a wild, thoughtless moment, Harry debates leaning forwards and capturing his lips with his own, and his heart flutters in a way that it hadn’t yet since the start of these activities. But Draco drops his head back onto the pillow again, and even if he had been considering going for it and risking everything, his chance to kiss him is gone. 

He shakes the thought out of his head and resolves instead to focus on the present certainty. He delves past the silk and the cotton underwear beneath them and tries not to audibly moan at the soft feeling of short, dusted hair beneath his fingers. The promise of the sensation, the knowledge of how close he is to the sweet spot is enough to make him sweat, and he can’t resist thrusting hard against his glutes again. 

“This okay?” he asks, trying not to let the desperation spill into the tone of his voice. He needs to touch him, and soon, at that. If he waits much longer, he’ll be almost entirely spent, himself — and he so wants to enjoy this. 

“Yes,” Draco says again, firmer this time, impatient. Harry bows his head and breathes a laugh over the back of his neck. Draco’s head tilts, exposing the pale stretch of skin above his collar, as if asking for more. The thought makes Harry dizzy — does he like having his neck touched? Kissed, perhaps? He pushes that thought away, too dangerous to entertain. But he wants to dive straight into it, wants to begin to lick and suck at his throat and leave a million marks to tell the world that nobody else is allowed to touch him — not Facer, not Pansy, not Charlie. But for now, he resists. He’ll leave it to the hope of a next time. 

Slipping his fingers down further into his underwear proves to be the best decision that Harry has ever made in his entire life. His hand is met with a hard warmth that makes them both gasp, and he’s not shy in his eagerness to grasp it. He takes hold of the man’s erection and savours the moment, the sensation. Draco is getting close to literally panting now, and Harry doesn’t blame him. At the tip of the hardness, Harry can confirm that the man had in fact been enjoying their rhythmic movements just as much as he had. He slides the pad of his index finger over the slit in Draco’s head and takes a heavy breath as he feels the collected beading moisture. They’re both as gone as each other. 

Draco genuinely twitches at the contact, from pleasure or embarrassment, Harry’s not sure. But he’s not done — not in the slightest. He takes the opportunity to float his fingers over every single inch of his hardness, memorising the ridges and veins with as much detail as his sometimes forgetful mind can muster. If this morning proves too much for Draco, Harry resolves to make the most of it as he can. 

How could it be that mere months ago, Harry hadn’t even been aware that he was attracted to men? As he circles his fist around the man’s length he can’t fathom not salivating over the sensation of it, heavy in his hand, buzzing with arousal that makes his head fill with static. He wants nothing more now than to hold it and not ever stop, to jerk it in his hand and be allowed the chance to become accustomed to Draco’s taste. For now, he slides his tight grip back and forth in the way that he has been practicing for years. This is how he likes it. He will learn Draco’s preferences like the back of his hand in no time at all, given the first opportunity. 

He jerks his fist with a quickening motion until Draco’s back his arching and he’s digging his fingers into Harry’s outreached arm. His pretty mouth is now permanently O-shaped, lips stretched, eyes open but glazed over and occasionally rolling the slightest bit back into his head. Harry drinks in the sight of him and his cock somehow stirs further, awakening the need to roll his hips again. He had paused the movement as he’d gotten used to the way Draco writhed as he was touched, but now he spurs on, rubbing himself up against his behind with an intent that is anything but pure.

“ Potter ,” Draco chokes out, fingernails digging into Harry’s bicep. He hardly notices, doesn’t register any pain at all for the distraction of Draco’s voice, turning his name into a whimpered poem. 

“Yeah,” Harry hums back. “Fuck.”

He drops his forehead against the nape of Draco’s neck,  unable to ignore the mounting pressure bubbling up in his abdomen. Grunts and moans slip from his lips unknowingly, slotting comfortably alongside the now consistent noises from Draco, which were becoming increasingly consistent and increasingly loud. Harry drags his erection along the clothed crease again and shudders a long gasp upon that supremely familiar feeling. 

“Potter,” he hears again. “I’m going to — I’m going to cum —” 

And just the sound of it almost sends him completely over the edge. He nods vigorously, bucking his hips against him like an animal, arm shooting expertly up and down still on the other man’s cock. He huffs, finding the energy somehow to answer him and say, “Me too.”

“ Fuck! ” Draco shouts, and it is actually a shout, one that almost makes Harry jump out of his skin. He’s saved by the distraction of warmth shooting out and over his knuckles, trickling down over his hand, accompanied by a long, high whine. It should be disgusting. It isn’t. 

“Yeah,” Harry says uselessly once again, continuing the rolls of his hips in his pursuit for his own climax. He’s only spurred on, only more aroused from witnessing Draco Malfoy’s orgasm, courtesy of him, and it really doesn’t take him long at all. 

He spills out in a hot, fast moment, still trapped inside his underwear. He sees stars, he feels static, and forgets entirely how to compose himself as it happens, pulling Draco against him in a sort of odd, full-body, horizontal hug. He pants out his whimpers against the warm skin at the top of Draco’s back. The orgasm has nothing on any he had ever brought upon himself in this life; nothing he could ever do with his own hand could compete in the slightest. He could die now, and be happy. 

He allows his body to relax, falling entirely limp, still half-draped across the other man. He doesn’t seem to mind for the moment, and the both of them soak up the post-orgasm glow, knowing that for the moment, all they need to do is catch their breath. 

They remain lying down, enjoying just the other’s presence and touch for a while. A long while, actually. They don’t discuss it. Harry resigns to rolling over and checking his watch after this long while continues, and jumps up at once. 

“Shit!” he says. “We’ve missed breakfast. Classes start in ten minutes!”

Having to be satisfied with just a quick scourgify over them both instead of proper showers, the two of them scramble out of bed and into their school robes. Draco doesn’t catch his eye as they get dressed, and Harry doesn’t call him out on it. It’s a big thing to process, after all. Harry’s going to be processing and processing it over and over again in his mind all day, distracting him from every single lesson, he’s sure. 

But they’re just heading out of their door when Draco does turn to look at him, face aflame with hot pink. It’s rapidly becoming Harry’s favourite colour. He looks at him calmly, waiting for whatever it is that the man wants to do, or say. He’s half-expecting him to tell him to keep his mouth shut about it, or to tell him that he can’t begin expecting this to become a frequent thing. What comes out of his mouth instead is far sweeter. 

He tells him in a low voice, “I really liked that, Potter.”

And Harry allows his gaze to examine every inch of his face, lingering on his lips for many moments too long. He so desperately wants to let his eyes flutter shut and press his lips to his, wants to kiss him as closely and deeply as Harry has seen happen in muggle films. 

Instead, he just smiles and tells him, “Me too, Draco.”

*

When his friends ask him why they had missed breakfast, all Harry can do is lie and hope that they ignore the goofy grin that will absolutely not leave his face. 

He had been right about being unable to focus in lessons as well, obviously. Not one word spoken or lectured is absorbed properly into his brain, and Professor Flitwick actually keeps him behind after class for five minutes to ask if he’s okay. Harry provides him with the excuse that he’d been distracted thinking of the Gryffindor vs Slytherin game of last week, and Flitwick doesn’t believe it for a second, but he lets him leave nonetheless. Draco had nudged him and told him to stop smiling so much, whilst attempting to hide his own.

Harry’s grin seems to add to the buzz around him which had been reignited with Draco beginning to dress him after class. His good mood seems to be not only infectious, but attractive; he is stopped not once, not twice, not even thrice, but four times by girls who flutter their eyelashes at him and giggle, telling him that he has a lovely smile or that they’ve always found him sexy. 

Draco does not smile at that. In fact, he becomes almost thunderous. Forgotten and ignored by each girl that had approached them, Draco simply waits until they leave before folding his arms and furrowing his eyebrows. 

Harry nudges him. “Untwist your knickers.”

Draco huffs, and says something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, “…want you in their knickers…”

Harry can’t help but laugh. It’s not as if he would have any right to be angry in the first place, what with his own issues with jealousy, but the truth is that he’s not displeased in the slightest. In fact, the fact that Draco is pissed off at Harry receiving this attention makes him smile even wider. There’s a burst of flutters in his chest at the realisation. It makes him want to kiss him again. He still doesn’t. 

Hermione demands at once when she next sees him to tell her what has happened, because of course she just knows that something has. Harry barely has time to pull his stool in for History of Magic when she’s upon him.

“Did you sleep together?” she asks in a hush, blinking rapidly through her embarrassment. 

“Christ!” Harry says, looking around for a reaction from one of their classmates, though there is thankfully none. Tight at his side, not even Draco had seemed to hear the question. “Hermione!”

“It’s a perfectly reasonable thing to ask,” she huffs. “You were the same after you kissed Ginny for the first time. Ron was exactly the same after — Well.” 

Harry sighs heavily as Hermione shifts in her seat, composing herself yet again. Professor Binns begins his regular drawl, and Draco begins taking down notes beside him. Harry doesn’t even pick up his quill, and Hermione rounds on him again, more relaxed now. 

“Did you kiss him?” she asks him, a cheeky smile on her face now. 

Harry feels his face flood with colour. The question shouldn’t sting, but it does. He answers her honestly, whispering back, “No…” and then, with a quick glance towards Draco to make sure he wasn’t listening, “I really want to, Hermione.”

Her eyes falter at that, and she smiles at him sadly. Her hand finds his, and with her other, she casts a quiet, “ Muffliato!” 

“Thanks,” he says, breathing a sigh of relief, finally able to relinquish his anxiety that Draco would overhear them. “I don’t know what to do.”

Hermione nods sympathetically. “I know it must be hard because as you’re Ministry-mandated to protect him. I doubt they would bring up or blame your relationship if something went wrong, you know. Though, it may certainly anger his assailant further… I can’t imagine.”

Harry just stares at her for a moment. Truth be told, those had not entered his head at all as a reason to not kiss him. He had debated them as reasons for Draco’s reluctance, along with the possibility of being removed from Harry’s protection, but Harry had not once accepted the burden upon himself. He had simply believed that such things would not occur to them if they were careful, and that the sweaty, breath-filled fumblings were worth the risk for the reward. 

“What?” she asks, eyebrows furrowing with confusion. “Is there something else?”

“Well, yes,” he says quizzically. “I don’t know if he even wants to kiss me back.”

At that, Hermione’s eyebrows shoot up with surprise. She opens her mouth only to close it again, looking at him and then Draco, then at Binns, and then the ceiling. Her eyebrows eventually furrow back into another knot, and she squints at him, confused. 

“Harry,” she says steadily, slowly, as if talking to a child. “What exactly makes you think that he wouldn’t want that?”

Harry takes a long moment to consider this. Of course, they had already partaken in certain activities that some people may consider far more serious than just kissing, and Draco had appeared more than happy to involve himself. But there had been so much confusion, so much hesitance surrounding all of it. There had been the brief period in which Harry was flirting with him at every moment he saw, and Draco had only ever told him that they couldn’t… He had tried to ignore the Christmas incident by explaining it away with wine, as well, but ever since this morning — ever since he had swiped a leg over Harry’s erection, almost a week ago, actually — he supposes that something had changed. Unable to hold back, perhaps, overwhelmed by the shower of lust that had been following Harry around and accidentally rubbed it off onto Draco. 

The truth was that he knows how fragile this boiling pot is. They can frot together, and they can cum together, but so many things remain unsaid between them. Harry thinks that perhaps a kiss would betray them of these unsaid things, these desperately secret thoughts. It would be as if Harry held the belief that every little thing would swap between them and they would be able to suddenly read each other’s thoughts, the moment their lips touched. 

He believes that he’s ready for it. He wants Draco to know how he encompasses his every moment and makes his heart skip a beat. Wants him to know how beautiful he is, how thoughtful he is though he tries to hide it. He wants Draco to know that he doesn’t blame him for the past and that he loves his laugh and that he wishes more than anything that he could change the bad things that keep him up in the night. He wants him to know how pleased he’s been that Draco hasn’t even had one nightmare since agreeing to stop silencing himself. There’s a million things that Harry wants him to know. 

But is Draco ready for it? Draco, who is so easily shaken, so easily embarrassed and who has only just allowed himself to accept Harry’s intimate touch? Draco, who would come out of this far worse off than Harry. Draco, who would take the absolute brunt of any backlash, which has already begun to brew. Draco, who believes that the Wizarding World thinks him beneath receiving Harry’s affections and who Harry knows agrees with these very same cruel thoughts.

Draco, who may not even return those same affections at all. Draco, who very possibly is only entertaining Harry for the physical benefit. Draco, who may only see him otherwise as a friend… If even that. 

Harry gives Hermione a half-smile, and asks her, “Why would he?”

The expression that befalls her face appears slightly heartbroken, at his words. She squeezes his hand tightly, leaning forward to emphasise her answering words. 

“Because you’re a good man, Harry,” she tells him firmly, kindly. “And you’ve helped him become one, too.”

Harry looks at her, and ponders her words. 

She wasn’t wrong with her implication that Draco had been a bad person. Echoes of his young, pointed tongue spitting the worst of words at him and his friends, mostly Hermione, fill his head. Memories flood him of Draco’s snobbish nature, the terrible company that he kept, his superiority complex when it came to blood. Making Harry’s life miserable at any opportunity. No, he had not been a good person. 

The War had changed him in such a way that Harry was unsure had happened to anyone else. Having been shown only glimpses, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to ever know the true extent as to what Draco had suffered over those long, torturous months locked with those he had been forced to worship. By the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry had been able to sense a change in the man even more extreme than he had when confronted with him in Malfoy Manor, when he had avoided giving any information that could lead to his capture. By the Battle, Draco was a mere shell of the boy he had been before. He had given up. Harry had pitied him.

Then had come the trials and a long Summer. Harry thinks back to his red, blotchy face and heavy tears in the Court. He thinks about Draco divulging to Harry about dreamless sleep, driven to addiction by a list of endless regrets. He thinks about how helpless Draco must have felt receiving cursive letter after letter detailing his downfalls, and how he had accepted Facer as his protector because nobody else in the entire Ministry wanted to help him. 

He thinks of Draco fighting hard to avoid Harry finding out about the danger to his life, of how he’d created a façade of nonchalance at the words thrown at him by people of all Houses, of how he had been uncaring for his broken arm and bruised face. Then he keeps thinking, and he can’t seem to stop. He thinks of each and every time Draco had laughed with him, spoken with him in their pyjamas, and knocking their knees whilst sitting opposite each other. He thinks of Draco joining Harry and the rest of the Eighth Years and even bringing his own friends along, thinks of the way that Harry is now the only person that Draco referred to by his surname, bringing camaraderie and true inter-house unity to their year, as well as the rest of the school like Hermione had said. He thinks of Draco’s true anxiety on Christmas day, not wanting to ruin the Weasleys’ Christmas or intrude, his shaking body a picture of guilt and regret. He thinks of Draco’s politeness and jovial conversation that day and the next, and can’t picture any other younger version of him doing the same. 

Harry can do nothing less than agree with the fact that Draco Malfoy is now a good man. But while he may have helped, Harry believes that he would have gotten there on his own, anyway. At some point. 

His heart thuds in his chest. The thought process had taken him on a long journey, unwittingly, and he comes to the realisation of something he never thought would occur in the middle of a History of Magic lesson, Binns whittling away in the background of his stream of consciousness. Fuzzy static takes up every single thought inside his brain now, numbing him with the same terrifying epiphany; he thinks he’s quite in love with him. 

“I don’t know how to be sure,” he says quietly, because he doesn’t know what else to say, unable to articulate any of his quickening thoughts. He hopes his face isn’t as red as it feels.  

“Well,” Hermione concedes, a small smile still on her face, apparently satisfied with his long silence. “Seamus’ next party is tomorrow. Strange things seem to unravel in those. Who knows what could happen?”

Chapter Text

Saturday evening sees Harry and Draco take it in turns to shower and get themselves presentable for Seamus’ party, a low thrum of excitement having settled over the Eighth year dormitories in anticipation of the event. Draco intrinsically picks out their outfits for the evening as Harry exits the bathroom (Draco had demanded that he use the shower first, obviously) in his underwear, scrubbing at his hair with his towel. The man pores over his extensive wardrobe in just his own underwear (far classier than Harry’s) and a casual, loose shirt. Harry tries his best to force his eyes elsewhere, head spinning with thoughts indecent enough to make even the likes of Seamus blush. 

He allows Hermione’s words to flood his mind instead of the filth, circling over and over with a dangerous promise. She had instilled in him a worrying hope with her words, because though Harry has less faith in himself, he knows that she’s seldom wrong about anything. Could she be right about Draco returning his feelings, even if she didn’t know the whole truth about the extent of their relationship? 

She had told him to see how the party goes, and Harry had taken it as a cue to gear up for something. Perhaps she thought that it would be the right climate for any potential kissing. Harry, at this point, would take anything, anywhere. However much he would like it to be perfect, with no distractions or company, he only has one condition at this point: that Draco needs it as much as he does. Is that too much to ask? 

Across the room from Harry’s rough deliberation, Draco retrieves a hanger adorned with a dark purple shirt and turns to him decidedly, eyes alight to put his vision together. 

“This! Put this on,” he demands. “Along with those beautiful trousers that Fleur and Bill gifted you for Christmas.” 

Harry does as he’s told because the consequence of their bet is still in full effect, but also because the excitement on his face is too much to resist. He retrieves said trousers from his chest of drawers and pulls them on carefully, not wanting to scuff the expensive fabric. He jumps into them and they seem to sculpt around him, perfectly fitting snugly around his body. Somehow, they’re even comfier than his joggers. 

“Wow,” Harry says, traipsing over to the mirror and getting a good look at himself over his shoulder. Not to blow his own horn or anything, but…

His eyes find Draco in the mirror like it’s instinct, only to find him staring, too. His eyebrows are halfway up his forehead, pink lips ajar, a faint colour in his cheeks. Harry feels a rush of pride run over himself and he stands up straighter, attempting a subtle flex of his muscles in blind hope of further impressing the man. The fascination on his face is subsequently replaced with a roll of his grey eyes as he approaches Harry, arms extended with the shirt. 

“Show-off,” Draco murmurs as Harry takes the shirt with gentle hands, unable to hold back his grin.

“Don’t like it?” Harry asks, tone teasing. Draco doesn’t respond, resigning himself to just watch as Harry slips the shirt on, though stiffly, and begins to button it up. 

“Hold still,” Draco says, withdrawing his wand, and it’s. testament to how close they’ve become that Harry doesn’t even question him before doing as he says. He feels the familiar rush of magic fall over him at his arms and his back, and just like that, the stiffness is gone. The shirt relaxes over his shoulders, tightness filtering away, and it constraints him no longer. 

Draco takes a step back and admires his handiwork, placing down his wand on a nearby table before even asking him, “How does it feel?”

“Great,” Harry tells him with yet another smile, tucking the shirt into his trousers. He looks into the mirror once more, attempting fruitlessly to flatten his hair. When it doesn’t work, because it never works, he spins on his feet with open arms and an expectant glint in his eye. “Is this how you wanted me?”

Draco nods at once, tongue darting out to wet his lips. His eyes leave a hot trail over Harry’s body, and he’s still nodding, apparently having forgotten that stopping was an option. 

“Oh!” he says quickly, turning around and picking something up from their bedside table. He steps closer to Harry, holding the item up, and tells him, “Don’t forget this.”

Harry manages to tear his eyes away from his face to look down at what he had fetched, and holds out his wrist. He tells him, “I would never.”

Draco chuckles, stepping yet again even closer to slip the watch around Harry’s wrist for him. He has to bend his head to watch what he’s doing as he slides the straps into place, and the proximity makes Harry feel like he’s suffocating. 

A blanket of silence stretches between them. Harry can’t decide whether to continue watching the intricacy of his fingers working over his quickening pulse, or to risk peering up at the nearness of his lips, pouting with focus. He releases a long breath to try and steady his heartbeat, and gulps as he watches the subsequent breeze flutter over some fallen strands of hair. 

He could do it now. If things went wrong, they could just excuse themselves from the party to work things out between themselves. He could lean forward and nudge their noses together to test the waters before continuing forward, slotting their lips together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Now, in that brief moment of peaceful proximity, Harry doesn’t feel so anxious about it. 

The watch slots into place and Harry lets him turn his arm, fingers brushing lightly over the back of his hand. He doesn’t step away from him yet, and says, “There.”

“Thanks,” Harry hums. He doesn’t step away, either. He thinks that he should potentially say something else, but his mind is too distracted to provide him with apt words. 

How can somebody look so kissable, he thinks? How on earth did the correct universe unravel just at the right pace so as to create the wonder that is Draco Malfoy?

There’s a beat of silence. With his head tilted forwards like this, their noses and mouths are at about the same level. At the best of times, Harry can feel himself brew a low-level irritation at the fact that Draco is taller than him, but now… He doesn’t quite like the idea of having to rise to his tippy-toes to press a kiss to those lips, and is desperate for the man not to straighten himself up again.  

“Could I…” he begins, fluttering breath against Draco’s mouth with his voice. To tear his eyes away from the man now would be a torture — his gaze cannot choose which hurts less, to miss watching his grey eyes or his pink lips. He releases another long breath. “Would you hate me if I—”

Knock, knock. 

The sound erupts from the other side of the door to their room and crushes Harry as quick and easy as parchment in a fist. His mouth hangs open with the words lost to the moment and he wants to swear, but he doesn’t. Draco watches his every movement, eyes wider since hearing the beginning of his broken sentences, and still neither of them step away from the other. 

Knock, knock, knock. 

Draco bites his lip. 

“Harry? Draco? Are you nearly ready? It’s almost time to go!” Hermione’s voice comes through the door, delicately muffled by the wood. 

“Yeah,” Harry shouts back, turning his head away so as to avoid screaming in Draco’s face. “Coming now, give us two minutes!”

He turns back to Draco, who is still staring at him. As he scans Harry’s face, he says, “I should get dressed.” 

Harry feels the inexplicable need to hold his breath. He nods, and takes yet another risk with his next words. It shouldn’t still feel like this, with everything they’ve done; it shouldn’t feel so exhilarating and anxiety-inducing, but it does. He whispers to him, attempting to hide the shake in his voice, “I wish you didn’t have to.”

Draco appears to take in his words for a moment but it’s not long enough to trigger a panic. He watches Draco’s face turn with slight recognition, watches as he slowly nods. Harry listens closely for the sound of Hermione’s familiar tip-tap of shoes trailing away and nods right back at him.

Then Draco spins Harry’s brain completely. Again, he remains exactly in place, too close to Harry for either of their brains to be working entirely correctly. He lifts his hand and Harry sees it all in slow motion; the way that he points his fingers so delicately towards the top button of his baggy shirt. He begins undoing each of them one by one, his eyes never leaving Harry’s intent, focused gaze. 

Harry’s mouth floods with desire. His eyes rake over every ounce that Draco shows to him, his pace agonising as he slides the shirt over his shoulders to expose his collarbones, upper arms — a slow descent to his chest and then beneath his nipples. Though the sight of the silver scars scattered over his torso make him feel guilty as sin, he doesn’t let it show on his face. The consensual revealing of them to Harry feels like both a test and show of trust. Harry accepts both without hesitation. 

A million impulses rush through his mind. He wants to slide his hands all over him, down to the elastic in his underwear, the only thing that he’s now wearing. He wants to sink to his knees and press his lips to his bare skin, get his tongue on his chest and his navel, if he lets him. He wants to kiss the scars and tell him that he’s sorry over and over again if he wants to hear it. He wants to breathe warm air over his nipples and make him writhe. 

“Choose a colour,” Draco says softly, pulling him out of his trance. His eyes are more black than grey, now. 

Harry’s lips tilt into a smirk. “Red.”

Draco rolls his eyes and at last their close proximity is interrupted. He steps away and heads towards his wardrobe again, and Harry’s overwhelming need to plaster his hands all over his naked body fizzles, though only slightly. 

He dresses himself in a fitted pair of black trousers and transfigures a fancy white shirt into a wonderfully becoming burgundy colour before pulling it on and hiding the pretty body beneath it. Harry watches and admires him closely, purely baffled by how someone could possibly be so fucking beautiful. 

“Red again?” Draco sighs, shaking his head with a small grin, picking up his bright red water bottle from the nightstand. “Anyone would think that you’re trying to claim me for Gryffindor.”

Harry releases a short laugh, picking up his wand. It doesn’t fit in his pocket, so he slides it up his sleeve and has to adjust it a few times so it doesn’t slide out. Though transfigured to fit him, the sleeves of Draco's shirt on him still seem the slightest bit finicky. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles, opening the door for him. Draco smiles at him, peering at him through his eyelashes as he passes him. “For Gryffindor.”

*

When they arrive alongside the rest of the Eighth year students, the Room of Requirement is decked out in pink. Ron barbs at him for this, but Seamus simply shrugs and tells them all that they hadn’t complained when the Room had been dressed in orange and black and purple for Halloween; why should it be different for Valentine’s Day?

Harry hadn’t even realised the significance of the date, but it slowly settles over him. Today, Saturday, is the thirteenth — as it hits midnight, it would be the fourteenth. He doesn’t know why the fact makes his cheeks burn hot, or why he all of a sudden can’t look at the blond man next to him. 

Draco and Harry get a courteous cup of mixed firewhisky each, neither of them intending on drinking much but willing to join in with the inevitable games that their classmates had come to love so much. They come to sit upon chairs in a circle, Draco’s bright red water bottle on the floor between them for an extra promise of not getting completely drunk. 

“So, we have about two hours,” Seamus tells the group with a clap of his hands. “How would you all like to start?”

“Two hours?” Hermione says. “Two hours before what?”

“I may have extended the invite to a few others,” he explains. “Hope you’re all ready for a big night, lads.”

Harry can only assume that this means students of other years had been invited, because every member of their Eighth year classmates were here amongst them already. He didn’t mind, much, but he was glad for this first hour alone. 

Truth or dare is the game that takes over the conversation, and it seems more rushed than when they’ve played before. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that they’re on somewhat borrowed time to play it, before they have company, but the people around them seem to be drinking desperately quicker compared to usual. Harry almost feels left behind. 

They’re only thirty minutes in when Pansy is giggling, Neville is wobbling on his chair, and Ron has acquired a red tint to his freckled face. 

The thing about not wanting to get too drunk when playing a drinking game is that to avoid drinking, you must complete the given forfeit. Harry so far has not had to do anything worse than tell the group that his first kiss was less than impressive, really, and that he genuinely doesn’t really know whether he’d like to have sex outside. The last question spurs him into many a thoughts about doing many a things with Draco out by the Lake, or behind the back of the old buildings in Hogsmeade, or even in the middle of the Forbidden Forest. He thinks that he’s allowed another sip or two to calm his mind down, after that. It has rather the opposite effect. 

Draco, also attempting to spare himself from an overload of alcohol, has had to so far tell the group that he was wearing black underwear, and that he has kissed four people. At that, he sits up straight and yelps. Harry almost jumps up on instinct, frightened that something serious has gotten to him, but he settles as he watches the group around them laugh. Seamus laughs the loudest of all.

“Can’t go about lying, remember?” he says. “Tell us the truth or take a drink.” 

Draco sighs, turning a little red. “Fine. One.” 

Unintentionally, Harry finds the eyes of Zacharias Smith across the circle. The mousy man doesn’t look angry or confused this time — there’s a flash of recognition on his face instead, something akin to regret. He doesn’t have time to debate it though it nags at him in the back of his mind, because Pansy is throwing a sloppy arm around Draco’s shoulders and taking credit for being his one kiss. Harry doesn’t know how to feel about the burst of envy that seeps through his veins because that is what it is — envy, not jealousy. 

When the game continues, and Blaise Zabini is being asked whether he prefers breasts or butts, Draco’s fingers brush the back of his hand. He releases a long breath at once, and turns to him with a small smile. Draco returns it, stretching those very lips that are making Harry’s life fall apart. 

He’s laughing at Justin Finch-Fletchley saying that the most embarrassing thing that he’s ever masturbated over was the mosaic mer-people in the prefect’s bathroom, and then the attention is back on him. He clutches at his cup, denting the weak material as Anthony asks him, “Truth or dare?”

Harry doesn’t know Justin as well as some of the others in the room, so he takes a moment to answer. Would he give him an awful dare? A shameful truth? He likes the guy, sure, and he’s pretty sure Justin likes him too, but he’d just been given a pretty embarrassing question to answer himself.

“Dare,” Harry answers, because he doesn’t want to answer anything along the same lines as what Justin had been given. 

Justin nods. Slowly, a small smirk forms on his face, and Harry feels a cold chill run down his back. He says, “Dare you to snog Pansy.”

Harry blinks. Evidently, from the silence in the room, nobody had expected that. Harry stays in place, the grip on his cup getting tighter, his head turning to look to his right. Pansy is sitting with raised eyebrows, and Draco’s eye is twitching. 

“Jeez, Justin,” Dean says with a laugh. “You win for most controversial.”

“Why? That’s a regular dare!” Justin defends himself.

“I’ll, uh… I’ll drink,” Harry says, raising his glass. “No offense, Pansy.”

Pansy gives a small laugh, placing a casual hand on Draco’s knee and giving it a squeeze. She says, “None taken, Harry. You’re not my number one choice, either.”

There are murmurs around the group as Harry drinks, some boys whispering about how they certainly wouldn’t have minded receiving a dare like that, and wondering aloud who her number one choice would be. 

By the next time he’s interested enough to pay attention, he’s feeling a low thrum of a buzz from the alcohol and is beginning to think that he needs to slow down. The truth or dare question is directed at Draco, who has started to sip more and more at his bright red water bottle, apparently feeling as much of a buzz as Harry. 

“Draco,” Seamus says, and he’s quite drunk by now. “Truth or dare?”

Draco takes a long swig of water before placing the bottle down and getting ready to drink from his cup. He sighs, leans back in his chair and appears to weigh up his options before saying, “Truth.”

“Everyone's being so boring tonight!” Seamus slurs. “Fine, okay… Tell me, Draco…”

There’s a dangerous smirk on his face, and it sets Harry right on edge. The room waits for the man to ask the question, all overly aware of his inebriation. Multiple people are looking between Draco and Harry, and he knows by now that it’s because there’s a common awareness of the strangeness of their relationship. They all want to know what the drunken version of Seamus may ask, whether the answer to the question will confirm their whirlwind theories. 

“Tell me, Draco,” Seamus says again. “Have you heard Harry wanking yet?”

Harry supposes that he should be grateful that it wasn’t anything that could’ve otherwise implicated them in their recent activities, but it doesn’t stop the blood from rising to his face. He buries his face in his cup, trying not to look at anyone in the room. 

Draco takes a good moment, but finally answers him with a truthful, “Yes.” 

He can’t help but wonder if Draco is also currently having flashbacks to it all. Draco has heard Harry wank, yes. He has also watched it happen, has partaken in said wanking at the same time as him, and allowed him to dry hump his arse until he came, which is basically in the same department. 

Whispers erupt around the room, particularly from the girls, but Harry’s not entirely sure why. It’s a natural thing, after all, and everybody does it at some point or another. He risks a glance at Draco, who is sitting up straight and ignoring the ongoing gossip, pretending as if he hasn’t had anything to do with said wanking at all. He’s actually pretty believable. Harry thinks that they must have gotten away with the situation being all regular until Seamus speaks once again.

“Oh, is that so?” the drunk man asks, and Harry dares to take a look at the grin on his face. He’s no longer directing his words to Draco — he’s looking straight at him, instead. “Why, Harry, isn’t that curious?”

Harry clears his throat. “I’m a healthy young man, Seamus. Don’t know about your business, but I’d say it’s not curious at all.”

Seamus nods but the grin isn’t wiped from his face. “Of course,” he says, and Harry’s going to murder him tomorrow, because he continues on, “Y’see, myself, Dean, Ron and I know that all too well. We admitted to doing it during Never Have I Ever. If you recall, Harry, you said you’d never done it with us in the room. Must be… A recent development, is it?” He punctuates this thought with a snort. 

Harry opens his mouth and closes it at once upon realising that he has really no defense for himself. He slumps back in his chair and drains the rest of his drink, face hotter than ever. The entire group really is giggling now, save for Smith and Draco. 

“I imagine Potter just has better views this year,” Blaise says to more sniggers. “Poor man can’t help himself anymore.”

“Shut up, Blaise,” Draco says quickly, but his voice is free from extreme malice.

Hermione speaks up, then, and Harry almost tells her not to for fear of what she might say to try and defend him. She’s sporting some rosy cheeks, herself, and has been giggling with the rest of them. She says now, “We all know that there is a simple explanation for it.”

Harry sits up quickly, wondering if she really is so drunk as to expose him. He puts a hand on the back of her chair and laughs nervously. “Hermione?”

“There is.” Parvati laughs. 

Hermione shrugs, shaking her head at them. “The explanation is simply that Harry has been extremely distracted before. I doubt that was on his mind much when chasing around Voldemort.”

There’s an awkward silence then that settles upon them, but Harry’s glad for the excuse. Of course, it couldn’t have been further than the truth. Seamus had simply misremembered, apparently, that the question in the game of Never Have I Ever had been whether they had wanted whilst somebody else was in the room with them — awake. Harry had never knowingly done anything whilst his roommates had still been up, but the second that he had sensed that he was consciously alone, he had been at it most nights of the week with his friends in the room. Somehow, the semantics don’t help his case, though, and so he keeps quiet and gives Hermione a rub on the shoulder filled with gratitude. 

“Ahem,” Harry says, because now nobody else is speaking and Seamus looks particularly ashamed. “Dean, truth or dare?”

Dean looks at him, eyebrows halfway up his forehead. “Dare?”

Harry grins at him. “Dare you to snog the pout off of your boyfriend’s face.”

The tension eases, and Dean does so, and the moment fizzles away as they watch the two of them go at it. And they really do go at it — they go at it until people are yelling at them to get a room. Harry chances a glance at Draco as they continue to kiss, only to meet his gaze, already on him. The both of them look away quickly, and simultaneously take a long sip of their drinks again. 

“Thank you, Harry Potter, thank you very much,” Seamus says, lips swollen and hair messy as all Hell. “Okay. We probably only have fifteen minutes before everyone else starts to show up…”

“Let’s make them count then, hm?” Pansy says, a wicked grin on her painted lips. “Abbott, truth or dare?”

Astounded by the sudden attention, Hannah answers, “Dare?”

“Brilliant.” She claps her hands together. “I dare you to flash your tits.”

Harry, along with most of the people in the room, chokes on his drink. Draco is simply sitting back, rolling his eyes at his friend’s antics. Neville is sitting up as straight as a board, crimson from his throat to his forehead, looking between Pansy and Hannah with wide eyes. 

“What?!” Hannah squeaks. She grasps on tightly to Susan’s hand at her side. “Pansy!”

“What? I was getting bored. Either do it or down your drink.” She shrugs.

“Down it!?” Hannah gasps. “What’s with the sudden change of rules!?”

Seamus just laughs drunkenly again. He answers her, “Anticipation of the end!”

Hannah rolls her eyes at them, raising her glass to the group. “Well, none of you are getting that today. Cheers.” And with that, she chugs the entirety of her drink to a scattered applause. 

“Pansy.” Susan turns to her now, still holding onto her friend’s hand. She has a drunken smirk on her face that Harry hasn’t seen from her before. “Truth or dare.”

Pansy leans forward, one eyebrow raised in a challenge. “Dare.”

“Since apparently you have your pick of admirers in this room,” she begins. “Choose one of them to snog.”

The Slytherin girl’s eyes light up and she uncrosses her long legs, high heels clicking as she sets both feet on the ground. She stands up in the middle of the circle, all too happy to be the centre of attention. 

“How lovely,” she says, and Harry thinks that she means it. “Please raise your hand if you volunteer.”

Michael, Terry, Justin, Ernie and Theodore Nott all raise their hands at once. Harry may be the only one who notices, but despite his comments and explicit lust for her earlier in the year, Zacharias Smith keeps his hand down, eyes on the ground like he’s not even aware of the conversation taking place. 

As Pansy approaches Michael Corner and straddles him in his chair, taking his face in her hands and attacking him with her lips (clearly over the rejection of a former game), Smith seems to sense that he’s being watched. He looks up directly at Harry, and for once, he doesn’t look pissed off or disgusted. He meets Harry’s eye and his brows are turned half-upwards, a disturbed frown on his face. He shakes his head gently at Harry and his bottom lip actually seems to quiver, before he drops his head in his hands. 

The crowd whoops and wolf-whistles around them, but Harry can’t bring himself to join in. He continues to stare at Smith and his inner turmoil, and knows that he needs to talk to him at once. He slips his wand out of his sleeve and transfigures his alcohol to water, downing multiple cups full, before slipping the wand back inside his sleeve. It slips out once again, as it had in their bedroom, and he rushes to push it back inside. 

There’s a new rumbling of chatter and footsteps and Seamus bounds up to let the newcomers join. The group of them stand up from their circle and the chairs all fly to line the walls — apart from Pansy and Michael, who remain fervently lip-locked. The room floods with new people, sixth and seventh years excited to join such a party. 

Harry clenches his fist, eyes still focused on the way that Smith’s eyes now dart around the room. He steps forward, intent on heading over to him at once, when Draco places a hand on his arm. 

“Potter,” Draco says, his voice quiet but hard. “What’s wrong?”

Harry looks up at him and then down at his hand, pale fingers digging into the deep purple of his sleeves. He gulps. “Smith.”

Draco’s gaze is intense. He believes him. “Did something happen?”

Harry looks around, before tilting his head towards a quiet corner of the room. There’s already multiple eyes on him, on them, from fanatical younger students filled with adoration and the need to talk to him. He leads Draco away and for now, nobody follows them. 

“Smith has been breaking for weeks,” Harry tells him. “He’s a mess. He’s involved and he’s sorely regretting it now. It’s all gotten out of hand for him, and—” He shakes his head, releasing a long breath. “The way he looked just now… Draco, I think…”

“Something’s going to happen,” Draco finishes. “Tonight?”

Harry nods. “I think so.”

“Fuck,” he hisses, and runs a hand through his pristine hair. “What do I… What do we do?”

Harry takes in the fear written across his face, the way he has stood up straighter to give the feigned appearance of courage. It’s anything but. He’s taking quick, short breaths and trying to compose himself and it overwhelms Harry with a sense of urgency. Profound anxiety seeps into his heart and sends it thumping but he’s desperate to soothe Draco, instead. He wants to take his face in his palms and erase any sense of terror, wants to stroke back his hair and tell him that he’s not going to get hurt, no matter what. He’s regretting every single dare he evaded and truth he didn’t answer that resulted in having him drink more because the situation feels suddenly alive, and it’s dire. 

“We can slip out of here now,” Harry tells him. “I’ll cast a disillusionment charm and they’ll come up with their theories for why, but you’ll be safe.”

Draco takes a deep breath. “Smith will… They’ll notice. If they no longer have control over the leader, or what have you, he could lash out… Potter, he’s dangerous.”

Harry nods, suddenly understanding. “He could hurt other people.”

Draco gulps. “People here. Our friends.” 

For a moment, Harry’s head spins with horror at the prospect of not only his — Draco — getting hurt but all of the rest of them, too. Ron, Hermione, Luna, Dean, Seamus, and all the rest of them who had fought with him, stood by his side or otherwise been good friends lately. He can’t risk it. And by the look in Draco’s eyes, he can’t either. 

“Okay,” Harry says. “No more alcohol. You stay by me.” He looks him in the eye, desperate to get him to listen to his next words; “I will not let anything happen to you.”

Draco peers at him, his eyes just as intense. He tells him, “I know.”

With another long, deep breath, Harry feels Draco press against his side. They look out at the expansive crowd, wall to wall with hot, swaying bodies. Harry can no longer see Smith anywhere, lost to the dancing mob. 

One way or another, Harry thinks, throwing his empty cup to the ground, it’ll end tonight.

Chapter Text

Harry has faced dangers unknown to even the most adventurous and experienced of Aurors, and yet somehow feels like he’s never been so on edge. 

When he’d told Draco to stay close to him, he’d meant it. The two of them peruse around the room as one, and Harry finds himself always managing to touch him in one way or another. He places a temporary hand on the small of his back, or allows his fingers to linger on his elbow. 

He’s not stupid. He knows what kind of an impression they’re making on the younger students in comparison to their friends, who borderline expect such a thing from Harry and Draco nowadays. A young woman introduces herself as Tara Strongwill and lets the both of them know that she really appreciates their courage. Harry awkwardly thanks her whilst Draco tells her that she’s mistaken, and they’re left in a confused silence before she moves on. 

Harry’s eyes are anywhere and everywhere. No matter how thoroughly he scans the room, Smith is no longer anywhere to be seen. Neither, though he’s unsure whether they were intending to come anyway, are Quincy Elborn or the boy with the scar. Their absence is duly noted and makes Harry feel even more terrified. 

“I don’t like it,” Harry says into his ear, stepping out of the conversation with Theodore and Blaise. “Smith has disappeared, and—”

“Perhaps he’s talking them down. Perhaps they aren’t even here. We need to just act like nothing's wrong, okay?” Draco looks down, and sighs. “ Accio water bottle. I have a headache.”

The bright red water bottle flies into his hands from wherever it had been abandoned and despite the seriousness of the situation, Harry can’t help but watch closely as he wraps his lips around the metal. He glugs down multiple mouthfuls, his Adam’s apple bobbing and gluing Harry’s eyes to his throat. 

By the time he finishes drinking, which feels like a teasing taunt for how long it takes him, Harry’s fingers are twitching with the need to touch him. He says quietly, “Satisfied?”

“No,” Draco answers at once. “Actually, I’ve been feeling distinctly unsatisfied all day.”

Harry watches his hand form a fist around the lid, screwing it shut once again, and pictures it somewhere distinctly dirtier. He clears his head of such thoughts and asks him, “All day? Why?”

Draco wipes his lips with the back of his hand, freeing his skin from the remnants of the liquid from the bright red water bottle. Then he answers him with an impressive nonchalance, given the contents of the sentence for which he does not bother to quieten himself. “I wanted to suck you off this morning, but you didn’t give me the chance.”

Harry almost jumps out of his skin, head whipping around to see if anyone had heard him. “If I’d known then I wouldn’t have stopped you. But you should keep it down.”

His mind blooms with vision after vision of Draco on his knees, mouth open, tongue out, reaching into Harry’s underwear with an unbridled eagerness. His heart thuds against his chest and he wants it — wants it bad. 

It’s not the time. It’s not the place, either. But he needs to ask.

Quietly, he says to him, “You really wanted to… Do that?”

“Yes,” Draco says at once. “I’d do it right now if you let me.”

Harry breathes in sharply. It hasn’t slipped his or his dick’s attention that Draco still has yet to touch it, still has yet to hold it as Harry had done to him. He wants to take Draco’s hand and lead him to a dark corner, put his hand on his shoulder and tell him to have at it, please. 

Pansy approaches them then, lipstick freshly reapplied and a new, full drink in her hand. She’s swaying in her high heels. She says, “Hello, darlings… Enjoying yourselves?”

“Not as much as you were with Michael.” Harry smirks. “You were practically shagging him where he was sitting.”

She laughs, showing off her pearly whites, and says, “Well, we’re all in search of a little fun now and then, aren’t we?” Then, placing a hand on Draco’s shoulder, she asks, “What were the two of you whispering about?”

Harry opens his mouth to answer, to make something up, but Draco beats him to it. With that same nonchalance as before, he tells her, “I was telling Potter how badly I want to suck his cock.”

He feels his jaw drop, and watches Pansy do the same. The both of them stare at Draco and his brashness, his raw truth. Pansy’s wide eyes turn upon him expectantly, alarmed, and all Harry can do is stare back at her. There’s not a single thing coming to his head to explain this away. 

“Oh,” Pansy murmurs. She sterns her jaw, looking all of a sudden a lot less drunk. “And why would you be discussing that so publicly, Draco?”

Harry realises then for the first time that Pansy knows. She knows something, at least. Maybe not the extent to which their relationship has bloomed, necessarily, but at least that Draco has an… Inclination. Towards what, Harry isn’t sure what she knows. Men? Cocks? Harry?

“I don’t know,” Draco says. “Potter asked me what was troubling me, and I simply answered him.”

“You told him to his face that you want to suck his cock?” Pansy’s knuckles are starkly white on Draco’s shoulder, because even she knows that he wouldn’t be that drunk so quickly. And Harry agrees with her sentiment — even though they have been getting up to truly dirty things with each other, Draco has not quite yet taken to discussing it so brashly. His fear of embarrassment is too overwhelming for that, hence why he had consistently turned a bright red at every single one of Harry’s erotic comments.

Realisation washes over Harry like a freezing cold rainstorm. He turns his eyes to the bright red water bottle, goosebumps rising over his arms. Fuck. 

“Fuck.” He shouldn’t have been so lax, shouldn’t have let Draco take a drink out of the thing when it had been out of their sights for so long. A long breath slips from his lips — at least it wasn’t poison. He takes Draco’s arm and pulls him closer. “We need to get out of here.”

Pansy’s eyes widen. “What?”

Draco looks between them, and down at his water bottle. Harry sees him gulp, fright written all over his face. “Fuck.”

“What’s happening?” Pansy demands, head whipping back and forth between them. “Are you in trouble?”

“No,” he says.

“Yes,” Draco says simultaneously. “I think I am.”

“It’s okay,” Harry tells her. “I’m going to get him somewhere safe. Don’t panic. If you haven’t heard from me in an hour, get McGonagall.”

She shakes her head, her breath shaking. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Act normal,” Harry stresses. He resigns himself to having to tell her. “He’s been drugged with Veritaserum. I think — I think someone’s going to try and hurt him. I need your help to not let that happen.”

For a second, Pansy looks five years younger than she actually is. But she nods now, gulps, and steadies herself admirably. “Okay,” she says. “Do you want me to get Hermione? And Ronald?”

“Let them know something’s happening but tell them not to try and find us,” Harry tells her firmly. His mind is swirling with the former fear that had encompassed him wholly. He can’t let his friends be hurt. 

Pansy takes off, but behind him, another voice reaches Harry’s ears. “Y’alright, Draco? What’s on your mind?”

Harry whips around to stare at Seamus, to tell him to shut up, but he doesn’t get the chance. Draco answers him dutifully, “I’m trying very hard not to think about Potter’s—”

Though his words are interrupted by Harry’s hand over his mouth, Draco can’t help but continue to spew muffled filth against his palm and fingers. Seamus watches them as if they’ve both grown another head, eyebrow quizzically quirked. Harry has no time to explain and so he just throws him a nervous smile, turning Draco away and only relinquishing him from his grip once they slip under the cover of the crowd. 

“Help me,” Draco breathes to him. It’s all Harry can do to nod a promise and squeeze his hand. 

He manages to escort him out of the room without another interruption, eyes scanning every inch of the room. At his side, Draco keeps his head down, unwilling to accidentally make eye contact and invite conversation. Harry’s no longer holding his hand — but he so desperately wants to be. He wonders if that would comfort Draco, too, instead of just himself.

When they exit through the double doors and reach the dark corridor outside, it seems deserted. It seems deserted, and yet Harry’s nerves are set on edge more now than they were inside the Room of Requirement. He looks around at every dark corner, unable to shake the feeling that they’re not alone. 

“Potter?” Harry hears, and he takes a step closer to the man on instinct. “Potter, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he tells him, not looking at him. To take a right turn would lead them back to the common room faster, but Harry’s gut is telling him that it's the wrong way to go. Heading left will leave their backs to the open hallway. They can’t linger here, and he knows it. 

He puts a hand on Draco’s back. They head left.

Harry is persistent with how often he turns around to check their surroundings, but it doesn’t feel enough. True, unbridled panic does not entirely sink in until he reaches for an extra blanket of security and finds it non-existent. His wand had, at some point, slipped from his sleeve again. This time, he hadn’t noticed. 

“Shit,” he breathes, heart rate increasing tenfold. “Fuck. Draco, I— My wand, it’s—”

Through the dark of the corridors, he watches Draco’s eyes widen and sees his own horror reflected in his face. They’re underneath a window, nearing the Great Hall. There’s only the slightest of light shimmering in from the moon tonight. 

“Take mine,” Draco says, slipping it out of his pocket and holding it out to him. Harry raises his hand. It never reaches his fingertips.

“ Expelliarmus! ” is shouted from down the corridor and Harry is too late to do anything about it. The wand between their grasps is flung into the air and towards the source of the voice, and Harry watches as it lands in the hand of the boy with the scar. 

Arms slip around Harry’s arms and shoulders and pull him back before he even has time to react. He’s rendered immobile by the thick arms and though he fights as hard as he can, he’s not strong enough. From behind comes another assailant, grabbing Draco’s wrists and holding them behind his back. Zacharias fucking Smith makes him yelp, and Harry wants to kill him.

“Stop struggling,” the man behind Harry hisses in his ear — Quincy Elborn, his mind supplies. However he manages to get Harry so still is beyond him, and he resolves to work on his upper-body strength further. 

Draco fights as well, to no avail. Behind him, Smith looks almost apologetic. Almost regretful.

The boy with the scar steps forward, twirling Draco’s wand in his hand. One foot in front of the other. He appears completely calm. When he speaks, his tone reflects this.

“This was the wand that killed Voldemort,” he says, still not looking up to address them. His voice is unnaturally cold, rendering Harry’s skin bumpy with goosebumps. The last time Harry had heard such an icy tone as this, so devoid of empathy, it had come from the man who had killed him. He continues, “I read about it in The Prophet.”

“Good for you,” Harry huffs, still shoving against Elborn. “I was there.”

The boy with the scar ignores him, still in a steady approach. “I read that the Young Master Malfoy asked for it back.”

“I offered,” he says through gritted teeth. “It’s his wand, he should have it.”

The boy ignores him once again. “Why is it that such a freak gets to keep such an important artefact?” 

Draco releases a long breath, compelled to answer. “Because it’s mine.”

The boy hums, close enough now for Harry to study his face again. Though his tone remains calm, his expression gives him away. He is filled with almost pure rage. Calculated rage. It makes Harry all the more scared, and all the more determined to sort him out. 

He watches the boy finger the wand for a moment longer before lifting it, pointing it at Draco and saying simply, “ Diffindo. ” 

Harry sees blood spurt from Draco’s face, a long red line from his temple to his chin, and almost loses his mind, struggling wildly against the arms of Elborn. It’s not even a few seconds later that Harry almost breaks free, only for the boy to redirect the wand to him, shouting, “ Incarcerous!” and ropes gather like snakes around Harry’s arms and chest, throwing him backwards against the wall. He might’ve been able to counter it, if he’d not been drinking.

Elborn stumbles back, irritation plain on his face. “Watch it, Aster!”

The boy with the scar — Aster, Harry finally learns — turns his glare upon Elborn and he shrinks back at once. Smith looks like he’s shaking, face splattered with specks of Draco’s blood. Harry wants to scream at them. Why won’t they fight back? Are they so scared of him?

“They lived with you, didn’t they?” Aster continues, stepping closer again to Draco, a wild look in his eye. “You and your family allowed the Death Eaters to live in your house.”

Still under the will of the Veritaserum, Draco answers, “Yes.”

Aster’s knuckles turn white. “And you’re the one that allowed them into the school. Aren’t you?”

With a shudder of shame, Draco says again, “Yes.”

“ Diffindo!” Aster launches again, shredding another line through the skin at his collarbone, now through his shirt, staining it with a darker red than the fabric. 

“Stop!” Harry’s heart aches and races instantly, fury thrumming through him at the sight of the tears in Draco’s eyes and the pain in his scream. He fights against the ropes binding him yet again and winces as the friction cuts into his sleeves. With a bite in his voice, he demands, “Leave him alone! Look at him, you know that he regrets it.”

Aster doesn’t even glance at him. He steps even closer to Draco now, close enough to make Harry’s stomach turn. When Aster sets forward, lifting the wand and pressing the tip to Draco’s cheek, Harry almost charges at him. It’s only Elborn that stops the boy from being flattened with a rugby tackle. 

“People have been saying so many things, Malfoy,” Aster continues. The tip of the wand slides to the corner of his lips. “About how you’ve been manipulating Harry Potter.” 

“He hasn’t been —” Harry starts, and Aster retrieves his own wand with his spare hand. He points it at Harry’s face, who prepares for the worst, but all that Aster interrupts him with is a “Finite!”

Obviously, nothing happens. 

Aster growls, turning back to Draco. “It’s not with magic, so I can’t help but wonder what else it could be.” 

“It’s nothing,” Harry shouts. “He’s not manipulating me!”

Aster shoots a glance at Elborn, who sighs before pointing his wand at Harry and casting, “ Silencio” . Harry grunts and tries to scream, but nothing comes out. He doesn’t know if he’s ever felt so powerless. 

Draco’s gaze, to his great credit, is hard and focused instead of outwardly afraid now. Despite every negative feeling happening in his head, Harry feels a rush of pride for the man. 

The wand now traces Draco’s pink lips. Aster hums, “Have you let him fuck you?”

Against the tip of his own wand, Draco says, “No.”

Aster actually frowns at that, taken aback. He visibly hesitates, taking a small step away, even withdrawing the wand slightly. After a long moment, he asks, “Have you put your mouth on him?”

Draco’s eyes remain steady. Again, “No.”

Aster releases a guttural groan, the sound loud enough to echo off of the walls. He shakes his head, grabbing a fistful of Draco’s shirt and twisting the fabric in his hand. Aster moves the wand, digging it into the flesh in his cheek. He growls, “There’s no fucking way that he is friends with you out of the good of his heart, Malfoy, so tell me; have you done anything sexual with Harry Potter?”

Draco falters. His eyes meet Harry’s for the briefest moment, and he answers, “Yes.”

Harry can hardly breathe. If it angers Aster, if it makes him do something to Draco, Harry only has himself to blame. He had been the one to flirt with the man, to instigate their sexual encounters over and over again. 

Split between relief, triumph and disgust, Aster grins and takes several steps backwards, sliding a hand through his hair. “I knew it,” he says quietly. “You knew that you shouldn’t be coming back here, shouldn’t be showing your face. So you seduced him, the Saviour of the Wizarding World, so that nobody could touch you! It may have worked for a while, Malfoy, but I got you all figured out. Even these two began to doubt me, but I was right!”

Harry turns his head, tries to get Smith’s attention. He’d seen the pain on his face recently. He knows that the man doesn’t want any part of this; knows that he can help. But Smith has always been a coward — ran away during the War, in fact, and he refuses to meet his gaze now. Why would anything change?

Aster is still rambling, “Harry Potter would never have forgiven the man who allowed the Death Eaters into the Castle. The man who started the end.” He’s pacing now. “The Battle would never have happened — she never would’ve died — if you didn’t let them in! Are you even sorry?”

“Yes,” Draco tells him at once, his voice smaller now. “I am.”

“No!” Aster huffs. “You’re sorry ?! My sister’s throat was ripped out! ”

And suddenly everything seems to slot into place. Harry’s body slumps with realisation. 

Aster continues, furious tears in his eyes now, “He lived with you too, didn’t he? Greyback?”

Draco shudders, and suddenly he’s taking sharp, short breaths. “Yes.”

“You housed— You housed and accommodated that monster?”

Draco chokes out, “Yes.”

There’s a new horror on his face, a desperate regret mixed with a true fear of the topic of conversation. In Harry’s limited exchanges with Fenrir Greyback, he had been disgusted at the very least and terrified at the most. He couldn’t imagine having to live with such a man every single day, prowling around his home. His horrific nature mixed with the fact that he had a well-known preference for children makes Harry’s skin crawl. Draco had not yet been eighteen. 

Aster steps closer to him yet again, wand trailing down to Draco’s neck. With wild eyes, he asks, “Why didn’t he rip your throat out instead?”

Draco shakes his head. “He wanted to. The D— Voldemort didn’t let him do it. As much as my family disappointed him, he wouldn’t have a half-breed taint me… Because I’m a pure-blood.”

“We’re pure-bloods!” Aster screams. “Lavender was a pure-blood! It didn’t save her!”

“Greyback didn’t care about blood, and by the time the Battle occurred, anyone against Voldemort was as good as muggleborn to him.” Draco gulps. “I’m so sorry about your sister.”

Aster bares his teeth, twisting the tip of the wand into his skin. “He should’ve ripped your throat out.”

With a tone that chills Harry to the bone, Draco says, “He threatened to do a lot worse than that.”

Harry doesn’t want to think about the implications of those words, of whether these words and Greyback had anything to do with the countless nightmares that had plagued Draco to the point of potion abuse. His skin prickles with goosebumps of horror but a newly ignited fire rises in his gut. He thinks about the countless times that Hermione had told him to practice his wandless and wordless magic, thinks of the mundane spells that he had been forced to learn to perform wandlessly whilst out in those cold woods. He should’ve listened more. He should’ve practiced more. 

But slowly, the ropes around his body loosen. Harry tries not to show the surprise on his face, but it’s difficult for the relief that he feels. He twitches and the rope falls from his shoulder. When he breathes, he can actually hear the breath spill out from between his lips. His eyes flit around the hallway and his gaze settles on Smith — his sorry eyes and his wand behind his back, pointing right at him. 

Aster takes in Draco’s words but they do not have the same impact on him as they had on Harry. He doesn’t seem to care about Greyback’s actions towards the man in the slightest, his face stony and his eyes still animal. Draco’s own wand still in his hand, Aster digs it further into his throat until he’s coughing. 

“Don’t worry,” he growls. “It can’t be worse than what I’m going to do to you.”

Harry can’t bear to witness a second more. Hermione’s pushing for practice now comes into play and as Harry twists his hand, he shouts his own, “ Expelliarmus!” and catches Draco’s wand as it flies out of Aster’s grasp. 

But Aster is fast. He’s retrieving his own wand from his robes before Harry is pointing Draco’s wand at him, shoving Smith away, so hard that the man falls to the ground, and holding Draco with one arm. Aster’s eyes are on Harry, his wand at Draco’s temple. 

“My fight was never with you,” Aster says, voice shaking with anger. 

“It is now,” Harry tells him. Draco’s wand feels familiar in his grasp. Powerful. 

“You can’t see it. You can’t see what he’s done to you.” Aster shakes his head, squeezing Draco’s body. “He’s made you forget everything he’s done.”

Neither Elborn or Smith make a move to interrupt the moment, to involve themselves or get in the middle of this. Harry takes one step forward, arm still outstretched. 

“I haven’t forgotten, Aster. I know what Draco has done. Trust that I, of all people, know the kind of man he was,” he tells him. “But he is not that man anymore.” 

Draco stares at him with wide eyes, hands gripping at the arm around his chest. Harry tries not to look at him, tries to keep focused on Aster instead of his grey eyes and scared face. It’s the hardest thing that he’s ever had to do. 

“I can’t trust you. You’re still being manipulated even now.” He takes a deep breath. “I should’ve dosed you as well as Malfoy. I wonder if Veritaserum would rub off on you if you got your tongue in his mouth.” 

“Don’t —” Draco begins, but Aster jabs his wand into his cheek again. His blood is soaking the wood.

“Has he shoved his tongue in your mouth before?” he asks him.

Draco says, “No.”

“Do you want him to?”

Draco’s eyes screw themselves shut, and he looks like he’s going to begin gagging as he fights to keep his mouth shut. The potion overwhelms him, though, and his lips part as he’s forced to answer. “Yes.”

In any other circumstance, Harry would be elated by the answer. As it is, he can’t help but wince, a deep sadness settling through him. It’s not for Aster to whittle these words from them. It’s not for any of them to witness the truths from Draco’s mind. 

“Stop this, Aster,” Harry demands. “Put your wand down and let him go.”

“No,” Aster hisses. “ You put your wand down. Cast a spell and he’ll be dead before your curse even hits me.”

“I’m not putting my wand down. If you touch him...” Harry takes another step towards him, knuckles white on the familiar wand. “I don’t want to have to hurt you, but you should know that I promise I will.”

Aster falters and seems to betray a glimpse of hesitation, but he doesn’t let go of Draco and doesn’t lower his wand. 

Harry persists. “I knew your sister. I met her when I was eleven; she was in Gryffindor with me.”

The boy blinks, eyebrows still furrowed. “I know.”

“I was devastated to learn that she passed away, Aster, and I am so sorry for your loss. I know what it’s like, to lose family,” he says, shaking his head. “But hurting Draco isn’t going to make you feel better.”

“I don’t know that yet, do I?” he despairs. “I won’t know until I do it. Until I wreck him, like I promised.”

Harry moves forward again. “You do know, though. You’ve been tormenting him all year. I would wager that it hasn’t made you feel better, has it?”

Aster’s eyes shimmer, and Harry knows that he’s made a mistake. He tells him, “It has delighted me to know that he’s been suffering. He hasn’t yet experienced even an inch of the pain that I’ve been going through since Lav died.” 

He flinches. He had genuinely believed that there had been some good in the boy, and had been attempting to appeal to his better nature. No dice, apparently. 

“And you have been intercepting,” Aster continues. “Ruining every chance that I get at it. Here you are again, but I won’t let you. Not this time.” 

“Ask me,” Draco says through a gasp, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the wand tip at his throat. “If you value Harry Potter so much — If you genuinely believe that he could only ever support me if I was manipulating him, ask me and see if it’s true.”

Aster gulps. He shudders, and shakes his head in refusal.

Harry looks between them. “If you won’t, I will. Draco, have you been using me for your own protection?”

Draco answers at once. “No.”

Aster grunts. “Stop.”

“Have you ever once attempted to manipulate me? Magically or sexually?”

“No.”

Aster’s head whips back and forth. “Stop. Quincy, make him stop. ”

Behind him, Elborn doesn’t move, and so Harry continues, “Do you feel remorse for those killed in the Battle?”

Draco, again without a beat, says, “Every day.”

At this, Aster genuinely looks like he’s going to start crying. He turns red with emotion and accentuates the paleness of the long scar across his face. 

Harry addresses it. “Did you get that scar during the Battle?”

Aster, chest heaving, pauses in his panic to nod. 

“Thank you for fighting with us,” he says earnestly. “That’s very noble. I’m sure Lavender was very proud of you, risking your own life to fight against Voldemort. But Aster, listen to me. The Battle is over. Voldemort is dead. Look at what you’re doing, at the letters that you’ve been sending all year… Do you really think Lavender would’ve wanted this?” he asks. “Do you think she’d still be proud if she saw you now?”

For a moment, Harry believes that he’s gotten through to him. The wand lowers slightly from Draco’s neck, his grip around him loosening slightly. But he steels himself before Harry has a chance at taking advantage of his hesitance.

“I’ll never know, will I?” he says, and then the wand is pointed right at Harry once again, and the boy shouts, “ Petrificus totalus!”

Harry feels himself freeze, his body overcome with pain as he hits the floor. His eyes fix themselves hard onto Draco and Aster as he internally fights with the curse, watching the fallout. Draco cups his hands together and brings down his elbows, forcing a grunt and a harsh breath out of the boy behind him. 

“ Stupefy !” Harry hears, and can do nothing but watch as Draco is stunned in place. Aster takes slow, heavy breaths, but makes no further movement towards Draco yet. He glares around at Elborn and Smith, who had at some point found his feet again. “You’re useless! Both of you!”

“You need to calm down, Brown. This is getting out of hand,” Smith says to him, asserting himself as the eldest of the three. “I tried to tell you before, I don’t think anything is really going on! I know you want revenge on Malfoy, but cursing Harry Potter…”

Out of Harry’s line of sight, Elborn says, “Zach’s right. And you were wrong, Aster. Malfoy admitted that there’s been no manipulation, Harry Potter truly believes that he’s changed.”

Aster stomps his foot. “He’s lying. ” 

“Under Veritaserum?” Elborn questions. 

“Shut up! You both should be thanking me for this! Or have the both of you forgotten how horrific they’ve made our lives since Christmas? The Aurors looking over our shoulders every minute? Neither of you were even allowed home!” Aster growls. He raises his wand, flicking it between the boys who had once been his friends. “I won’t be as kind with my curses as last time if you keep doubting me.”

Smith and Elborn stare at each other, eyes narrowed. Smith, with more courage than Harry has ever seen from him before, says again, “Malfoy and Potter have proven you wrong. I tried to tell you!”

Jaw clenching, he turns to Draco, grabbing his face as he recovers slowly from the stunning spell. Draco’s eyes are still slightly glazed as Aster says to him, “Have you practiced legilimency?”

Draco answers him, “Yes.”

“See?” Aster turns back to the other two. “He could be lying about any one of these things.” 

Smith spares a small glance at Elborn, face turned with worry and doubt. Aster ignores their lack of support, chest heaving beneath his robes, turning back to Draco and squeezing his face tighter. 

“Stop it,” Draco mumbles, dazed still. “Please stop.”

Aster’s fingers plaster over the cut he had formed on Draco’s cheek, still oozing blood. He crowds him, inches from his face (though he has to yank his head down to make this possible), and asks him, “Have you ever been crucio’d , Malfoy?”

Harry’s entire body is on alert, his eyes finding Smith’s and trying to communicate just how much he’s pleading. Smith visibly gulps, subtly slipping out his wand and once again casting a wordless finite on Harry. As his body slips from the curse, Harry can’t help but find a newfound surprised admiration for the man’s ability to perform wordless magic and willingness to betray the boy in front of him. 

Draco answers, “Yes.”

As his heart sinks to his stomach, Harry attempts not to move too quickly, not wanting to draw too much attention to himself. He needs to be smart about this. He slowly clutches his wand to himself, attempting to steady his breath. Aster is too distracted to notice.

“How about imperio ?”

His voice smaller still, Draco says, “Yes.”

Aster nods slowly. “Which did you prefer?”

Face as pained as ever, Draco tries his best not to answer again. He squeezes his eyes shut and tears spill out, gagging on his words as he says, “I preferred to be crucio’d .”

“Well,” Aster breathes. “Then I suppose I’m doing you a favour.” 

With that, he lifts his wand and points it at Draco. Harry has no doubts about the intent and therefore no doubt that the curse will work. He scrambles up to his feet, wand raised and eyes furious. Devious parts of Harry want to cast every spell in the book to inflict harm upon him, but he finds it in the light of himself to resist.

“This is your last chance,” Harry bites out. “Or I swear to fucking God, I’ll—”

“ Stupefy!” Aster tries again, but Harry blocks it with ease, prepared this time. 

“ Expelliarmus!” he casts, grabbing Aster’s wand and throwing it down the hall. “ Stupefy! Incarcerous! ”

His spells work in succession, fuelled by his anger. He turns to Elborn, uncaring of his hesitance, and does exactly the same to him, throwing his wand aside as well. He throws a stupefy at Smith as well, because however grateful he is for his assistance, he can’t ignore the fact that he had been working with Aster in the first place.

It’s then that he sprints to Draco, ignoring the persistent ache in his leg from when he’d fallen — barely feeling it, in fact. His pain receptors seem to be failing because all that he can think is he’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay. He shoves his wand in his pocket and takes Draco’s face in his shaking hands, uncaring of the blood beginning to stain his fingers. 

“You’re okay,” he whispers, as much to comfort Draco as it was to comfort himself. “You’re okay.”

Draco nods, but appears unable to bring himself to speak. Eyes wide with adrenaline and his breathing heavy from his open mouth, he simply stares at Harry, pupils blown wide. There’s a static between the two of them that Harry has become all too accustomed towards, and with every inch between them getting filled with inter-mingled breath, the static gets stronger. 

Harry rubs the pale cheek with his thumb, smearing more blood over him and yet barely noticing it. There’s nothing else in the world now. Aster, Smith, Elborn — they may as well be in a different universe altogether. 

There’s hands on his chest, stationary, not pushing him away. In fact, they start to do the opposite. Those pale fingers curl into the purple fabric over Harry’s torso, loose anyway from the former struggle. Now, the fingers loosen it more, until the material twists in his fists. Draco is panting with hot breath, mouth wide open, eyes flickering rapidly from one eye to the next. Harry can’t help but lose himself in the moment, hands move from his cheeks to slide his fingers into the short blond hair. 

“Harry,” spills out of Draco’s lips and the world doesn’t end. It’s like a blessing, like permission. Harry releases a long breath almost akin to a gasp, overwhelmed by choices of what to do with it, but he doesn’t need to make one. Draco secures the grip on Harry’s shirt and yanks him forwards, bowing his head to meet him halfway. 

It’s messy. Harry feels a bloom of pain as their lips meet at last, finally giving him a taste of what he’d been aching for for months. He can feel a cold trickle against his own cheek that he’s sure is still from the cut on the other man’s face, liquid red that he’s sure has already spread into his hair from his palm anyway. The kiss is far from coordinated, as well, wet and rushed from the very start, too sparked by adrenaline to spare time right now for sweetness. It’s incredibly messy. And it’s perfect. 

Draco’s lips are softer than he could’ve ever anticipated and he takes them in his stride, covering them with his own and licking beyond them. Draco accepts him and everything that he offers, kissing him back just as eagerly, licking his tongue in turn. Harry feels hot and insatiable and undeniably selfish because he never wants to let this moment go, never wants to let Draco go. 

But alas, unfortunately, they must breathe. Harry peppers him with small kisses as they separate, amazed at each and every time he feels the pressure of his lips on him. He can’t imagine ever having lived without knowing this.

“You’re okay,” he says again, breathless. “It’s all okay.” 

Draco nods again, pulling Harry into him once more. His heart races as he kisses him again. It’s tender now, with less of a hurry but equally as much passion, and it makes Harry feel dizzy. His heart races with an adoration that spills into the way that he puts himself into the kiss now, an indelible surge of what could only be love spurring within him. 

There’s a number of footsteps from down the corridor that ruins their moment, and light floods over them as they wrench themselves apart from each other. Harry withdraws his wand on instinct, gently pushing Draco behind him as he whips around to see who approaches them. 

Still catching his breath, Harry watches the group of people running towards them, just a tiny bit late to help out. 

“Harry!” Hermione calls, Ron and Pansy at her side. Beside the three of them is three more; McGonagall, Kingsley, and fucking Facer, of all people. They descend upon them at once, scanning the situation with wide eyes. 

“Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall breathes once they’re close enough. “Are you both quite alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry says.

Draco tells her, “I don’t know.” 

Harry turns to look at him again, hand shooting subconsciously to Draco’s wrist, taking it softly. He wants to kiss him again. He doesn’t. 

“Merlin,” he hears Facer say in the thick silence behind him. “Now I know why he wanted my job so desperately.”

Harry doesn’t deign that with an answer.

Chapter Text

Kingsley himself, Facer, and several other rugged looking Aurors escort Elborn, Smith and Aster Brown to the Headmistress’ Office whilst McGonagall remains behind, fussing over Harry and Draco all the way to the Hospital Wing. 

Hermione, Pansy and Ron join them, though the former two are distinctly more compos mentis than the latter; Ron’s head is still spinning, it seems, as he mumbles on and on about why Draco and Harry had been so close to one another, because surely not…

“It’s Draco that’s hurt,” Harry tells Madam Pomfrey, as she begins to check them both over. “I’m fine.”

“Nonsense,” McGonagall shushes him. “You’re limping, Mr. Potter, and bleeding.”

Harry opens his mouth to tell her that it’s not actually his blood, but doesn’t seem to think that it’ll help the situation. 

Pomfrey fixes up Harry’s leg and Draco’s cuts in seconds, and the antidote to Draco’s Veritaserum dose works at once, but she still wants to hold them in the infirmary until the morning. They gently refuse and Pomfrey only accepts this once Harry displays how efficiently he’s able to jump up and down on his once-injured leg. She and McGonagall rush into a conversation after reluctantly agreeing to let them leave, providing that the three of their friends walk them back to their room. 

The moment they’re outside of the Hospital Wing, Hermione jumps on him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and burying her face in his shoulder. In his peripheral vision, he sees Pansy doing the same to Draco, whispering in his ear. 

“We were so worried, Harry,” Hermione hums against his collar. “Pansy came and found us, but we assumed that you’d taken the right towards the Common Room. We got all the way back when we saw that you weren’t there, and—”

“It’s okay,” Harry says, resting a hand on the small of her back. “We’re okay.” 

She steps away and wipes her eyes, leaving room for Ron to take her place, pulling him into a strong hug. “Bloody scum. The Hell did he think he was doing, cursing you?”

Harry shrugs, patting him on the back before pulling away. He doesn’t have a chance to speak, as even without the Veritaserum, Draco answers the question for him. Arms still circling Pansy, he says, “Harry was the only thing standing in the way of him getting to me. He was too stubborn to stand down.” 

Harry raises an eyebrow, trying not to show his ongoing delight at the sound of Draco speaking his given name. He asks, “Me or Aster?”

“Both of you,” he answers easily. 

He doesn’t attempt to argue even though part of him wants to. He wants to stress how there wasn’t a chance in Hell that he would’ve stood down, an even slimmer chance that he would’ve let Aster perform the cruciatus curse on him — the fact that he’d made him bleed already was bad enough. 

They proceed back to the Eighth Year Common Room, glad to hear that the party hadn’t been halted on their account. It means that it’s empty when they arrive back, everyone still holed up and dancing and drinking in the Room of Requirement instead of asking them a myriad of questions. That, Harry is sure, is going to come back and haunt them at some point — or Seamus, at the very least, as McGonagall is going to be very curious indeed as to why they, along with who knows how many sixth and seventh years had been out of bed. 

“I’m terribly tired, to be honest,” Draco says when Pansy offers that they all stay up in the Common Room for another hour or so. “I might just head to bed.”

And it could be Harry’s imagination, the way that Draco captures his gaze and holds it for a moment too long, half-lidded and not at all tired. But it’s probably nothing to do with his imagination at all. Not if he remembers the way that Draco had yanked him forwards, the way his breathing had hitched so beautifully when he’d first felt Harry’s tongue against his own. 

Harry clears his throat. “Me too, actually.”

Pansy and Hermione exchange a look that he doesn’t really want to think about too much as he takes a few backwards steps towards the stairwell leading to the bedrooms. 

“Oh!” Ron says. “Mate, hold on. Got something for you.”

Harry turns to Draco, and says, “Go on up, I’ll be there in a few.”

Draco nods with a smile, giving Pansy a small wave before heading up the stairs. Harry turns back to Ron as the girls engage themselves in a conversation, giving the two of them an air of privacy.

“Here,” Ron says, withdrawing a wand from his pocket. Harry’s wand. “Found it on the floor after Parkinson came to get us… That’s when we figured that we really needed to find you.”

Harry takes it gratefully, grinning. “Thanks. Dunno what I would’ve done if we woke up tomorrow and it had been trampled by some drunkard.” He nudges him with his shoulder. “And thanks for coming to get us.”

“Any time,” Ron says earnestly. His wide smile settles into something softer, then. “So… Malfoy.”

Harry snorts. “Draco.”

“Draco. Still weird,” he says, chuckling. “Draco… And you?”

Releasing a long breath, Harry nods, rubbing at his arm. “Yeah. Guess so.”

“That’s… Cool.”

“Think so?” he laughs. 

“Yeah,” Ron says, his gaze thoughtful. “If you’re happy… Yeah. I do.”

A smile stretches across his face as relief runs through his body, heart pounding with fondness and gratitude. He takes a moment to bask in how lucky he is to have the friends that he has. 

“Thanks, Ron.”

Ron shrugs. “Of course. But Harry, no matter how much I support you guys… I don’t want to know anything about what you’re going to be doing after you follow him up those stairs.”

Harry simply winks at him, slaps him on the shoulder, and tells him, “At least it’s not your sister.”

He doesn’t necessarily sprint upstairs. If you asked any of the others, they may tell you this lie, but he doesn’t sprint. A simply walks quickly — a light jog, at the very most. Nothing that’s not entirely appropriate for the situation. 

When he reaches their bedroom (in record time, at that), he has to pause before opening the door, taking in a long, deep breath to steady himself and try and get a hold on his heart rate. He runs his fingers through his hair, rubs his eyes, and tries not to get too excited. Then he realises that there’s simply no way that he can refrain from getting too excited — not when Draco Malfoy is waiting for him on the other side of this door.

He pushes it open. 

“Hello,” Harry hears as he steps in, closing it again behind him. Draco is sitting upright in Harry’s bed, his shoes laying on the carpet by the side. 

“Hi,” Harry says back, kicking off his own shoes, not caring where they end up. He wanders to the opposite side of the bed to where Draco is sitting, watching him closely, hanging off of one of the four posts at the bed. He presses his cheek to the wood. “You okay?”

Draco nods, rising to his knees, crawling towards him. “Thanks to you.”

He looks down, shaking his head. He says, “I should’ve done more. You still got hurt.” 

Crawling closer, Draco says, “It could’ve been a lot worse for me. You stopped that.”

Harry fails to find the point in arguing further, so he doesn’t. But he stays in place as well as silent, and so Draco reduces their proximity even more. With Draco kneeling like this on the bed, Harry has the unique experience of feeling taller than the man, grey eyes peering up at him through light eyelashes. 

“You really will make an amazing Auror,” Draco tells him quietly, after a moment of warm quiet has settled between them.

Harry bites his lip, and tells him something he’s been thinking for a while now. Something that he still hasn’t had the courage to tell Ron, or McGonagall, who still expect him to carry this on. “I don’t know that I want to be an Auror, really.”

Draco blinks at him, momentarily surprised. Then understanding blankets his features, and he nods as he jokes, “You’ll have enough on your hands watching over me in the future, is that it?”

Harry chuckles. “Something like that.”

The admission seems somehow bigger than it should to Harry, but Draco’s reaction calms him in a way that shouldn’t be so impactful. Everyone has been telling him what to do his whole life, and Harry doesn’t know if he wants to follow that anymore. He’s sure that out of anyone in the world, Draco knows how he feels.

“You know,” Harry says, quieter now. “They all have very specific ideas as to what we’re doing up here right now.”

“As do the folk at the party,” Draco hums. “They’re most likely coming up with a hundred assumptions as to where we snuck off to.”

Harry takes a deep, shaking breath. “They keep doing that, don’t they? Making assumptions.”

“They seem to enjoy it,” he says. “I’d say they enjoy it a lot.” 

“I can’t say that I blame them.” Harry shrugs. He watches as Draco lifts his arms, watches as he presses his pale hands to the purple fabric over his chest. It’s still creased from where he had balled it in his fists, just over an hour ago now. 

Harry, in turn, lifts his own hand, bringing it down to the slash in the red fabric, still tainted with his blood but the wound underneath healed to the point of non-existence. His hand shifts to the top button on Draco’s shirt, the tip of his finger circling it. 

“Can I take this off?” he whispers. “Please?”

Draco’s head tilts ever so slightly, his lips parting for shallow breath. “Only if I can remove yours.”

Harry nods at once, tongue darting out to wet his lips. In unison, they begin to loop the buttons through the holes in the other’s shirts, not breaking eye contact in the process. As he feels the cool night air begin to prickle at his slowly undressed chest, he watches the slow descent of the red shirt that Draco may need to throw out tomorrow, exposing his shoulders and then collarbone, down to his nipples and more. With each inch it lowers, Harry’s eyes flutter to the extra length of scar put on display, guilt seeping into his steadfastly growing arousal. 

Once all of the buttons on Draco’s shirt are undone, he shrugs it off of his shoulders, and Harry’s breath is forced out of him as he takes in the sight wholly — allowed to take his time doing so for the first time. He wonders if Draco knows how truly beautiful he is or if he hates these scars left on him, if he has held a particular resentment of Harry (aside from all of their other quarrels) for leaving them on his otherwise perfect body. 

Though there is then the matter of the other stand-out scar — and that is what it is — on Draco’s arm, dark and ugly. If it were on anyone else, Harry would flinch back in horror. As it is, with Draco, he can’t seem to find anything about the man revolting anymore. Depressing, yes, but only because of the reminder of all it’s taken from their world, from Draco’s world. No longer does he blame him for it.

Draco seems nonplussed at Harry’s internal anxiety as he pushes Harry’s shirt open and over his shoulders, eyes flitting over Harry’s chest and arms. His breathing quickens as he stares at him, observing every twitch of his pecs and biceps. The man’s utter awe actually summons a surprised laugh from Harry, and he pushes aside his guilt, desperate not to dampen this moment.

“You see me like this everyday,” Harry says.

“This is different,” Draco tells him in a small voice. “This time, you’re letting me look.”

Harry would’ve always allowed him to look, would’ve appreciated it and revelled in the attention, but he doesn’t say this. He understands the sentiment all too well. And so he nods with only the slightest movement, tracing a finger down Draco’s chest, hesitating for just a moment before running it over his nipple. 

Draco shudders out a gasp, hands reaching out as if on instinct to grab hold of Harry’s biceps. As he tries not to inwardly gloat to himself that not even Draco’s large hands and long fingers can fully stretch around the width of his arms, Harry feels his head cloud with nothing but pure want; he needs to hear that noise again, needs to watch his face flutter like that again. 

With a deliberately slow pace, Harry adjusts his hand and rubs over his nipple with his thumb. It elicits the exact reaction from the man, an expelling of breath and quick closing of his eyes, the grip on his arms tightening. It’s enough to encourage him to do it again, running his thumb over the nipple again, watching in almost slow motion as it hardens beneath his touch.

At once, he’s moving towards the other nipple, doing the same. His glasses slide down his nose as he closely watches his every reaction, and he asks, “Do you like this?”

Draco nods before he speaks, a whimper tumbling from his mouth as he answers, “Yes.”

Harry elects to slip this into the file in his mind reserved for most important facts ever. Of the dozens of times that he’d fantasised about Draco’s nipples, of getting his hands or his mouth on them, he’d never once imagined that it may become a reality. And not only that; it would become a reality that Draco thoroughly enjoyed as much as him. 

So distracted by his own mind, Harry had not noticed Draco’s own movements, and in fact, does not notice until he feels his hands slide down his chest and stomach. Harry peers down at him with intrigue, Draco’s fingers running over the waistband of Harry’s trousers.

With Draco still on his knees, Harry’s mind turns wicked at the sensation of him playing with the black fabric, skimming back and forth before settling over the trousers’ button and zip. He can’t help the low breath that slips from his lips, filled with pure want, and he places his free hand on the back of Draco’s head, fingers threading through his hair — the same way he had done when he had kissed him, earlier. And suddenly, that’s all he needs again. 

“Can I?” Draco asks, already undoing the button at his navel, and Harry can’t speak. In lieu of speech, he simply nods as he bends down, capturing the man’s lips in another deep kiss. 

The kiss is received and reciprocated at once as Draco practically chases his mouth, his lips moving in unison over Harry’s. He correctly takes Harry’s actions as his consent, scrambling to rip open the button and unzip the trousers, slipping a devilish hand inside that thoroughly distracts him. 

Harry’s jaw drops and he can’t keep up with Draco’s kiss, only getting more fervent by the minute. Nonetheless, Draco continues to ravage his lips, his hand remaining over his underwear but palming his erection, touching Harry for the first time. It’s almost too much for him, knees weakening beneath him as he succumbs to his touch. 

“I need you,” Draco breathes against him. “Everyone’s been talking about how often I must be sucking you off, you have no idea how insane it’s been making me.” 

“Please,” Harry says, ready to drop his dignity to beg. He pushes gently on his head, attempting to bring him impossibly closer. Draco’s nose nudges against his glasses, shifting them out of place. “You can’t — You can’t say things like that to me, Draco.”

“I certainly can if I intend on following through with it,” Draco tells him. “Let me put you in my mouth, Harry.”

Harry nods, but isn’t quite ready to quit kissing him yet. He holds him against his lips, licking into his mouth, unable to keep himself from thrusting against Draco’s hand. He keeps it there, rubbing the tent in his underwear and making Harry see fucking stars. 

Eventually, he pulls himself away from the kiss purely because he knows that the promise of what lies beyond is somehow even greater. Draco’s enthusiasm knocks him for six — he follows Harry’s mouth, desperate to continue on with the kiss, until he realises the depth of Harry’s permission. Lips already red and swollen from their interlocked mouths, he can’t seem to help but bite them in anticipation, fumbling hands rushing to pull Harry out of his underwear once and for all.

He gasps as he feels himself exposed to the cool air of the room, his body a vastly higher temperature in comparison. He doesn’t have it in himself to be embarrassed about how hard he is already; Draco should know what he does to him by now. Even as he watches Draco’s eyes widen as he places them upon it, even as he simply stares for long moments and does or says nothing else, Harry can’t help but not feel a morsel of shame. The man before him is more akin to a security blanket than not. 

Harry assists the process, regrettably having to move his hands away from the man to push down his trousers and underwear to his knees. He frankly doesn’t care about how ridiculous he must look if Draco doesn’t, and ... No, these are not the actions of a man who does seem to care about the state of his crumpled clothes, because he’s shuffling himself somehow even closer, still on his knees, focused on Harry’s erection and nothing else in the world. 

He wraps his fingers around it to begin, the skin-on-skin contact forcing Harry’s hand back onto Draco’s head to steady himself. Though Harry himself feels like he may collapse at any moment from the brief touch, Draco looks entirely entranced, pupils blown so wide that his eyes are more black than grey. He uses just one hand now, wrist slowly turning, sliding an impressively right grip up and down, up and down, dizzying Harry’s head. 

It’s when he can’t seem to hold himself back anymore that he does it, not even stilling the motion of his hand as he leans forward, wrapping his pink lips around his tip. Harry’s jaw drops, his grip tightens in the head of gradually messier blond hair at his hips. Watching him is almost as good as feeling him as he begins softly sucking, still moving his hand, jerking Harry off into his mouth. 

He doesn’t even close his eyes as he does this, Harry notices. He’s watching every moment in the same close manner as Harry is, not wanting to miss a thing. It’s when Draco redirects those open eyes, peering up at him through those blond lashes once again, that Harry really realises that he’s in trouble. 

Draco pushes himself further along, his lips encompassing more of him inch by inch, until he reaches where his fist is still holding him. His lips feel like a slow entrenchment of golden honey, a warm, comforting surrounding. The suction is like a mind-warping spell, ridding Harry of all sense and logic, forcing his head back and his mouth open, forcing him to emit noise after noise of pleasure, of heat. He’s never felt anything like it.

It’s when Draco begins to move himself that Harry loses his step. He slides his head and his mouth up and down his cock in the same manner as he had with his hand, somehow achieving the same rate of suction no matter what his position. Harry can’t stop to think about the logistics or how he shouldn’t be this good at this, Ginny, bless her, was never as good as this, nobody should be as good as this. His right leg shakes enough that it gives out beneath him and he stumbles, knee hitting the bed. 

Draco slips off, staring up at him again. With an intoxicatingly croaky voice, he asks, “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Harry breathes. His hand finds his erection, partially cold from the absence of Draco’s mouth. He begins to stroke himself, just looking into Draco’s eyes. “You’re too good at this.”

Draco allows himself to gaze between his face and his cock. He grins, one eyebrow raised. “Thank you. Beginner’s luck.”

Harry’s mouth is dry. “I can’t believe that you haven’t done this before.”

“I haven’t,” he says, shrugging, lifting a hand to Harry’s wrist, stilling his movements. He hums, “I’ve just been thinking about doing this for a long, long time,” and then he’s taking Harry in his fucking mouth again.

And God, he must mean it. The long time must be days, weeks, months, years worth of fantasy, down to the last detail — Harry ends up sweating, knees buckled, toes curled, thrusting into his mouth because Draco is just letting him do that! It’s Harry’s own personal Heaven, and he’s never been more happy that he didn’t actually die out in the Forbidden Forest; nothing on the other end of that train from King’s Cross could live up to the euphoria of Draco’s mouth and throat. He’s sure Dumbledore would understand. 

He relishes in the act until it’s too much and he begins to feel too selfish. His skin itches with the hint of orgasm but he feels an overwhelming desire to put it off. He doesn’t want this night to end like this. As much as it’s the best fucking thing that he’s ever felt in his entire life, Harry knows that there’s more — and he needs it. He needs to touch Draco everywhere that he’ll allow him to touch, he needs to lay with him, needs to kiss him a great deal more still, and he doesn’t want to risk a wave of post-orgasm lethargy. He will be making the most of this night. A celebration. 

He gently slips his hand from the back of Draco’s head to his jaw, catching his breath and managing to somehow steady his brain for long enough to do so. Draco follows his lead and allows Harry to move him until he’s sitting there, puzzled.

“I didn’t want to cum already,” Harry explains quietly, running his thumb over the man’s bottom lip. “And you were making me really fucking close.”

Draco nods, takes a deep breath, and says, “That was my aim.”

Harry smiles, kicks off his trousers and underwear that had fallen from his knees to ankles by now anyway. With that, he joins Draco in a kneel on the bed, capturing him in another deep kiss. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it registers that he should probably be somewhat put off from the kiss due to where Draco had just had his mouth, but he can’t seem to care — any chance to kiss Draco’s lips. 

He licks into his mouth and pulls him close, running his fingers up and down his naked back. He lingers back and forth on whether to delve further — to where his hands itch to go, desperate to feel. At last, he figures… Fuck it. 

Draco’s hands are on his face, kissing him desperately, taller than him once again as Harry sits back on his feet. Harry commits to his whim, sliding his hands down to his lower back, pausing for just a second, before granting himself two outstanding handfuls of Draco Malfoy’s arse. He hums his appreciation against the man’s mouth, unwittingly tightening his grip, hoping more than anything that he’ll allow it. 

His hope diminishes for just a second as Draco removes himself from the kiss, eliciting a strong whimper of protest from the man beneath him. Draco looks at him, gaze flirting between Harry’s eyes, looking for something, but Harry’s not sure. Either way, he seems to find it, as he scrambles back into a space on the bed, undoing his trousers and pushing them down with an excited haste that Harry could most certainly get used to. He strips himself down to his underwear, stretched and tented as Harry's had been, the sight summoning about a gallon of saliva to his mouth.  

He practically jumps into Harry’s lap, pushing him backwards so that his head hits the pillow. He doesn’t fight it, and doesn’t particularly need to or want to, either. He allows Draco to crawl over him, shadowing his body with his own, one hand spreading over him and feeling every inch of Harry’s torso, shoulders, arms. Harry, in turn, helps himself to grasping at Draco’s behind once again, making use of a much better angle, this time. 

Draco arches back into his hands like he loves it, whimpering into Harry’s open mouth between deep licks and wide kisses. Harry takes his time to squeeze and roll the flesh beneath his fingers before pulling the man down against him, pushing his own hips upwards for that brief, sweet release of contact and pressure against him. Eventually, too taken with the almost of the sensations, he hooks his fingertips beneath the waistband of his underwear, pulls just out of the kiss and says to him, “Please.”

Draco reaches down, abandoning the exploration of Harry’s muscles to instead focus upon grasping at his cock again. He takes Harry’s mouth with his own again, gives him one strong, firm kiss, and says against his lips, “Yes.”

Harry practically rips his underwear, for how quickly he shoves them down, over his arse and to his mid-thigh, the furthest he can reach. The mere concept of laying here, entirely naked with Draco Malfoy is enough to spur him into further movement. He throws his leg over him, fingers digging into the flesh on his arse, and he flips them over. 

Somehow, Draco manages to hold onto his erection as his back slams against the mattress. He doesn’t let it slip out of his grasp, only continues to twist it in his fist, his shoulder rolling awkwardly due to the weird angle. Harry leans between his legs, face hovering over Draco’s. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Harry whispers, unable to look at him a moment longer without voicing this thought. 

Draco’s arm stills. Harry sees his own reflection in his wide grey eyes and both his mind and heart begin to race, doubt seeping into him — should he have said that? Was it too much? But Draco eases every nerve in his body, the opposite of everything he always used to do, always setting him on edge instead. He places both hands on Harry’s face.

“You’re everything,” Draco tells him, and cranes his neck to kiss him again. There is no specific burning heat in this lip-lock, only an intense understanding passing between the two of them. Harry kisses him back with a new tenderness for the evening, slowly becoming overwhelmed with fondness. He really doesn’t know if he can picture a life without the man beneath him.

The two of them enjoy the kiss for an indistinct length of time, unconsciously thrusting their hips against the other for the occasional thrum of release. All Harry can think is how much he can’t believe that this is happening. Through all the small hints and caught stares, he would never have thought himself fortunate enough to be swept away in a moment as sweet and tender as this with the man who had been a key player in his life for so many years — and almost entirely at the centre of it for these past months. For some reason, Harry can place a suspension of disbelief around surviving the most evil wizard of all time year after year in his adolescence and surviving the killing curse several times over, but this…? He never would have bet that he would be lucky enough to be kissed with such care, to be held with such affection. 

Static comes over him. He breaks the kiss, taking as much time as he wants to gaze at the man, levelling their feelings for each other in one look. It’s only when Draco rolls his hips back into his one more very pointed time that Harry is reminded of all that they have ahead of them. He leans forward to kiss him once more before pressing his lips to his cheek, and then his jawline, and then his neck. 

Draco allows him his indulgence, tilting his head back to grant him more access. Harry’s lips linger and drag against his skin, panting hot and heavy breath there, attempting to hold himself back. He thinks back to his numerous fantasies, his possessive nature taking hold of him. Either Draco will let him do this, or he won’t. 

He presses another hot, open-mouthed kiss to his throat before closing his eyes and sucking the skin. Draco lets him. He shudders at the sensation, in fact, bending one knee and pushing his body up into Harry’s. When Harry pulls back to gaze at his handiwork, he practically loses his breath. The sight is mouthwatering, and Harry’s green little heart almost can’t take it. He knows that he no longer needs to mark the man for people to know that he’s his — their names are practically synonymous around Hogwarts these days. But still, it calls to him, calms him down, gets his blood pumping somewhat quicker. 

Plus, it’s fucking hot. 

“You suit these,” Harry hums. He leans forward and sucks another mark to his neck, lower this time, enough to be hidden by a collar. It’s the truth. He could sit there with his mouth plastered to his skin for hours, painting him with purple and red. Harry tries not to think about Aster and his own obsession with Draco’s throat — but it feels like he’s taking it back from him.

“That’s good,” Draco says, and Harry feels him spread his legs. “Harry…” 

Harry mumbles a moan and slides a hand down his chest, his stomach, over his hip and over his erection. He rubs over it gently, heading down with a line of kisses to plaster his lips over his nipple. He licks at it gently, breathing hot air against the budding hardness, his fingers swirling over his tip. 

“Harry,” he breathes once again, head tilting down to watch him. “Please.”

“What do you want?” Harry asks softly, trailing from one nipple to the other, paying this one an equal amount of attention. 

Draco lifts his hips again, his heel digging into Harry’s back. “I want you.”

Harry tightens his grip on his cock for just a moment, circling his nipple with his tongue. He whispers to him, “You have me.”

Beneath him, Draco’s legs separate further. He slides a finger down to Harry’s chin and tilts his head up, driving him to make eye contact. He watches him shake his head minutely, wet his lips, and tell him once again, his tone more pointed now, “I want you.”

Harry stares at him. He gulps. “Oh.” 

He watches heat rise to Draco’s face and realises for the first time that when he blushes, it stretches all the way down to his chest. He thinks back to every time he’s admired that high blush and reflects upon the fact that it had reached this low, to the very nipples that Harry has had his lips on. 

He refocuses his mind to the topic at hand. Draco’s request swims around his head like a psalm and he knows that there’s no other response coming to him except yes yes yes yes yes yes yes—

“Yes,” he says, before Draco can mistake his silence for anything other than yes yes yes yes yes yes yes. “Yes. If you want me — If you’ll let me —”

“Yes.” Draco nods fervently. “Please. If you want to—”

“I really do,” he tells him. 

The hand over Draco’s erection gains a mind of his own, because Harry swears that he has no recollection of deciding to slip it down lower. He pushes through the hesitation and taps into his Gryffindor courage once again, slipping his fingers down into the crease of Draco’s arse. 

“Is this okay?” he asks, because Draco appears to be holding his breath. He watches the man nod, biting down on his lip. Harry trusts him, and whispers the all too familiar spell (the one that all teenaged boys learn to do wandlessly, soon enough) that gets three of his fingers slick. 

Without another word, Harry slips up from his chest to envelope him in another kiss. Draco accepts it gratefully, arms circling his neck and hanging over his shoulders as Harry presses the pad of his middle finger against the hole found at the centre of the crease. 

“Mm,” Draco hums against his lips, twitching against him.

Once again, Harry checks in, “Alright?”

“Yeah.” He nods, rocking his body towards his finger. “Do it.”

Harry does as he’s directed, pushing through the tightness and slipping his finger in all the way. Draco’s gasp is dramatic enough to break their kiss, his body arching in response to the intrusion. Harry resists the urge to slide it in or out just yet, watching him adjust to the feeling with a sparking arousal. 

“Another,” Draco whispers. “Please.”

“Fuck,” Harry says, nodding. “Yeah, okay.” 

He withdraws the first finger to sidle in the second along with it, gently pushing through the tight ring. Draco releases a long, breathy moan, arching his back once again, mouth tumbling open. Harry can once again just watch the response, his erection throbbing with want and envy for his fingers. He’s so tight, an irresistible heat drawing him in, so dizzying that it’s almost impossible to imagine what it would — what it will be like to bury inside him wholly. 

When Draco nods once again, Harry slips his fingers out to the nail before pushing them back inside, all the way to the knuckle. The response is nothing but another twitch and moan, his legs falling somehow further apart. Harry can’t help but admire the lack of shame here for a man so easily embarrassed — he feels himself fill with warmth at the idea that he’s so trusted. 

After Draco shows no sign of dislike, Harry repeats the action. And again. And again. When Draco whimpers “ There!” Harry focuses on the exact angle and location and doesn’t look back. He continues to push the two fingers in and out, over and over until Draco is writhing beneath him, legs kicking out and toes curling. He watches with heavy breath as Draco’s hands twist in the bedsheets, losing himself in the pleasure. 

“Good?” Harry asks, reminding himself to blink. “You like it?”

“ Good,” Draco confirms, breathless. “Salazar, Potter — Harry, please —”

“I’m going to — The last one, Draco, just to make sure—” 

Draco nods desperately, and Harry slides in a third finger along with the first two. The man winces at this, has to take a moment where they’re both still as he catches his breath, but is soon enough bucking his hips against him once more. 

“Fuck me,” Draco gasps. “Please, Harry, I’ve been waiting — I’ve been waiting so long, please. ”

“Yeah,” Harry says, feeling nonsensical now. He gently withdraws his fingers and wipes them on the sheets, kneeling up and sitting back on his feet. 

He can’t help but stare down at the view before him. Draco is splayed out like a portrait, chest heaving, cock thick, pink and dripping against the sparse white hair on his pubis. He’s a fucking picture, one that Harry wants to keep forever, and he takes another long moment to appreciate how lucky he is. He wants to savour this moment. But he also wants to get right to it. 

Draco, apparently, shares this sentiment.

“Get the fuck on with it,” he watches Draco growl, and can’t help but laugh as he kicks at his thigh. 

“Okay,” Harry chuckles. “What happened to ‘please’ ?” 

“You made me wait longer,” he huffs. “Get the fuck in me.”

Harry doesn’t need to be told again. He takes hold of Draco’s thighs, yanking him towards him until his legs are over Harry’s hips, his lower back against Harry’s knees. Startled by the sudden movement, Draco loses his voice, eyes widening and face flushing an even brighter red. 

Harry rubs Draco’s thighs before sliding his hands downward, spreading his cheeks apart with his thumbs. 

“That’s mortifying,” Draco says in a quiet voice.

“It’s gorgeous,” Harry counters. He takes his erection in his grasp, giving himself a few pumps as he continues to stare at his hole. 

Draco throws an arm over his forehead, half-covering his eyes, but Harry can see that he’s still looking down, watching. His hips seem to twitch upwards unconsciously as he observes Harry touching himself, another shining bead forming at the slit on the head of his cock. 

Harry whispers the spell again that brings a gleam over both his erection and Draco’s entrance before his eyes, and he can’t seem to wait a moment longer. He positions himself within the curved crease, pressing himself against the entrance there, expelling a long, heavy breath. 

“Want me to go in?” he asks quietly, needlessly. He just wants to hear him say it. 

“Merlin above, yes ,” Draco stresses. “Please.”

“Why is it so fucking good, hearing you say please?”

Draco gives him a biting smile. “Maybe you just like to hear me beg.”

Harry licks his lips, staring down at him. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Maybe I do.” 

And with that, he pushes himself inside. 

Harry has never taken drugs, but from descriptions, he’s pretty sure it would feel something akin to this. It’s an instant sense of euphoria, addictive to the highest degree. Somehow, though only just beginning to bury himself within the heat, Harry is already imagining every single time that he will be able to do this again in the future. 

His head is spinning. The closest thing that Harry can compare this to is being on liquid luck, and with the context of the situation, he’s still unsure that nobody spiked his drink with some. With just the head of his erection enveloped by the tightness, an unfathomable excitement rushes over him as he fights to sink himself in entirely. 

He must restrain himself because Draco is clearly wincing, needing a moment to adjust to the extra stretch. He’s taking it in his stride though, Harry must admit; he’s twisting the sheets in his fists again, his breathing slow and heavy as he acclimatises to the sensation. 

“You okay?” he asks, trying not to choke on his words.

Draco releases his lip from his teeth. “I’m okay. One— One second.”

Harry nods. “Let me know when I can move,” he says, making his best attempt at not sounding as desperate as he feels. 

Eventually, Draco gives him the go-ahead and Harry finds himself able to breathe again. He places his hands on Draco’s hips to pull him in as he thrusts forward, his jaw dropped and eyes stuck on the process of sliding himself further inside. He sheathes himself in and pauses again at halfway, using all of his willpower to fight the temptation to move further. He wipes a sheet of sweat off of his forehead. 

“Fuck,” Harry breathes. “God. You’re so good… I mean, you’re good? I mean… Are you okay?”

“Mm-hm,” Draco hums. “Yeah. I’m good. Keep going.”

It crosses his mind to ask him to say please again, but finds that he doesn’t have the patience — not when he’s already been given permission to proceed. Within moments, he’s bottomed out inside him, hips flush against Draco’s arse. He’s stationary for now, getting used to the sensation, head buzzing with pleasure as he allows Draco to get used to it as well. The two of them take deep breaths in unison, Draco’s head flung back, Harry’s lips ajar. 

“Oh,” Draco gasps. “I’m so — I feel so…”

“Fuck,” Harry hisses, trying to focus from his dizziness. “What do you feel?”

Draco takes a moment, rolling his hips. He tells him, “I feel full. ”

Harry’s jaw drops. His grip on Draco’s hips tightens for just a moment before he slides one hand to Draco’s erection, circling it with his shaking fingers. Hoping that it contributes to further comfort, Harry begins to slowly jerk him in his fist once again. 

“ Ngh—” Draco mumbles. “Harry, fuck , if you keep doing that—”

Harry gulps. “You want me to stop?”

“I don’t want to finish yet,” Draco tells him. “I want you to actually fuck me. And you’re — If you keep —”

Harry nods, doing as he’s asked and removing his hand (regretfully, as he really quite enjoys holding Draco’s cock). “Is that better?” he asks. “Because I can’t — God, Draco, I want to move. Can I move, please?”

“ Yes,” Draco pants. “Move, please , or I swear I will curse you.” 

Harry slides himself out of him without a second thought until only the tip remains inside before pushing back in, rocking his hips forward. A gasp is forced from Draco’s chest as he moves, and then another, and another as Harry slowly begins to push in and out, kickstarting a steady rhythm. 

“Faster,” Draco implores after a few minutes of an agonisingly slow pace — one that Harry had only adopted for Draco’s sake. Harry looks up to him with wide eyes, puzzled. He repeats himself at once, “Faster, Harry.”

“Yeah?” Harry says, unable to hold back his smile. He firms his grip on Draco’s hips and pulls out before thrusting back in with fervour. He wastes no time attempting a new rhythm, rocking back and forth in various accelerated speeds until he sees the look on the man’s face beneath him. 

And God, the pace is now perfect not just for himself, seemingly, but for Draco as well. Draco’s jaw drops, his pink lips creating a perfect O-shape as moan after pretty moan spills out with each thrust, back arching and eyes unable to decide between remaining open, intent on watching Harry move, or fluttering closed to take in and process the entire experience. 

It’s almost exactly how they had described it to each other. Exactly as Harry had promised. “ Getting on top of you and watching your face, ” he had proposed on that cold Christmas night. “ Have you on your back, ” Harry had said. “ Push into you so good, you wouldn’t even be able to speak.” Harry remembers all too well the impact that his speech had had that night. Perhaps it hadn’t just been from the conjured image. Perhaps it had been the speech itself.

“You feel insane,” Harry tells him through spare breaths. “You feel amazing. So fucking tight.”

Draco narrowly avoids kneeing him in the ribs as a direct result of Harry’s words, another whimper ripped from his open mouth. “I don’t — I can’t —”

“Do you like it?” Harry asks, persisting, the only other sound in the room being the consistent lewd slaps of their bodies joining together. He continues, “God, I fucking love this. I’ve been thinking about this for so long. Do you like this?”

Draco can’t seem to nod, his body bouncing back and forth atop of their sheets, and so he gasps out, “Yes!”

“Good,” Harry breathes. “God, I fucking love you.”

It takes Harry a moment to realise he’d said anything out of the ordinary. The realisation only comes when he registers the lack of Draco’s rugged breathing and continuous moans. When Harry furrows his brows and pauses his thrusting to see what’s wrong, he’s confronted with Draco’s wide eyes, the grey in them distracted from any eroticism. 

Harry reaches up and cups a hand over his cheek. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Draco just blinks, releasing a long breath before speaking after he must have been holding it in. He gasps out, “You love me?” 

Harry stares at him. He opens his mouth to speak. Nothing comes out. He closes it. Opens it again. This process repeats a few times. He’s still buried inside of him. 

Again, Draco asks, “Do you love me?” 

And at last, Harry answers. He doesn’t quite see the point in trying to hide it from him anymore. From anyone. He gulps, and tells him, “Yeah. I think I do.”

He’s prepared for some sort of retort. Perhaps Draco will attempt to ignore the entire thing, or even push Harry off and away from him, telling him that they shouldn’t be doing this if he’s harbouring such feelings. But maybe there is a God out there somewhere, or at least some higher power, because none of that happens. 

What does happen is this: Draco manages to push himself up before Harry even wraps his head around the fact that he’s moving at all, and he’s grabbing Harry’s face like it’s leverage. Harry’s then getting sat on — literally, sat on — as Draco plasters their lips together, fingers digging into his cheeks. Harry only just has the sense to start kissing back when Draco repositions himself for comfort, lifting himself up, almost off of Harry’s cock, before sinking back onto it again. 

He gasps into Draco’s mouth — a carnal, desperate gasp that he would be embarrassed of in any other situation, but which only seems to spur Draco on. He lifts himself up before dropping down once again, and again and again and Harry is whining into the kiss and barely keeping up with it. 

Draco’s almost knocking his glasses off of his face with the force and the rush of it all, and there’s no way in Hell that this constant movement is not causing a great ache in his legs, but he persists anyway. He’s bouncing up and down on Harry’s erection like it’s easy, at basically the same exact pace as Harry had been fucking into him, and it’s amazing. It’s somehow even better than before, and Harry had already deemed that impossible. He had thought Draco Malfoy was finished with showing Harry the impossible. 

Alas.

“I love you too,” Draco says, mumbling it into his mouth though Harry hears it as clear as day. 

He doesn’t know how else to respond other than clinging on tighter, bringing him closer. He wraps his arms around the man, pressing his fingers into his back, bringing their bodies chest-to-chest. Slowly, he adjusts to the pace that Draco had been bouncing on him with and begins to match it, thrusting upwards as he slams down. 

Harry doesn’t give a flying fuck about breathing anymore, either, and so when Draco pulls back for air, he simply lowers his face to his neck again. Instead of filling his lungs, he kisses and bites and licks at Draco’s throat, peppering a constellation of more small love-bites, the maroon showing out beautifully against the pale skin. 

“I love you,” Draco repeats, because he can, now that Harry is leaving his lips free. “Merlin, Potter — Harry, fuck, I love you.”

Harry finds his lips again, takes them in one long kiss before telling him, “I love you. I love you, Draco.” 

He differentiates between his lips and his neck, down to his chest and his nipples, because he can. They rock together, the air between them thick and hot, until that tell-tale static heat begins to burn in his abdomen, sending his breathing wild. 

“I’m going to cum,” Harry rushes out. “I’m going to cum, Draco, if you don’t want me to do it in you, then you need to—”

“Do it,” Draco demands, not slowing his pace in the slightest, reaching down between them to start jerking at his own erection. Voice heavy with breath, he tells him, “Finish inside me.”  

Who is Harry to ignore a request like that? 

His orgasm is explosive, and as he spills out inside of Draco, he swears that he goes legitimately blind for a moment. His eyes squeeze shut as the rush runs through him, a high, long moan spilling from his lips. Draco doesn’t even slow his bounces, though Harry has no choice but to stop his own thrusts, and so Harry is left to fuck him through his orgasm. 

It’s almost getting too much by the time Draco follows his lead, cumming over his own hand and Harry’s torso. The sound that comes as a result of his orgasm is almost enough to get Harry rock hard again (and if it wasn’t so late in the evening, he’s sure he would be). 

They hold each other through their breathless come down until that’s all they are; just a tumble of breath. Harry only really remembers where and who he is when Draco nudges his face and kisses him once more, so sweetly that Harry almost melts. When they separate, their faces simply find the nooks of each other’s shoulders. 

When they eventually pry apart from each other, they collapse down onto the bed side-by-side, exhausted. Harry figures that since he put his body through the least physical duress, it’s only natural that he’s the one who brushes Draco’s hair from sticking to his forehead, and who waves his wand and erases their mess from their bodies. As he places his wand aside again, his heart is still beating a million beats a minute, his breath still not caught up with him. 

He lays down on the bed and Draco rolls to him, tracing the tip of his finger over Harry’s chest. After a few more moments of silence, he whispers, “That was very good.”

Harry can’t help but splutter a laugh. “Very good? That’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Draco rolls his eyes, but grins. “That, as well, I suppose.” 

Harry lifts an arm, turning to face the man next to him. “Sorry for… Admitting that, like that. Not that it’s not true. I do — I do love you. But… Could’ve told you it at a more romantic time.”

Draco narrows his eyes and grabs Harry’s wrist, not telling him what exactly he plans to do with it. Harry allows him to take it anyway, of course, and takes it back when Draco returns it. In a vague explanation for these actions, he says, “It’s past midnight.”

Harry blinks. “So?”

“So,” Draco says, another wave of pink rising to his cheeks. “It’s Valentine’s day.”

Harry's eyes widen with realisation, and he can’t help but laugh yet again. A part of him wants to thank Seamus for hosting the party on his night, or thank Aster and his cronies for choosing tonight of all nights to resolve this and clear the path for them to do this with no worries. He’s just that happy that he could even thank fucking Facer right now, for giving him the opportunity for this to bloom in the first place. 

But Draco reaches his gratitude first. 

“Thank you,” he says softly to Harry. “Again. This year. You’ve saved my life.”

Draco doesn’t need to spell it out for Harry to understand what goes unsaid — you’ve saved my life in more ways than one. And so just Harry pulls him closer, kisses his temple, and says, “And did a better bloody job than Facer ever could’ve, too.”

The man beside simply snorts, and lightly smacks him on the arm. 

Chapter Text

BREAKING! THE SAVIOUR’S WORK — NEVER FINISHED?

Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, has been making headlines all year for his alleged scheme for inter-house unity within Hogwarts, driving him and a certain young Ex-Death Eater to an unlikely friendship… Or more… BUT WAS THAT EVER THE CASE?

Reliable sources tell us here at The Daily Prophet that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy have indeed created a ruse to cover the true intentions of their relationship — but not for the reasons so many of you dedicated readers have been sending in to our discussion boards! 

We have had confirmation that Harry Potter assigned himself as security detail to Draco Malfoy, son of now incarcerated Death Eater Lucius Malfoy, after threats towards Malfoy Jr escalated to physical — from WITHIN the Hogwarts walls! 

Our contacts at the Auror’s Office have confirmed that an attack on Malfoy’s life was attempted and that three arrests of STUDENTS were undertaken early February, their identities still unknown, though only ONE student has been EXPELLED…

Despite these arrests, Potter and Malfoy don’t seem to show any sign of letting go of one another yet. It begs so many questions, dear loyal readers — is there still an active threat present at Hogwarts? Or have our two young celebrities formed a bond that they’re incapable of breaking, even after the threat has been neutralised? 

One thing is for certain… All eyes are on them for the Spring Wedding Season!

*

Harry catches his breath, sweat shining on his forehead, still firmly grasping the hardness between his legs. Draco pants beside him, palm over his chest, empty hands reaching out to wipe the glistening beads soft of his own flushed, blotchy red face. Harry’s hands are less empty — he rolls the ball in his fingers, basking in the familiar, comforting sensation of it against his fingers. 

He pushes himself off of his broom, an open-mouthed smile stretched wide over his face, gold glinting in his fist. He adjusts himself to the feeling of his feet touching the ground again, too practiced to lose his balance like he used to. 

“You cheated,” Draco says with a pout, chest heaving underneath his Quidditch robes. 

“Don’t be a sore loser,” Harry tells him, pushing his glasses up his nose. “We said that the best seeker would win.”

“Obviously, we were wrong,” Draco huffs, his face full of feigned annoyance. But the act doesn’t last, not as Harry walks up to him, so close that their shoes touch. He allows Harry to take his hand, intertwine their fingers. 

Harry looks up at him. He looks at his face, not losing its rouge despite the fact that they’ve been on the ground for a good few minutes now. He looks at his hair, more messy from the high air than he ever lets it get usually. He’s silhouetted against the yellowing bloom of clouds, the dark of the sky whittling away to make room for the rising Spring sun. 

Life has been pretty good since Draco’s life had stopped being threatened. 

They have been pretty good. More than pretty good. Harry would go as far as to say that the two of them couldn’t actually be better. 

Aside from the occasional glares from random students, it’s smooth sailing — especially compared to what they’d been suffering in the colder months. With Spring comes warmth on all accounts, though. With Spring came Harry and Draco and their lingering touches, more and more public by the day, and their long nights, exploring each other and whispering apologies that are long overdue. 

Today, Spring brings their seeker game. Finally. It’s taken months of Harry trying to find an opening where the pitch wasn’t occupied — and it ended up before dawn. 

“So, about my prize…” Harry whispers. 

“The snitch, you mean?” Draco hums, linking the fingers of their other hand, trapping the snitch between them. 

“Mm. Or… You sleeping naked for a month?” Harry asks hopefully, leaning forward, nudging Draco’s nose with his own. 

Draco just laughs. “You’re a pervert.” 

Harry bites his lip and simply answers, “You love me,” because it’s somehow true, and he’s never going to tire of reminding himself. He leans forward then, slotting their lips together in a way they had become so accustomed to over these last months. 

The subsequent static after kissing him has not subsided since the first time they’d shared one. 

Draco’s arms find themselves flung over Harry’s shoulders and he leans back as he pulls him closer, forcing Harry to bend over to keep up with him. He secures his hands over Draco’s waist, holding him close, the snitch falling forgotten to the ground.

Life is good. 

They get kicked off of the pitch for Ravenclaw’s practice not even ten minutes later, so the two of them hijack the Quidditch showers (venturing into separate showers, just in case a wayward Ravenclaw should happen to stumble upon them) before wandering to the Great Hall for breakfast. 

Bizarrely, they approach the Eighth Year table to more stares than normal, and to Seamus cupping his hands around his mouth, loudly singing the Wedding March. 

“Congratulations,” Seamus laughs. “I better be a groomsman, Harry.”

“What’s going on?” Draco asks. 

Hermione sighs, sliding the newest copy of The Daily Prophet in front of them both as they sit themselves down. Ron is cackling at Seamus, but the rest of the table lean in closer to them both with concern.

“Is it true, Draco? Someone tried to kill you?” Dean asks, ignoring his boyfriend’s behaviour. 

“Are you alright? It sounds horrible, what you had to put up with…” Neville adds.

“You’re so brave, Draco!” Hannah Abbott proclaims. 

“I can’t believe it was a student!” Parvati says. “Who was it? Padma and I have been brainstorming, and…”

Draco tries in earnest to respond to the onslaught of questions and comments and concerns, as Harry picks up the paper, eyes scanning the article. 

No names, he notices, and his eyes raise up and over the crowd of their friends to the edge of the table. Zacharias Smith is reading the same article, fingers buried deep in his hair, ignoring Ernie Macmillan across the table from him. He looks up on instinct, meeting Harry’s gaze. He’s frozen in place until Harry gives him a small nod of acknowledgement — and the man visibly relaxes. 

Draco and Harry had not pressed charges against Smith on account of his help when Aster Brown had confronted them. After all, who knows what would have occurred if he hadn’t undone the curses on Harry? He had been punished by both the Ministry and McGonagall, but not expelled. Not sent to Azkaban. Smith had already expressed his gratitude for this a multitude of times. 

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” Smith had told Harry one evening, finding him alone. “I just… Believed him at first. He was very convincing about Malfoy contributing to tarnishing the meaning of being pure-blood, as well as allowing everyone to get hurt… I didn’t think he should be allowed back, but Aster just seemed to keep going.” 

Harry had nodded to him, and told him that he understood, but should apologise to Draco if he really wants to make things right. Mere days ticked by before he did so. 

Court was coming soon for Harry and Draco to testify against Aster Brown. He would’ve felt bad for him, for his family that had already lost so much, but the boy had not held any remorse at all for his actions or his plans. Not even for almost giving McGonagall a hundred heart attacks since Summer. Elborn was to be charged, too. 

Still. Life is good — as back to normal as possible, for the likes of two messed up Wizards in a world out to get them. Which, as it turns out, is pretty fucking good.

Harry turns back to his friends, folding up the copy of the newspaper. “Where’s your concern, Seamus?”

“Assumed he wouldn’t want to talk about it too much.” Seamus shrugs. “Besides, he’s okay. Never any doubt, when you were looking out for him.” 

Harry gives him a grin, at that. At Draco’s side, Pansy is seemingly attempting to capitalise off of the information coming to light. Harry hears her tell the crowd, “And so Harry says to me , get McGonagall if you’ve not heard from us…” as she puts on a deep voice. Harry laughs, wondering if that’s what he really sounds like. 

“Plus, he’s more than fine,” Seamus adds, leaning closer to Harry, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Saw you two snogging on the pitch.”

Harry splutters a laugh. “How?!”

Seamus taps the side of his nose twice with a wink, sitting back down and stealing one of Dean’s bacon rashers. 

“Harry,” Ron says then. “Are you and Draco coming round for Easter? Bill and Fleur can’t make it, and I think Percy’s on the fence, but Charlie’s making the effort.”

At his side, Draco whips around from ongoing questions, putting a hand on Harry’s leg under the table before asking, “Did you say Charlie Weasley?”

Harry feels his face heat up, though not from jealousy. Ever since Harry had held Draco close one night, not long ago, and asked him whether he really had been flirting with Charlie seriously on Boxing Day, Draco had been teasing him endlessly for his delusion. 

Draco had pulled him into a giggling kiss, shaking his head, and told him, “I knew that you got jealous, Harry but really . If I ever gain a fancy for a Weasley, put me down. ”

He catches Harry’s eye and smirks wickedly, squeezing his thigh. Harry takes a deep breath, scratches the side of his head, and tells Ron, “We’re seeing Draco’s mum for Easter, sorry mate. We’ll have to give Charlie a miss.”

“My mind-healer told me that I ought to bridge the gap between the two of them eventually,” Draco says. “Mother’s been dying to have a formal introduction.”

Ron is nodding understandingly, Draco is choking down a laugh, rubbing his thigh, and Hermione is lecturing Seamus about how they need to boycott the gossip about Draco and Harry from the Prophet, not fan the flame. 

Harry looks down at his full plate. Breakfast has never looked so appetising.