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Draco Malfoy has three very simple resolutions for his eighth year at Hogwarts, and he’s determined to stick to them. Statistically, his failures have had a mortifying tendency to outweigh his successes—so he’s setting the bar low this time. 

No more wild goose chases or absurdly convoluted murder plots, no more pitiful bids for power that inevitably slips through his fingers—no, really—no Quidditch, no Prefect duties, no grand ambitions. 

Just three straightforward goals, so uncomplicated that even Draco Malfoy should be able to manage them without ruining his life, again.

One: keep his head down.
Two: graduate with a minimum of seven EEs.
Three: avoid Harry Potter like the Black Death.

It really ought to be easy—with no distractions, he’ll have nothing to do but focus on his studies. And since he won’t be up to any nefarious activities, Potter surely won’t have any reason to notice him any more than usual. No, Draco is determined to finish his schooling on a high—or at the very least, without catastrophe for once in his miserable life.

Unfortunately, he’s neglected to account for one very important thing: in order to be absolutely certain he won’t cross paths with him, Draco’s going to have to memorise Potter’s entire schedule. 

And this is where everything falls apart.

Harry isn’t sure why he’s come back for his last year. Maybe it’s because Hermione and Ron have also decided to return to complete their studies; maybe he just wants one more year of calling Hogwarts home. His first real home. He doesn’t really need his NEWTs; it just feels symbolic, somehow, that he’ll finally get to have one normal year here in the castle, free from the war, free from Voldemort. 

Or maybe he just isn’t quite ready for the next chapter.

He’s never quite enjoyed studying as much as Hermione—though, no one enjoys studying as much as Hermione—but it almost feels like a relief after the events of the previous year. 

He and Ron had decided not to go straight into Auror training, but the offer will still be there once they graduate—he suspects, even if somehow manages to flunk all his exams—so he thinks this year will be rather peaceful.

Tracking Potter’s schedule turns out to be easier than Draco expects. This is partly due to the fact that the eighth-years, regardless of House, have all been lumped together in a single, hastily constructed living space. The other part is that Potter is so predictable, honestly.

Potter’s taking five classes: Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, DADA, and Herbology. Four of those overlap with Draco’s own timetable, which means Potter will be in Herbology when Draco is stuck in Muggle Studies (a forced elective, bah), and Potter will have a free period whenever Draco’s in Astronomy or Alchemy.

Potter takes breakfast at eight on the dot every morning—rather early for him, the lazy bastard—so, naturally, Draco takes breakfast at six-thirty, giving himself plenty of time to be out by at least seven-fifteen. Not that he actually needs the time to eat—he can barely stomach anything in the mornings—but the point is to avoid bumping into Potter, though Potter likely only rolls out of bed at seven-fifty at the earliest. They don’t share a dorm (thank Merlin for that small mercy—Draco rooms with Nott and Longbottom, and Potter with Weasley and Finnigan), so Draco can safely hide in his room until lessons start at nine.

Potter doesn’t seem to spend much time in the common room, which is rather odd, because Granger and Weasley are often there. He’s never in the library unless dragged there by Granger, and he’s not on the Quidditch team this year. The Room of Requirement’s still in shambles from the war, and Draco can’t imagine Potter hiding out there anyway.

It’s the not knowing that makes Draco uneasy. When Potter isn’t within sight, he’s anxious that he could spring out of nowhere at any moment, ready to catch Draco off guard. 

Draco can’t very well ask after Potter, obviously—that would be preposterous—so there’s only one logical option: he’ll have to follow him.

Just to find out where he spends his time, of course.

Fortunately, Potter’s as oblivious as ever—shocking, really, considering he survived a year on the run and took down the bloody Dark Lord—and he always walks like he’s being chased, for Merlin’s sake. It’s far too easy for Draco to slip into the shadows and follow him, unseen; Potter never stops, never turns around, and his footsteps are so loud he never hears a thing.

This is how Draco finds out that—well, this year, Potter likes to be alone. It’s out of character, though perhaps not surprising: Granger and Weasley are sickeningly in love, and Potter is practically a lost puppy without them flanking him. 

Not unlike Draco himself, to be quite frank, since Goyle chose not to return and Crabbe—well, Draco doesn’t like to think about that, so he quickens his pace behind Potter.

It turns out that Potter spends much of his free time by the rocks near Hagrid’s hut—rarely knocking on the door, which seems strange—just…sitting there, brooding. 

Then, during Astronomy class one day, Draco excuses himself to the bathroom and, purely by chance, finds Potter curled into an alcove window near the Astronomy Tower—he’s leaning his forehead against the glass, staring out over the lake with his back turned, so he doesn’t see Draco, of course.

Draco is, naturally, quite adept at stealthily hiding in the corners—much like a snake. And Potter is evidently too much in his own world to notice any of his surroundings. So Draco relaxes, just a little bit.

In retrospect, he was bound to slip up at some point.

Draco likes early mornings. Well—he doesn’t exactly like them, he’s simply naturally disciplined, and his body clock wakes him up at five without fail. It gives him ample time to shower, get dressed, and slip in some quiet study time before the rest of the world stirs.

In no way is it because he doesn’t sleep well. No, he just doesn’t need more than three to four hours of sleep a night, anyway. And if, sometimes, occasionally, he prefers to curl up naked in the shower for forty-five minutes instead of studying—well, who’s to know?

On this particular morning, however, Draco wakes at four.

September has crept into October, bringing a crispness to the air that seeps through the castle walls. At this hour, the sky is still cloaked in dark clouds, mirroring the cold, black lake below.

Draco feels the chill deep in his bones; numbness pricks his fingertips, frost settles over his limbs. Even the thought of a hot shower isn’t enough to coax him out of his pyjamas. In the dim light of the dormitory, he can see his own silvery breath, and Nott and Longbottom are just two shadowy lumps in their beds. Shivering, he drags himself down to the common room, flicking his wand at the hearth. (If it takes three tries for the fire to catch, Draco blames it on his fingers, too numb and brittle as they thaw.)

He sinks to the floor in front of the flames, back against an overstuffed armchair, which blessedly hides him from view from the staircases—because that morning, Potter decides to come down early.

Draco jolts when he hears someone shuffling upstairs—then relaxes, because it’s most likely not Potter, who never wakes up before seven-fifty at best, of course. It’s more likely to be Granger, or maybe Lovegood, the early risers; though, rarely anyone rises this early. He stays hidden behind the armchair, and if he hunches his shoulders and ducks his head just a little bit, it’s obviously purely because he’s shivering.

But when the footsteps start trodding down the stairs, Draco freezes—and quickly extinguishes the fire, because those are goddamn Potter’s inconsiderately loud and dastardly heavy feet. Why has he chosen today of all days to wake up unreasonably, uncharacteristically early?

Draco holds his breath when Potter emerges—thankfully, it’s so dark that it’s unlikely Potter will see him. He hazards just a quick peek, peering over the top of the armchair—and relaxes a little. Potter’s still rubbing the sleep out of his bleary eyes, his glasses perched haphazardly on the top of his head like some kind of village idiot.

As always, he looks utterly disheveled, half-dressed and—is that a sock in his hand? His hair literally looks like he’s been attacked in his sleep, extremely vigorously—Merlin’s pants, has he never heard of a comb? Truly, he looks worse than he had done when he showed up out of the literal ruins of war and defied death itself. Bah.

Really, this man has NO survival skills whatsoever. How could he possibly have survived a war with these abysmal instincts? He hasn’t even noticed the faint embers still flickering in the fireplace; he’s still pulling on one sock, for the love of Salazar.

Potter pauses in the middle of the common room, and Draco ducks quickly, but the other boy isn’t looking in his direction. He runs a hand through his hair—Circe’s knickerbockers, he’s making it worse—and yawns, stretching his arms overhead with an audible crack of his neck. For some inexplicable reason that makes Draco certain that Potter belongs in a ward for long-term spell damage, he’s wearing only a white T-shirt—yes, in this weather!—which lifts up just enough to reveal the barest sliver of skin above the waistband of his joggers, and if Draco hadn’t been hiding—ahem, tucking himself into a ball to keep himself warm—he might’ve jumped up in a panic and accused Potter of public indecency. 

Instead, he quickly looks away, flushing, because really, he’s been doing such a fine job of avoiding Potter, he’s completely forgotten how little decorum he has, the little gremlin. Though, he’s really not little at all—quite lean and muscular actually, despite the lack of Quidditch training, which only crosses Draco’s mind because he’s become rather scrawny himself, and he’s not the one who was on the run for a year, supposedly near starvation. 

Irritatingly, the image lingers: that small, tanned strip of skin just beneath his navel, almost luminous in the dull blue light. He’s not looking. He’s not thinking about Potter’s stomach or his lean frame or how that soft line of skin draws the eye downwards, absolutely not.

Draco’s so distracted, he almost misses Potter slipping out of the common room. Almost—but then the door clicks shut behind him, and Draco blinks, and then before he can even form a coherent thought, he’s sneaking out after him.

Harry breathes in the chilly autumn air. It’s sharper here by the lake at this hour, but Merlin it feels wonderful with the wind biting at his cheeks, the sting of it tearing at the corners of his eyes, sweeping through his hair, so beautifully cold it carves into him, numbing his skin and making him feel alive.

Some mornings he takes his broom out and kicks off into the still-dark sky, but only if it’s early enough—he doesn’t want to risk being seen by anyone awake in the towers. But most days, he finds himself here, by the lake, tearing off his shoes and socks as he reaches the shore. The shingles are sharp against his bare feet, enough to scratch but not enough to break skin. He’ll stand there, letting the water kiss his toes and never higher—unless a stray wave catches his ankles, and then he’ll yelp softly and laugh and laugh into the wind.

He stays like that until dawn begins to bruise the sky, and he’ll feel it wash over his face. And when the blue fades, he’ll slip under his Invisibility Cloak, making his way back to the castle to dress and tuck himself back into the day before anyone notices he’s gone.

Ron and Hermione don’t know where he goes—he’s not keeping it secret exactly, just…letting them believe he’s still asleep, because it’s easier. Hermione would worry about hypothermia and practical things, and he’s tired of thinking about practical things. Besides, he doesn’t mind the cold—he runs hot, too hot; it feels like fire pulsing through his veins, restless and uncontainable, and he loves the way the wind nips at his face, pelting it with little pebbles of water carried by the fog.

It’s his—this time before the world wakes up. These days, he likes to be alone more often than not, though sometimes not entirely alone—he likes to be near people, just for company rather than conversation. It’s why he’s been spending more time with Luna—she’ll often sit or walk with him, always seeming to understand how much space he needs, never asking for more than he can give. Sometimes he’ll sit outside Hagrid’s cabin, close enough to feel the warmth of his presence, but never bothering him.

There’s something about it—about the space between people, about the comfort in the silence. He’s not sure why, exactly, but it brings him peace.

It’s nearly Halloween when Draco’s luck runs out. Well, he’s made it almost two months—that’s something, right?

It’s barely five in the morning and Draco has Disillusioned himself, lingering beneath the chestnut tree a little distance away from the lake. The world is still shrouded in darkness, so dark he can barely see anything but a silhouette swooping through the sky—Potter, of course, because he’s absolutely, utterly mad, because who else but Potter would go flying at this ungodly hour, slicing through the freezing twilight.

Draco’s only out here himself because he wakes early, too, obviously. He’s not following Potter—not really—just making sure their paths won’t cross later at breakfast or, worse, in the common room. Naturally.

Potter cuts through the sky, his robes billowing out behind him, and Draco can’t see his face from this distance but he can’t hide a grin when he thinks, Merlin, he looks like Severus, flying like a bat in the blue night, darker than the sky.

He really does fly well, Draco muses absent-mindedly, and he looks so free when he does. He arcs across the bruised horizon like he’s dancing, moving so gracefully time seems to slow down—and then Potter dives, sudden and sharp, barrelling down as if he’s spotted the Snitch…

And plummets, and plunges straight into the lake.

Draco can’t help it; he lets out a soft yelp and then claps his hands over his mouth—but there’s no one there to hear it, and the lake ripples endlessly, and the sun is nowhere to be found on the horizon, and it’s so, deathly quiet, and there’s no one…

No one else is here. 

Oh Merlin, Salazar, Godric fucking Gryffindor himself. Draco’s heart beats wildly, erratically; he whips his head around, frantic, but it’s barely even dawn, of course there’s no one else around. What can he do—what on earth can he do? For a moment he’s hoping Potter will emerge from the surface of the lake, the crazy bat he is; come on, Potter…

But it’s been three seconds now, and he’s losing time; where can he go? He can’t—he can’t do it by himself, even with magic, and it’ll be far too slow to send for Madame Pomfrey—it would take him ten minutes alone just to get to the hospital wing, even if he runs; so, he makes a split second decision, and hurtles towards Hagrid’s hut.

By the time he’s burst into Hagrid’s cabin, babbled out the words, dragged him down to the shore, cast a spell to locate Potter, idiot Potter, and watched the half-giant oaf fish his frighteningly limp body out from the lake, it feels like hours have passed, but it’s been less than five minutes. Fortunately, Hagrid had the foresight to send for the Headmistress, and she comes running out of the castle, still in her nightgown.

This is the moment Draco realises he’s made a grave error.

Yes, perhaps said grave error may have indirectly saved Potter’s life…but still, Merlin’s pants, just how is he going to explain why he was out here in the first place? Close enough to the lake at five in the morning to raise the alarm almost immediately? And—even worse—what if he somehow gets blamed for this? Yes, they know he’s—reformed, but what if they think it’s some sort of prank gone wrong, or something just as mental?

Well, Draco knows the real reason, of course, but he highly suspects that Professor McGonagall isn’t going to let it slide if he tells her the truth of the matter: that he was simply keeping an eye out to avoid crossing paths with Potter at bloody five in the morning.

He’s only gone and implicated himself in the attempted murder of the Boy Who Lived. Good grief.

Fortunately, McGonagall appears so preoccupied with Potter’s condition and demanding explanations from Hagrid, she doesn’t seem to have even seen Draco, quivering in his dragonhide boots behind the oaf’s towering frame. Potter’s in safe hands now, so Draco slinks away unnoticed. He skips breakfast in favour of lying in bed and staring blankly at the ceiling, and he doesn’t notice he’s shaking until Longbottom’s face suddenly pops up above him, concerned.

“Malfoy? Are you alright?” says Longbottom’s face, which seems to be frowning. “You’re shaking, Malfoy—Merlin, Theo, get over here!”

Rather distantly, he wonders when Longbottom had started calling Nott Theo, but then he realises his teeth are chattering so hard it hurts, and then Theo is standing over his bed, too. 

“Salazar! Draco, you look awful. Did you have a nightmare about Snakey McSnakeface?”

At this, Longbottom snorts; he covers it up quickly and goes to help Theo, who disappears and promptly pops back with an armful of blankets. From his own bed, Draco thinks absently, before the pile of blankets is released onto his body, and only then does Draco realise how cold he is.

Longbottom and Theo are muttering to each other; something about him, he thinks, but all he can do is lay there like a corpse while Theo adjusts the blankets on top of him, and he has an alarming moment of deja vu of being tucked into bed by Mother as a child.

“Draco, can you hear me?” Theo’s voice sounds far away, but his breath feels too hot on Draco’s cheek; Draco half-heartedly tries to lift his arm to swat him away, but it’s limp and trapped under the covers. 

Longbottom says, “He’s in shock, Theo, we should…” and then he drifts away.

When Harry comes to, blinking the fog from his eyes, the afternoon sun is lounging in the sky, and it’s surely too bright to be his dorm room; sure enough, as soon as he tries to sit up, he’s immediately greeted with a face full of brown curls.

“Harry!” comes the muffled sob from somewhere within the curls.

The curls smell lovely and familiar, something like vanilla and coconut. The tangle pulls away to reveal a blurry face with bright eyes. Next to her, there’s a burst of red hair.

“Glasses,” he mumbles hoarsely, and then they’re gently placed upon his face.

“Oh, Harry.” Hermione’s not crying, but her eyes are suspiciously shiny. “We were so worried! Where on earth—how did you manage to fall into the lake! And before breakfast!”

“Wha—”

“Mate, you’re lucky Hagrid pulled you out when he did,” Ron chimes in, his hand warm on Harry’s shoulder. “We were—”

“And why didn’t you tell us you’ve been going flying at the crack of dawn?” Hermione’s voice sharpens, a note of distress creeping in. “What happened? We didn’t hear anything until Neville and Theo came in late to Potions, saying they had to take Malfoy to the hospital wing, and you were just lying there—”

“Wait, what?” Harry sits up too quickly, nearly sending himself headfirst into Hermione’s curls again. He whips his head around, but the hospital wing is empty save for the three of them. “What happened to Malfoy?”

“He’s fine, mate,” Ron says, gentle but exasperated. “You’re the one who nosedived straight into the Great Lake—”

“But Malfoy was there?” Harry interrupts, running a hand through his hair distractedly. “I thought—”

“Harry.” Hermione’s frowning slightly. “Malfoy’s been discharged already. He wasn’t…he’s fine.” She exchanges a quick glance with Ron, but Harry doesn’t catch it.

“Was he…with you this morning?” Ron asks, looking as though he’s almost afraid of the answer.

“What?” Harry blinks at him, a crease in his brow. “No, of course not. Why would you think that?” He shakes his head, bemused. “I only meant, since he was in the hospital wing…”

“Alright, mate,” says Ron, and Harry misses the look he sends Hermione again.

Harry can’t quite remember what happened before the fall, but he promises Hermione he won’t go flying again in the dark, at least not alone. And he means it, because he’s rather embarrassed about making them worry so much. 

Not to mention he’s ruined his second Firebolt, Merlin wept.

Still, he really had been lucky that Hagrid had found him in time and managed to pull him from the lake without a wand. Harry makes a mental note to visit the hut to thank him properly over tea and whatever dubious baked goods Hagrid has for him this time.

Draco’s well thought out plans are rapidly spiralling out of hand before his very eyes.

When did Theo get so clever, anyway? Really, it would be a huge leap to go from Draco’s had a nightmare about Moldywarts to Draco’s in shock and it’s something to do with Potter being in the hospital wing—but somehow, Theo manages to make it.

“So,” Theo starts, his tone deceptively casual. Draco narrows his eyes, but he pretends not to notice, the git. “You were with Potter this morning, I take it?”

“No,” he says truthfully. “I wasn’t.”

Technically.

“Hmm,” Theo hums, then flashes a grin. “Alright. I believe you.”

But his relief is short-lived, because Theo jumps up and volunteers to partner with Potter in their next Potions class—why, only Merlin knows—and when Luna Lovegood plops down in the recently-vacated seat next to Draco, his sense of control spirals further into chaos.

He tries not to panic.

“Hello, Draco,” she says brightly, her large eyes blinking serenely at him. 

“Lovegood,” he manages. Merlin, this is uncomfortable—the poor girl was locked in his dungeons just last year.

“Oh, please, call me Luna,” she replies, tilting her head as if considering him a particularly interesting specimen.

Draco clears his throat. “Right, then. Luna.”

She beams at him, and he feels something in him soften a little.

“You know, it’s nice to see you again, back at Hogwarts,” Luna continues airily.

Draco winces. “Right—Luna, actually…I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to come to you about it. Well, actually, it’s taken you coming to me for me to finally…anyway, I just wanted to apologise for what happened last year…how I treated you when…you know,” he trails off lamely, unsure whether it would be appropriate to bring up such bad memories in class.

She smiles, unfazed, as if the dungeons were merely a quaint little café they frequented. “Oh no, Draco, you were actually quite nice to me.”

“Nice?” he repeats, taken aback. “I mean, I know I wasn’t the brains of the operation, but…it was still my family’s dungeons they locked you in…”

“Oh, that was just a minor detail!” She waves her hand dismissively, as though swatting away a pesky fly. “You were dealing with a lot. Besides, I had a lovely time contemplating the mysteries of life while I was down there. It was very enlightening, actually.”

Draco blinks. “Enlightening.”

Luna nods earnestly. “Of course! I even realised that your dungeons were a hotbed for nargles.”

“Nargles?” He fails to suppress a smile.

“Yes! They were swirling around, I’m sure of it,” she insists, her eyes sparkling. “They must have been the reason you looked so horrified. I mean, you were positively pale—like a ghost! It was quite the spectacle.”

Draco shakes his head, but before he can respond, she adds dreamily, “Speaking of swirling, I spent the summer in Sweden. There’s a lovely little village where I collect blibbering humdingers. They thrive in the presence of potion ingredients, you know. Perhaps that’s why you and Harry are drawn to each other so often.”

Draco chokes on absolutely nothing. “I—what?”

Luna nods. “Oh yes. You two have a certain hum around you. It’s very distinct. Much like the way the humdingers react to frog liver.”

Draco stares at her, wondering if there’s even any point to protest.

“Right,” he finally manages, desperately trying to steer the conversation away from Potter. “Well, I haven’t been to Sweden.”

Luna sighs dreamily. “You should go. It’s lovely. Perhaps you and Harry could go together one day.”

Draco opens his mouth to object, but Luna is already examining the cauldron in front of them. "Your potion looks like it could use some more asphodel root,” she comments mildly.

Draco doesn’t have the heart to glare at her, so he glares at his brew instead, determined to not be put off by unwelcome thoughts about sodding Potter.

“How do you know, Lovegood?” he tries not to sniff.

“Oh, I’m not particularly talented in Potions, to be honest,” she says, completely unbothered by his glare. “But I am quite good at spotting patterns in people. For instance, I’ve noticed that Harry’s been watching you a lot lately.”

Draco drops his stirring rod into the cauldron with a loud splash. He yanks it back out, flushing bright red. “He what?” he hisses, leaning closer as if the mere mention of Potter has somehow compromised their security.

Luna blinks at him, her expression guileless. “Oh yes. You didn’t notice? He looks at you quite a lot. It’s rather sweet.”

“No. No, it’s not,” Draco splutters, panic rising in his chest. “There’s nothing sweet about it—Potter doesn’t look at me—and if he does, that means nothing good,” he groans.

Luna tilts her head thoughtfully, as though contemplating whether or not to break some terrible news to a small child.

“I’m not sure that’s true,” she says finally, her voice gentle, like she’s explaining to a first year that no, nargles aren’t responsible for the disappearance of their homework. “I think Harry’s quite fond of you.”

Draco doesn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or flee to the nearest exit. Potter—fond of him? What’s next, Weasley asking him to join their knitting circle?

Luna continues, oblivious to his internal crisis. “It’s very brave of him, really. You’re both very brave, being so close after everything that’s happened.”

Draco lets out a strangled noise that’s half a cough, half a desperate plea to the universe to end this conversation immediately. “We’re not close!”

Luna just smiles serenely, as though she knows something he doesn’t.

Theo catches Draco’s eye and gives him a pointed stare, looking far too pleased with himself. Beside him, Potter is frowning at his potion, completely oblivious to the disaster unravelling behind him.

Draco makes a mental note to throw Theo into the lake at the next available opportunity.

But for now, he has to survive Luna’s absurdly erroneous observations.

And the fact that apparently everyone thinks he’s in some kind of bizarre, star-crossed bromance with Harry bloody Potter.

Circe help him.

Theodore Nott is quickly becoming Draco’s worst nightmare. 

First of all, to Draco’s absolute horror, Theo has taken to calling Potter Harry, and Harry—Potter—doesn’t even seem to mind. In fact, they seem to be…getting along rather well, not that Draco has any particular thoughts about that besides the fact that Potter getting along with Draco’s only ally might pose a slight problem to his Grand Plans.

Secondly, Theo’s new favourite pastime appears to be pestering Draco about Potter, which makes no sense to anyone who’s ever thought about it for longer than three seconds. But, naturally, Theo’s not one for deep thought.

One morning, after Draco has already eaten and now lies perfectly still in bed, Theo turns to him, yawning.

“Oi, Draco. Come to breakfast with me?”

“I already ate.”

Theo rolls his eyes. “I know that, you git. I meant come sit with me. Neville’s already gone, and heaven knows you won’t be doing anything but lying there staring at the ceiling for the next hour.”

Draco turns to glare at him, but Theo can be annoyingly persistent when he wants to.

“Come on, Draco. Don’t be a hermit.”

“Potter will be there at this time,” his idiot mouth blurts out, and Draco immediately wishes the mattress would swallow him whole.

Theo looks at him like it’s Christmas morning, a stupid grin spreading across his face. “Your point?”

“Nothing,” Draco snaps sourly. “I just don’t want to see him.”

“Lovers’ spat?” says Theo, and he has the nerve to sound sympathetic.

Draco whips his head round so fast it’s a miracle he doesn’t pull something in his neck. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not the one too scared to go down to breakfast because I had a fight with my boyfriend—”

“Boyfriend!” Draco splutters, scandalised.

Theo narrows his eyes. “Don’t be rude. It’s unbecoming,” he says haughtily, leaving Draco wondering what alternate universe he’d been dropped into this morning.

Harry asks Luna if she’d like to take tea with him and Hagrid, and she happily accepts.

Luna likes to walk with him around the castle grounds, and he finds himself steadily growing accustomed to her presence.

They spend a good hour and a half at Hagrid’s, and at the end, Hagrid says gruffly, “Never liked that Malfoy boy, but I’ll admit he surprised me that morning. Will you take these to him, ’Arry?”

He thrusts a sack of rock cakes at him.

Bemused, Harry says, “Malfoy? What’d he do?”

Hagrid looks a little puzzled, but then he grins. “Funny. Well, I never expected you two to become friends, either, but here we are, eh?”

On the way back to the castle, clutching the rock cakes, Harry asks Luna, “What d’you reckon that was all about?”

She smiles at him sunnily. “I think he thinks you and Draco are together.”

“Together,” Harry repeats blankly, his mind still trying to process the word Draco falling from Luna’s lips.

“Oh, you know. He probably thinks you and Draco were flying together that morning over the lake, since Draco was able to alert him so quickly when you fell.”

“What? Luna, how come I didn’t know that?”

“Oh, well, Hagrid seemed to assume you knew. It’s rather obvious, isn’t it?”

“It is?” Harry frowns.

“Well, yes. Draco often wakes up early. He likes to walk around the grounds, too. I think he just didn’t want to disturb you, but isn’t it lucky he happened to be there?”

“Er. Yes, I guess. But if it was him, why didn’t he tell me?”

Luna regards him with a serene expression that feels strangely like she’s considering whether or not he’s old enough to be told a secret.

When she speaks, it’s with a voice not unlike one you might use to speak to a small child. “I think Draco is afraid you’ll push him away.”

“Afraid I’ll…?”

“Yes.” Luna nods firmly. “He’s very worried. I think he tries to be near you so that he doesn’t get hexed by other students. But he’s nervous that if you realise what he’s doing, you might push him away, and he’ll be left vulnerable.”

Harry blinks slowly. “Malfoy’s getting hexed by other students?”

“Oh, no. Not while you’re around, anyway.” Luna smiles at him prettily and touches his arm. “Poor Draco. He’s always hiding in his room. But not when you’re around—no one dares to hurt him in front of you, you see. I think he might be a little…embarrassed. You won’t tell him I told you, will you?” Luna blinks up at him anxiously.

Harry looks at her wide eyes and his heart softens. “No, of course not,” he assures her.

Draco’s luck has officially run out.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Potter’s following him. Every time he turns a corner, Potter’s somehow already right in front of him. After Astronomy class, when he descends from the Tower, Potter’s always just leaving his alcove window, and Draco’s forced to follow him back to the common room, since they’re both headed back there, anyway. Even after Alchemy, Potter seems to always just…be there, always one step ahead.

Of course, Draco does know better. He’s the one lurking in Potter’s shadow; Potter can hardly be the one following him when he just happens to be in front of him. He never looks back, never talks to him. But it’s infuriatingly distracting and disorientating—Draco’s supposed to be the one in control of his life, damn it. He can relax if he intends to follow Potter—just to find out his schedule, of course—but when Potter just appears out of nowhere, it makes him nervous.

Surely…he doesn’t think Draco is up to something, does he?

The extra problem it poses is that Draco is now spending far too much time staring at the back of Potter’s head. An unnatural amount of time—but it can hardly be helped, since Potter always seems to be hurrying ahead of him, and the mop on top of Potter’s head, the one he calls hair, is always directly in Draco’s line of sight. So, regrettably, he’s forced—forced—to stare helplessly at it.

Merlin’s pants, maybe Potter does think he’s up to something…nefarious again. But why? Draco hasn’t been acting any more suspicious than normal!

Then there was that strange incident the other day when Potter had stopped him outside the common room and presented him with a thick cloth bag.

“Malfoy,” he’d said. “These are for you.”

Then, without waiting for a reply, he vanished into the common room, leaving Draco standing there dumbfounded.

Later, in his dorm, the sack sat unopened on Draco’s bedside table. He wasn’t scared to open it, of course—but knowing Potter, it couldn’t be anything good.

Theo, of course, had barged in and immediately spotted the bag. “Gift from Harry?” he’d asked, nodding at the lumpy sack.

“Piss off, Theo,” Draco said mulishly while Theo made grabby hands at it.

When they finally opened it, they both stared at the contents in disbelief. It was—a bag full of rocks. They both stared as the blasted things thumped to the floor and barely even rolled, they were so heavy.

“Romantic,” Theo said doubtfully.

“Shut up,” Draco snapped, but he was just as bewildered. “Do you think it’s…a threat?”

Theo had snorted.

Now, Draco can’t help but wonder if it really had been a threat.

Theo, ever unhelpful, had told him to ask Granger (Hermione, Theo calls her now) whether it’s a Muggle thing—well, he’d actually said Muggle courting tradition, the nutter.

Draco thinks Theo is rather enjoying making his life a living hell this year.

Naturally, he can’t actually ask Granger, so he asks Luna—who promptly waves Granger over, of course.

“Hermione,” Luna says brightly, “Draco wants to know why Harry gave him a sack of coal.”

“A sack…of coal?” Granger repeats, looking between them with wide eyes.

Draco shifts, nervous. “Is it bad?” he asks, more anxious than he means to sound.

To his absolute horror, Granger giggles. “It’s almost Christmas, Malfoy. You should ask Harry about it. Apparently, you’ve been naughty,” she stage-whispers, before she and Luna dissolve into laughter and skip off, still giggling like lunatics.

Merlin wept. Draco doesn’t think he’s done anything abnormal this year, and it’s not even been one term. How can he already have fucked it up?

He tells Theo miserably, “I asked Granger, and she said it was a threat. Or, at least, Potter’s sending me a message that I’ve done something nefarious.”

He has half a mind to make like Dobby and start clobbering himself over the head with a saucepan.

“You talked to Hermione?” Theo says, delighted and apparently forgetting the entire point of the conversation. “Well, well. It’s about time you stopped being such a loner and joined the real world, Draco. I’m proud of you.”

Draco wonders if the entire world has spun off its axis.

Hermione finally manages to drag Harry to the library one afternoon, on the rare day their timetables align—Hermione takes seven classes—and it’s blessedly quiet as the three of them settle into a corner table.

Harry’s still pulling paper and ink haphazardly from his bag when he notices Hermione and Ron staring at him with expressions of identical concern. Right—this can only mean one thing: it’s one of those library sessions, the ones that devolve into interrogation or, worse, intervention.

He sighs. “What have I done this time?”

Hermione takes an alarmingly deep breath—that’s really more like a huge gulp of air—her eyes shining with the familiar intensity that signals she’s about to launch into one of her passionate tirades—but Ron hastily speaks first. 

“Mate, you’ve not…done anything. We’ve just noticed you’ve been…disappearing a lot lately. And that’s okay!” he adds quickly. “But…we’ve seen you poring over the Map—”

“Are you stalking Malfoy again!” Hermione bursts out, earning a sharp glare from Madame Pinch, who looks ready to hex them into the next century. She swiftly casts a muffliato.

“What?” Harry laughs, incredulous. “You’re worried about a repeat of sixth year?”

“Is that not what’s happening?” Hermione says rather shrilly, her eyes large and searching.

“Okay, look. It’s nothing bad, I swear,” Harry tries to reassure them. “Malfoy was following me first—”

“That doesn’t make it better, Harry!” Hermione looks exasperated. “You two have always been—”

“—distracted by each other,” Ron hastily interrupts. “We just want to make sure you’re not trying to accuse him of—”

“What? Oh, my God, no,” Harry shakes his head, amused. 

“Look, just let me explain. Luna told me Malfoy was really anxious about students targeting him and whatnot. She said he’s been following me around secretly because people don’t dare hex him near me, but he’s too embarrassed for me to find out. And I promised Luna I wouldn’t say anything.

“That’s why I started checking the map again, and she was right—Malfoy’s constantly lurking. I felt bad, so I’ve been checking it occasionally just to make sure he’s not being cornered somewhere, you know? It’s not that I think he’s up to anything.”

Ron looks relieved at this, but Hermione’s expression only softens slightly. They exchange another silent glance; then Hermione snaps back to her usual efficient demeanour. “Well, that’s a lot less concerning than we thought, I suppose. And I guess…you being close with Draco seems to be doing him good,” she says tentatively. “We just can’t help but worry you’ll go overboard, you know…”

“Because you can’t seem to help yourself when it comes to Malfoy, mate,” Ron supplies helpfully.

Harry waves him away. “Nonsense. It’s just our thing,” he says dismissively, leaving Ron and Hermione to exchange another round of silent communication that goes a little like this:

At least he’s found a hobby…we were worried he’d be moping around all year…

He hasn’t found a hobby, Ron; stalking Draco is not a hobby—and he’s already been doing it for years…

At least Malfoy’s alright these days. Honestly, I think this could be good for him…

Draco looks forward to Hogsmeade weekends, because it means he gets the whole common room to himself. He’ll watch the small group of eighth-years heading out from his spot by the window. Potter usually walks with Luna, trailing a little behind Granger and Weasley. Occasionally they’ll be joined by Theo, Neville, and for Merlin’s sake, even Pansy.

But even that can’t dampen Draco’s mood for too long, because he gets a whole day of peace without having to worry about Potter’s oversized head popping up when least expected.

Today, however, as he peers out from his window, Potter’s not with the others. Draco frowns—he’d seen Potter go down to breakfast.

Regardless, the common room is mercifully empty, so Draco settles in his favourite armchair by the fire with a book.

He almost doesn’t notice when Potter comes in. Almost.

“Hey, Malfoy,” Potter calls from the doorway, his cheeks flushed from the cold, shaking frost from his cloak all over the floor.

Draco has to fight the urge to bolt. “Potter?” he says, flabbergasted.

As if he can tell exactly what Draco’s thinking, Potter says, “I decided not to go today. Felt like a cosy day in, you know?”

Draco does know. Obviously. But Potter being here is going to absolutely ruin his day.

Potter lumbers upstairs and returns dressed in comfortable clothes, which is even worse.

Draco debates whether it’ll look suspect if he escapes to his dorm, but the thought quickly slides out of his head when Potter plonks himself into a sofa far too close to Draco.

“Don’t mind me,” Potter says cheerily, obviously trying—and failing—not to appear suspicious. Damn it, Potter is spying on him. Draco’s stomach sinks.

Potter pulls out some parchment, apparently checking homework. A long, excruciating silence stretches, which feels like an hour but realistically is only about five minutes.

Draco blurts out, “I just like to read, Potter,” and then has to fight the urge to bury his face into his hands.

Potter sets the parchment—which looks curiously blank, Circe, is he preparing to take notes on Draco’s nefarious activities?—down in his lap and tilts his head, regarding Draco with an expression that veers far too close to amusement.

“That’s nice, Malfoy. You’d get along well with Hermione.”

“I—” Suddenly his throat feels very dry. “I’m not like that anymore, Potter,” he spits out, harsher than he means to.

Potter frowns. “Not like what?”

“Gah! Don’t pretend you don’t know!”

“Well, I don’t—”

“I meant I don’t discriminate against Muggleborns anymore—”

Potter’s face, inexplicably, relaxes. “Oh, that. Don’t be daft, Malfoy, everyone knows that.”

Draco gapes at him. Potter doesn’t seem to notice as he gets up and shuffles over to the counter, the great buffoon, and—puts the kettle on. “Tea?” he offers absent-mindedly, and Draco wonders, not for the first time, what alternate universe he’s stepped into.

They sip their tea silently, slipping into an uncomfortably comfortable silence, and if Draco’s cheeks have gone pink, it’s from the steam rising up from his mug into his face.

Obviously.

The madness must be spreading even beyond the walls of the castle, because when Draco returns home for Christmas, his mother asks, “How is Harry doing?”

Draco stares at her, bewildered, but she just smiles serenely. 

“Potter?” he says stupidly.

Narcissa gives him a patient look. “Yes, obviously, darling.”

“He’s doing…fine?”

Narcissa clucks her tongue. “That poor boy. I’m glad you were there during the lake incident, darling, goodness knows what might have happened otherwise…”

Draco nearly drops his teacup. “I—how do you know about that?” 

“Harry’s such a sweet boy,” she continues, ignoring Draco’s growing alarm. “Will you give him my regards when you return to Hogwarts, dear?”

“I most certainly will not!” Draco splutters, horrified.

Narcissa’s brows furrow into a slightly hurt expression.

“What’s gotten into you, Draco? I thought I raised you better than this,” she chides him.

“I beg your pardon? Have I entered into a separate timeline where the last few years never happened? Because I’m pretty sure you raised me to do old Snakeface’s evil bidding—”

“Draco!” she admonishes, shocked. “What on earth has gotten into you? I certainly wasn’t the one who wanted you to do any of those horrid deeds!” Her voice softens slightly. “Darling, things are different now. Really, if you keep talking like that, Harry won’t want to spend time with you anymore—”

Draco chokes on his tea. “Potter does not spend time with me now!”

Narcissa sniffs. “Have it your way,” she says haughtily. “Really, Draco, it’s unlike you to hide things from your mother. I am still in contact with Severus, after all, or have you simply forgotten about your own godfather?”

“Excuse me?”

Potter hasn’t gone flying since the lake incident, but he’s returned from his Christmas holidays with a brand new Firebolt Supreme, so it’s only a matter of time.

Mother, for reasons she did not deign to explain, had insisted he take his old Nimbus 2002 to school this term—really, he hasn’t even flown since fifth year—and this is how he finds himself, at six in the morning—just as he’s slinking downstairs, a tad too early—cornered by one Harry James Potter in the common room as he asks whether Draco would like to go flying before breakfast.

Well—he can’t say no, can he? Not when Mother made it so clear that he’s not to be rude to Saint Potter if he still wants access to the Malfoy fortune—cue eye roll.

And Draco loves his mother—and his inheritance, for that matter. It isn’t because he can’t say no to Potter.

When they come hurrying back to the castle, eyes alight and cheeks flushed, still blinking the morning sun from their eyes—if anybody’s exchanging any looks, neither of them notice.

One morning, Theo drags Potter to breakfast at seven-fifteen, the bastard.

Fortunately, Draco has finished eating and hastily starts to clear away his plate—but then, his mother’s owl swoops into the Great Hall.

Draco freezes mid-swipe of his napkin, eyes locked on the telltale Malfoy crest. It’s terrible timing—and she usually only writes him once a week, she shouldn’t even have received his reply yet—but he should be able to grab the letter quickly and go—

Except the owl doesn’t head towards him.

No, instead she veers right and swoops down…directly in front of Harry bloody Potter.

Draco watches, horror mounting, as Potter—halfway through shoving toast into his mouth—pulls the letter off the owl’s leg, as if everything is completely normal.

Draco is out of his seat before he knows it.

“Potter!” he hisses, absolutely mortified, striding across the Hall as fast as dignity will allow.

Potter looks up, entirely too relaxed for someone holding his mother’s correspondence. “Oh, hey, Malfoy,” he says. Beside him, Theo looks like he’s having a field day.

“That’s for me, you loon,” Draco snaps, sticking out a hand expectantly.

Potter actually has the nerve to laugh. “That’s cute, Malfoy. No, it’s actually for me.”

Draco feels his left eye twitch. “Don’t be so ridiculous, Potter—now, if you would stop stealing my mail—!”

“No, really, it’s addressed to me.” Potter flips the letter around to show him. “See?”

Draco gapes at it. Clear as day, in Narcissa Malfoy’s elegant handwriting: Harry. Not Mr Potter, or even Mr Harry Potter, Morgana’s tits, is Mother trying to give him an aneurysm? 

Potter shrugs and opens the letter, and Draco swears his heart stops for a second. “What the hell are you doing? You can’t just—”

“I’m pretty sure I can,” Potter says dryly. “It’s addressed to me.”

“That’s not the point, Potter!” he splutters, making a wild grab for the letter, but Potter holds it out of reach as if Draco were a particularly excitable crup.

Theo says, “Now, now, Draco. You’re causing a scene.”

Sure enough, the entire Great Hall has gone silent, watching them—he can only thank Merlin that the crowd is still sparse at this time of morning.

“Theo!” he hisses, pinching his elbow. “You, with me, now.”

When Theo informs him, looking thoroughly entertained, that Narcissa’s owl has been sending two letters a week, one for Draco and one for Harry, Draco contemplates spontaneous combustion.

Harry wonders why Snape has asked him to stay behind after Potions while the rest of the class files out. Snape is behind his desk, looking—as always—on the verge of regretting his entire life’s choices.

“Potter,” he begins, not even glancing up. “Sit.”

“Er,” Harry says, looking around awkwardly, as he hasn’t gotten out of his seat yet. “I’m sat?”

Snape pinches his nose instead of replying. Harry’s surprised to find that he looks almost…resigned? 

“Narcissa Malfoy has been in contact with me,” Snape says, with an edge that makes it clear he is not happy about it. “She seems to believe you’ve taken it upon yourself to, shall we say, protect Draco from…unnecessary hexing and his usual poor decisions.”

Harry blinks. “Er, what?”

Snape’s eyebrow twitches. “You’ve been…looking out for Draco.”

“I mean…I guess? Kind of?” Harry scratches his head. 

Snape narrows his eyes. “Narcissa appears convinced you’ve been playing some sort of protective role.”

Harry’s lips twitch. “Ah. Is she now.”

Snape exhales heavily, clearly fed up. “She’s asked me to ensure that Draco does not…how shall I put it? Sabotage your efforts.”

At that, Harry snorts. “Sabotage? What does she think—”

“Apparently, she believes Draco is prone to—her words—ruining everything for himself and requires your supervision to prevent this.”

Harry stares, trying to stifle his laughter. “And she told you this?”

“Repeatedly,” Snape mutters, looking like he’s about one more word away from strangling someone. “So, for the next major Potions assignment, I’ll be pairing you two together.”

Harry gapes. “You’re what?”

Snape’s expression tightens, but then he almost looks…smug. “If you’re going to be Draco’s unofficial bodyguard, you may as well do it properly.”

“You’re enjoying this,” Harry accuses, even as a grin starts to form.

“Immensely,” Snape deadpans. “Now get out, Potter.”

Harry stands, still grinning as he heads for the door. “Right. I’ll try not to let Draco…mess it up, then.”

Snape lets out a long-suffering sigh as Harry leaves, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, Merlin help me.

“Did you and Harry go flying this morning, Draco?” Granger asks. Draco’s head whips up in alarm, but she doesn’t even look up from her book, curled up next to him on the sofa.

Still, Draco’s brain seems to have been transfigured into a consistency not unlike mushy peas. “I—I wasn’t following him!”

Granger lifts her head slowly, blinking at him. “Well, of course you weren’t, Draco,” she says, sounding a little affronted, but the only thing running—well, perhaps wading—through Draco’s bog of a brain is that Granger has just called him Draco.

She tilts her head. “I was just going to ask you if you’d seen him at breakfast.”

“What? We don’t eat breakfast at the same time, Granger,” he says hastily.

If possible, Granger looks even more affronted, and for a moment Draco thinks he’s about to be lectured again over Harry Potter because clearly this is his own personal version of hell. 

But instead, Granger says, “Well! Have I done something to offend you, Malfoy?” 

Draco stares. “Um. No?”

“Then is there a reason you still call me Granger when you call everyone else by their first names?” she asks, and to Draco’s horror, she looks genuinely hurt.

It dawns on him that she’s—well, she’s half right. Apparently without his notice, he had gotten used to calling Longbottom Neville, Lovegood Luna, even Finnigan had become Seamus.

But he still calls the Golden Trio by their surnames. Why wouldn’t he? They aren’t friends.

When he voices this thought to Granger, however, she looks dangerously close to tears.

“Well!” she snaps. “If that’s how you really feel!” 

Before he even has a chance to react, she’s gathered her things and stomped away.

He’s not sure what he’s done to deserve this torment, and why everyone seems to just keep—finding him, for Circe’s sake. His talent for hiding in the shadows is apparently less effective than he thought, because the next person to approach him is Weasley, of all people.

“Hey, mate,” Weasley says casually, and Draco nearly jumps out of his skin.

It’s seven in the morning, and he knows Weasley normally eats with Potter at eight. 

This thought is overshadowed, however, by the fact that Weasley has just called him mate.

“Hello?” he replies uncertainly, his spoon dangling precariously between his fingertips.

Weasley reaches out and Draco stiffens, but he just tugs the spoon gently out of his slack hand, and sets it down on the table.

Gentle. Weasley.

Merlin fucking wept.

“Jesus, Malfoy, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Weasley says as he turns to his own porridge. (Draco knows who Jesus is, of course, he’s not an imbecile—he takes Muggle Studies.)

“Um,” is all that comes out of Draco’s mouth, because he has no idea why Weasley has elected to sit with him at seven in the morning, shovelling porridge into his mouth like he hasn’t eaten in days.

Weasley gives Draco a sidelong glance. “You’ve upset Mione, you know.”

Draco’s stomach drops. “I—what?”

Weasley, oddly, doesn’t seem angry. He just shrugs. “You seen Harry this morning?”

“Potter?” Draco says, and the other boy actually laughs.

“Funny.” Weasley gives him a strange, loopy grin. “Well, if you see him, tell him Mione wants to drag him to the library with us after lunch, alright? We’ve barely seen him this week, the git,” he says affectionately.

Draco is so alarmed by this, he forgets all about the rest of his porridge and hurriedly excuses himself from the table. “Circe’s baggy knickers,” he mutters, shaking his head, which must certainly be full of nargles. 

Has it become some sort of open secret that Potter is stalking him again? Does everyone think he’s some sort of criminal? 

Good heavens.

The next day in Potions, Luna says to him mildly, “You’ve upset Hermione, did you know?”

Draco drops his head onto the desk. “I don’t know why everyone keeps telling me this!” he says dejectedly into the wood. “I don’t hate Muggleborns anymore!”

Luna pats his head gently. “I know you don’t, Draco. But don’t you think it’s rude to call all your friends by their first names—except her?”

He’s about to respond that he doesn’t know in what world Granger could possibly want to be his friend—but something in Luna’s calm, knowing eyes stops him.

“But Potter and I still call each other by our surnames,” he says instead, before realising that that doesn’t exactly help his argument, since Potter isn’t his friend either.

Luna smiles serenely. “Yes, but that’s your thing. That’s not the same,” she points out, though Draco has absolutely no clue what she’s pointing out.

“Our—?”

“Draco!” Severus’s voice snaps his attention back to him. “I asked you a question.”

He straightens guiltily, almost toppling out of his seat. “Sorry, Professor,” he says, but the next words that fall from Severus’s mouth make so little sense, he almost slips out of his chair again.

“Perhaps you can tell me where on earth Potter is and why he’s over ten minutes late to class?” 

“Did you ask Granger?” is what comes out of his mouth, which is clearly the wrong thing to say, because Granger makes some sort of strange huffing noise from her seat next to Weasley, and Severus’s lips twitch.

“If you had been paying attention, Draco, I already asked Miss Granger and Mr Weasley.” Is that amusement masked beneath the sternness of his tone?

“Oh. He went to the hospital wing this morning. Migraine,” he says, baffled that Potter hadn’t told them.

He’s so surprised that he misses the glances cast around the class.

Severus raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

Severus gives him two sets of homework—one to take for Potter—and won’t take no for an answer.

Things only get stranger from there.

At breakfast—Draco has all but given up trying to plan his timings around Potter, since it seems that everyone’s schedules have grown more and more unpredictable—Ron leans over the table, half-chewing a piece of toast.

“Hey, Draco,” he calls, loud enough to make a few heads turn.

Draco is honestly starting to wonder if something about his face gives people the impression that he’s begging to be bothered.

“Have you seen Harry? I need to ask him about that spell Flitwick mentioned last week.”

Draco stares. “Why on earth would I know where Potter is?”

Ron shrugs. “You’re always lurking around him. Just pass on the message, yeah?”

“Lurking?” Draco sputters, heat rising to his cheeks. “I do not lurk! I simply—I simply exist in the same space as him. Just like everyone else!”

Hermione swoops in. “Draco! Could you ask Harry if he’s done with the copy of Advanced Potions Theory I lent him? I need it for my—”

“I’m not a bloody owl!” Draco snaps, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

But Hermione is already moving away, her focus shifting to the latest Quibbler issue Luna is waving around. 

“Oh, Hermione! Is Draco passing messages for Harry? That’s so sweet!”

Draco is absolutely flabbergasted. How did he get roped into this?

Pansy, next to him, smirks. “Wow, Draco. I always knew you and Potter had something going on,” she teases, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

“Pansy,” he groans. “Not you too. For the last time, we aren’t even friends!”

“Right,” she nods mock-solemnly. “Weren’t you in the library with him just yesterday?”

“Studying on separate tables! Why does everyone keep asking me about him?” Draco demands. “I’m not—I don’t keep tabs on Potter!”

Just then, Neville approaches, glancing between Draco and Pansy with mild interest. “Uh, hey, Draco, could you let Harry know I found his missing Potions notes? I think he dropped them in the greenhouse.”

Draco might just be losing his mind. “Why does everyone assume I’m his personal assistant?!” he exclaims, loud enough to draw a few more curious stares. “It’s not like I have a Harry Potter tracking device attached to me!”

“Wouldn’t that be convenient?” Seamus pipes up as he walks by, and Draco throws him a withering glare.

Pansy says, “I’m sure you’d love that, Draco. You two lovebirds should consider it—did you know, you can get ones for couples that go up your—”

“Pansy!” he snaps, mortified.

Draco’s bewilderment grows with each passing day. Why does the entire school seem to have collectively decided he’s become Harry Potter’s unofficial messenger? 

As if the universe finds this absolutely delightful, Luna appears, all ethereal grace, leaning over him. “Draco, can you tell Harry I really liked that essay he wrote on the intersection of Herbology and Magical Creature ethics? I’d love to discuss it with him!”

“Why not just—” Draco starts, but Luna is already drifting away, humming softly to herself.

Feeling utterly bemused, Draco sinks further into the bench, staring at his half-eaten breakfast. “Next thing I know, they’ll be asking me to pass him love notes,” he mutters. “What’s next, a fan club?”

Theo chips in unhelpfully, “There’s already a Harry Potter fan club, and it only has one member—”

Before he can whack Theo over the head, Severus strides past, his gaze lingering on Draco with an expression that suggests he’s fully aware of the madness unfolding. “I trust you’re keeping up with your duties as Harry Potter’s ambassador, Draco?” he says dryly.

“Duties?” Draco echoes, throwing his hands up again. “This is a nightmare! I am not responsible for where he is or what he’s doing!”

Snape merely raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You seem to be managing just fine. Perhaps I should promote you to Head Owl.”

Then he sweeps away, his shoulders shaking suspiciously, leaving Draco staring after him in absolute horror.

The entire school, it seems, has united over this absurdity, and Draco’s not sure how he’s become the unwitting star of it all. Over a thousand years of House rivalry, not one but two Wizarding Wars in recent memory—and yet, apparently, this is all it takes for it to crumble.

Draco has no idea how he’s managed to obliterate his very simple goals so spectacularly.

It’s unbelievable how much everyone else has been bonding over his and Potter’s supposed…non-bonding.

Even Pansy is bonding with Hermione and Luna.

He’s attempting to have a moment of peace in the common room when Pansy’s voice drifts over. Loud enough to carry, of course.

“—don’t act like you haven’t noticed, Luna. It’s practically a school-wide spectacle.”

Luna replies, dreamy as ever, “Oh, of course I’ve noticed. It’s quite sweet, really. Like when crumple-horned snorkacks circle each other before they become lifelong companions.”

Draco groans internally. Snorkacks?

Pansy continues, “I was thinking nargles. Maybe that’s why Draco’s acting like he’s got no idea why everyone’s so invested in his little romcom with Potter.”

Draco can practically hear Pansy’s smirk.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t know what a romcom is, but it sounds rather terrifying.

“Oh, I don’t think it’s nargles this time. Draco’s just…shy. Sometimes people need a little nudge to realise how they feel.”

Draco snaps his book shut.

“Oh, hello, Draco,” Pansy says with a wicked grin. “We didn’t see you back there.”

“Oh dear, Draco. Your aura’s all dark and tense, like a storm cloud ready to burst,” Luna remarks. “That’s usually a sign of repressed emotions.”

Pansy hums. “Definitely Harry-related.”

“I do wonder why you don’t just talk to Harry,” Luna sighs. “Instead of all this…watching from a distance.”

“Don’t forget their secret morning rendezvous—”

“I don’t watch Potter,” Draco snaps.

Luna and Pansy exchange a glance, and before Draco can protest, they’ve sidled over and plopped down next to him, uninvited. Has no one in this castle ever heard of personal space and decorum?

“So, where is your other half today?” Pansy asks sweetly.

Draco’s eye twitches. “I don’t have an other half.”

“Of course you do,” Luna says. “Your aura practically hums whenever he’s around.”

Draco stares between them helplessly. “What in Merlin’s name are you talking about?”

Pansy sighs. “Honestly, Draco, the denial is getting exhausting.”

“I’m not denying anything!” 

“We’re just concerned,” Pansy continues, her amusement evident. “You and Harry are usually so in sync. Trouble in paradise?”

“We’re not—in sync,” Draco splutters.

“He’ll come around,” Luna says helpfully. “Harry’s very understanding. You just need to talk things out.”

“What is wrong with you people?” Draco bursts out, his face heating. “Why would I talk things out with Potter?”

“Healthy relationships require communication, darling,” Pansy says breezily.

Draco opens his mouth, but before he can respond, the common room door swings open. Of course, Potter walks in, windswept hair and glasses askew, completely oblivious to the chaos he’s causing. 

His gaze falls on the three of them and he grins, ruffling his hair even more with one hand as he passes.

Draco tears his eyes away furiously.

“Did you feel that, Pansy?” Luna beams. “Their auras were glowing. So much energy between them.”

“My aura is not glowing, Luna.”

Pansy smirks. “You know, Draco, if you weren’t so oblivious, you’d see it too. How long are you going to make Harry wait for your affection?”

Just then, Hermione rushes in from the staircase, her arms loaded with books. “Sorry, sorry!” she exclaims, dropping a ludicrously hefty stack into Draco’s lap as he yelps. “Draco, those are Harry’s overdue library books. Would you mind—”

Draco has had enough. He jumps up, sending the tomes tumbling to the floor. “What in Salazar’s name—! Do I look like Harry Potter to you? Have I woken up with a bloody scar on my head that everyone can see but me?”

“Really! There’s no need to get so worked up over some library books!” Hermione huffs, already moving to leave.

Draco gapes at her. “Have—have you all lost the plot? Why would I be the best option—?”

“Because you and Harry are obsessed with each other!” Hermione cries, exasperated, halfway out the door.

Draco splutters. He’s certain his face must be purple by now.

Pansy rolls her eyes. “Honestly, Draco, you’re making a huge deal out of nothing.”

“It’s alright,” Luna says placidly. “He’s just getting a little emotional because it’s Harry, aren’t you, Draco?”

With a strangled cry of frustration, Draco flees upstairs, flopping onto his bed. 

Madness.

March stumbles into the grounds, winter’s breath still caught in its throat, the cold still clinging to the edges. Clouds hang low, the sky heavy with waiting. The sun dips her toes in, just enough to brush light over the frost-kissed grass, preparing for spring.

Harry and Luna take their walks along the outskirts of the Forest now, where the world feels quieter. Luna skips between the trees, her fingertips tracing the bark of the oaks and silver birches like she’s listening for whispers only she can hear. 

Harry watches her, marvelling at how her touch alone seems to coax the earth to reveal its secrets, like she’s reminding it to breathe again. He’s grown comfortable with their silences, but they’ve been talking more and more lately. 

Maybe something about the Forest coaxes you to reveal your secrets to it, too.

Luna bends down, her fingers brushing against a cluster of snowdrops pushing through the melting frost. “Ooh, look, Harry, there’s a flutterfawn hiding here!” she says softly.

“A what?” he asks.

“They’re these tiny creatures with wings that shimmer like frost, but they only appear when the sunlight touches them. They’re shy and skittish, so they like to hide in the snowdrops, coming out only when they think no one is watching.”

Harry laughs, shaking his head fondly. “I love how you know these things, Luna. And how these rare creatures all seem to vanish from view, invisible to the naked eye.” He winks playfully.

“Ah,” Luna exclaims, her face illuminating like dawn. “But you’ve already caught one, Harry!”

“A flutterfawn?”

“I believe a flutterfawn might be Draco’s spirit animal,” she declares. “Ooh, do you know what his Patronus is?”

“You think Malfoy is like a flutterfawn?” Harry says, laughing.

“Oh yes,” she giggles lightly, the sound dancing into the breeze. “You should see how he glances over when you’re not looking. He’s just like a timid flutterfawn, waiting for the right moment to flutter into view.”

“I’m not sure I see Malfoy as timid,” he snorts.

“Why not?” Luna says brightly. “I think he’s taken quite a liking to you, Harry.”

Harry shakes his head in amusement. “I thought he was just following me around for his own protection.”

“Oh, but that’s the beauty of it,” Luna insists. “He hides inside his storm cloud, but deep down, he’s curious. He may think being near you keeps him safe from prying eyes—but really, it’s you he’s watching. You’re like the sun breaking through the clouds, revealing his wings!”

“Really, Luna, where do you get these ideas?” Harry smiles.

“Oh, isn’t it obvious? He hovers around you just like a little cloud,” she continues earnestly. “Perhaps he just needs someone to show him that the rain can be beautiful, too.”

“Right…” Harry raises an eyebrow. “And by someone you mean…me.”

“Of course! You’re like the brightest star in the sky, Harry. You could make even the grumpiest of clouds smile. Just imagine Draco, suddenly bursting into a shower of shimmering raindrops!”

Harry bursts out laughing at the thought.

Luna, clearly misunderstanding, looks delighted. “Just think about it! Draco might surprise you if you shine on him—just like a flutterfawn emerging in the sunlight.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Harry says, still chuckling. “But I’ll keep an eye out for my own personal storm cloud.”

It’s a funny image—Malfoy as a sulky grey cloud, huffing as he floats over Harry’s head.

“Good! Because sometimes, even the storm clouds need a little help to find their way back to the light,” Luna says dreamily.

Harry doesn’t exactly intend to take Luna’s words to heart—her grand ideas about Malfoy just seem a little too far-fetched, even if she does charm him with her whimsical flair.

But when he brings it up to Hermione, expecting her to laugh along with him, she sets down her quill—never a good sign—and scrutinises him seriously.

“What? Oh no, Hermione, not you too—”

“Well! I’m not saying he’s a fluttershy…”

“Flutterfawn,” he corrects her automatically.

“Right,” she waves a hand dismissively. “But it’s clear he’s not just following you around to avoid getting hexed. I mean, really,” Hermione snorts, “have you seen anyone go near him for any reason other than to ask about you?”

“People are asking him about me?” Harry says, perplexed.

Hermione gives him a look as if he’s standing on her doorstep, soaked to the bone, and asking, Did it rain?

“Good grief, Harry,” she exclaims. “How could you be this oblivious?”

“Wha—”

“It’s been months now. You spend time together, alone, almost every morning. No one has even attempted to harass him. And you know he’s still trailing you all the time because of the Map. What other reason could he have besides the fact that he clearly likes you?”

“I followed him around all of sixth year, and I didn’t like him,” Harry points out dubiously.

Hermione gives him an even more pitying look. 

“Well, first of all, even though you were right in the end, only someone with an unhealthy obsession would have done that,” she says primly. “And secondly, at least you had an excuse for spying. He’s following you for no justifiable reason at all!”

Harry opens his mouth to protest, but the words falter. He thinks back to the way Malfoy always lingers in the corners wherever Harry is, even at the crack of dawn.

He thinks about the way Draco Malfoy consumed his thoughts back in sixth year—thoughts of suspicion, of course, but thoughts no less.

“Alright, fine. But it’s not like I’m pining for him,” he mumbles.

“Of course not,” Hermione says scathingly. “You’re just following him around like a guard dog for the sake of his protection.”

“Well—that’s how it started! Luna, Narcissa—his own mother—and even Snape all confirmed it!”

“Please, Harry. Obviously Narcissa is trying to play matchmaker,” Hermione says, rolling her eyes. “You’ve both just been stalking each other this whole time, making up fake threats to rationalise it!”

She’s wheezing with laughter now, her shoulders shaking.

“God, it’s actually hilarious, watching you two blundering idiots,” she practically sobs out between giggles. “Even Professor McGonagall has joined the betting pool—”

“You’re joking—”

“No, Harry,” she says, exasperated. “Do you really believe he just happened to be there that day you fell into the lake? And really, that was months ago.”

Harry stares, baffled. “So Malfoy’s actually stalking me?”

Hermione looks alarmed. “Oh, I didn’t mean it in a nefarious way—” but a slow, goofy grin is already spreading across Harry’s face.

“Merlin’s shaggy beard—”

“Harry, don’t do—”

“—that’s so romantic!”

Draco’s still seething.

He’s not—he’s not obsessed with Potter! Potter! Him! Obsessed?

Maybe…maybe it does look that way. Circe, he’s gone about this all wrong. 

Just as he’s about to let out a frustrated groan—as if he can actually sense Draco’s thoughts—Saint Potter appears. As though he’s been summoned by Draco’s despair.

“Oh, just what I needed,” Draco mutters, swerving to side-step the walking embodiment of his frustration.

“Wait, Malfoy!” Potter grabs his elbow before he can slip past.

“What do you want, Potter,” he snarls, eyes darting around furtively. Heaven forbid anyone sees them together and gets the wrong idea—again.

Potter doesn’t retreat, evidently misunderstanding Draco’s panic. And then—Draco can barely believe it—Potter actually smiles.

At him.

“It’s alright, Malfoy. I won’t let anyone hex you,” Potter says earnestly.

“Hex me? Nobody’s hexing me!” Draco protests, alarmed, but Potter only nods solemnly.

“Yes, that’s right, Malfoy. And nobody will,” he promises, and he actually puts a hand over his heart, the goon.

To Draco’s utter horror, Potter falls into step beside him, grinning as if his sole purpose in life is to bask in Draco’s misery.

“Where are you headed?” Potter asks casually.

“Class,” he grits out.

“Which class?” 

Draco glares. “Why do you care?”

“I’ve got a free period,” Potter says, which doesn’t answer the question at all. He shoves his hands into his pockets, his grin not budging. 

“Then go enjoy it somewhere else.” Draco’s jaw clenches as he quickens his pace, but Potter keeps up easily.

“So, what’s your plan for the rest of the day?” Potter continues cheerfully, completely ignoring Draco’s growing hostility.

“My plan,” Draco says icily, willing his voice to remain steady, “is to avoid further interactions with you. If possible.”

Potter only laughs, a low, rich sound that makes Draco’s pulse spike for all the wrong reasons. “That’s a bit dramatic.”

Draco scowls, his heart pounding faster now, frustration mixing with something he can’t quite place. “I’m not being dramatic, Potter.”

But Potter doesn’t seem to hear him, clearly having far too much fun at Draco’s expense. “You know, you always have been a bit of a drama queen. Sulking, pouting, swooning—”

Draco halts abruptly, disbelief almost knocking the air out of his lungs. “Swooning?”

“Of course, swooning.” Potter stops too, turning to face him, dropping his voice. “And you were always leaping out of corners at me…desperately trying to catch my attention, weren’t you? Like in fourth year, with the fan merch you made? What was it—Potter Stinks?”

Draco’s jaw drops, heat rapidly rising to his cheeks. “Fan merchandise? It was a badge, Potter. A badge!”

Potter grins, his eyes glinting. “One badge? Wasn’t it a whole line of custom-made badges? Quite impressive charmwork, really, for a fourth year—must’ve taken hours. And all for little old me?” He tilts his head, watching Draco’s irritation flare.

Draco bristles. “I was mocking you,” he hisses. “It was a joke.”

“Oh, I believe you.” Potter steps closer, so close Draco can feel the warmth radiating off him. “But still…seems like a lot of effort for someone you claimed to hate. All that time you spent…thinking about me.”

His presence is suddenly overwhelming, and Draco takes an instinctive step back.

“I wasn’t trying to impress you, Potter.”

Potter’s green eyes are gleaming with something like triumph.

“No? Are you sure?” His voice dips low as he leans in, his breath warm against Draco’s ear. “Because I distinctly remember you getting so distracted by me once that you missed the Snitch hovering right next to your ear.”

Draco’s cheeks burn. The proximity between them is unbearable now, and yet he can’t seem to move away. “I wasn’t—”

“Oh, but you were, Draco. You were always paying such close attention to me. Always watching, waiting for a chance to cut in. You never gave anyone else that kind of focus, did you? No one but me.”

Heat prickles at the back of Draco’s neck. What the hell is Potter playing at? 

“You’re actually deranged,” he says weakly.

“Am I?” Potter’s grin widens. “What about sixth year? We can laugh about it now, can’t we? I was watching you. But you knew that, didn’t you? You always knew. On the train—you didn’t cause a scene, didn’t call attention to me. You waited until we were alone. Why?”

Draco’s throat tightens. His skin is too hot under Potter’s intense scrutiny, and the air between them feels impossibly thin.

“Shut up,” he manages, but there’s no bite behind the words.

“Was it because you wanted to hurt me yourself?” Potter murmurs, sending a traitorous shiver down Draco’s spine. “Did you enjoy knowing that I was following you? Did you feel vindicated, knowing that it was my turn to be consumed by thoughts of you? Because I was, Draco. I spent hours tracking you, watching you.”

Draco can’t remember how to breathe.

“Tell me, Draco,” Potter breathes, his voice soft, almost coaxing. “How did it feel, having me so obsessed with you?”

Draco’s heart stutters. “You’re unhinged,” he says, but the words come out breathless.

“Maybe.” Potter smiles wickedly, then steps away, lets the tension dissipate.

He throws his head back and laughs. Potter actually laughs. 

Draco blinks, startled back to reality.

“Merlin, Malfoy, relax,” Potter says, grinning like an absolute idiot. 

“Excuse—?”

Potter’s grinning so wide Draco wonders if his face will split in two.

“I like it when you get flustered,” he tells him, as casually as if he were talking about the weather.

Draco’s left rather speechless, somewhere between outrage and disbelief.

Potter just winks, tossing a “See you around, Malfoy!” over his shoulder as he saunters off down the corridor, whistling some horribly off-key tune.

Draco watches him disappear around the corner, feeling rather like the ground has been pulled out from under him. He opens his mouth, groping for a clever retort, but nothing comes out.

Merlin save him, because if even Potter has joined this ridiculous charade now, Draco’s completely, utterly doomed.

Draco Malfoy has had enough. 

He’s going to confront Potter, once and for all, and finally figure out why Potter has decided to commit himself to personally tormenting Draco, why he’s been watching him so closely, and what on earth he thinks Draco’s doing except minding his own bloody business. 

So he skips Astronomy, intending to corner Potter in that little alcove window he favours.

He doesn’t expect to find it empty. Potter always sits in this alcove in his free periods when Draco has Astronomy class. He’s so shocked, he forgets to be embarrassed that by this point, he knows Potter’s schedule so well that he knows something must be wrong.

Before he can think, he moves to tuck himself into the alcove—just out of curiosity, of course—but instead of meeting the stone ledge, he stumbles across something horrifyingly warm.

Potter whips off his Invisibility Cloak with an almost predatory grin and Draco yelps, stumbling backwards, fingers scrabbling to get the fuck off him, good grief, this would most certainly go down as the most humiliating moment of his entire life, and he’d housed the lunatic Dark Lord and his incorrigible, murderous snake—

But then Potter, utter fool that he is, snakes his arms around Draco’s waist, pulling him in, and the next thing Draco knows, he’s pressed between Potter’s body and the cold stone wall. He can’t even tell how they ended up like this—Potter’s clumsiness, surely. But Potter’s breath is too close, warm against his skin, and he’s actually smiling—he’s enjoying this. Draco feels each exhale ripple the air between them, and it makes his skin crawl in ways that don’t make sense.

“What on earth—” Draco starts to say, scrambling, but Potter only laughs, dipping his head even closer, arms tightening around his waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world to him. 

Which is insane, because Draco can’t think of anything less natural than this.

“Looking for me, Malfoy?” he murmurs close to his ear, and Draco shivers involuntarily.

“Potter! I—what—unhand me this instant!” Draco sputters, trying to sound indignant, trying to sound anything but utterly undone. Which, he is not, of course.

But then Potter does something far worse: he rests his forehead lightly on Draco’s shoulder, and it’s such a simple, devastating thing, because Potter’s hair—messy and ridiculous and infuriatingly soft—now brushes against his neck, and Draco doesn’t know what’s happening to him.

Potter smells like woodsmoke and warmth, something that wraps around his senses and pulls him in, and Draco has to fight the urge to lean closer.

“Why’d you skip Astronomy class?” Potter asks into the crook of Draco’s neck.

“I—” Draco swallows, trying to force the words out. “I just wanted to ask you…”

“Ask me what?” Potter murmurs, and his mouth is close enough to graze the sensitive skin under Draco’s ear—though he doesn’t, and it’s the absence of contact that drives him mad—a thought which drives him even more mad.

“Why you’ve been following me,” Draco gasps out finally, and to his immense relief, Potter pulls back, just slightly, just enough to look into his eyes. 

But looking into his eyes is worse, and now he’s all too aware of the heat, the closeness, the firm press of Potter’s arms around him, and, Merlin, his eyes are so intense, so impossibly green.

To his surprise, Potter smiles and it could almost be described as affectionate, if Draco didn’t know any better.

“Is this the part where I pretend you weren’t the one following me first?” he says lightly, and Draco blanches.

It quickly dawns on him that Potter’s bizarre behaviour might be his way of retaliating—he can’t think of any other applicable reason—and this only makes him panic harder.

“I—I wasn't! Well, I wasn't following you on purpose! You just happened to be there and—” But he's rambling, and he knows it, and Potter knows it too. “Is this about the lake incident? I swear, I had nothing to do with it, Merlin's beard, I was just—”

Potter apparently has no interest in hard facts and the honest truth because he cuts off Draco’s babbling—not with words, but with his lips.

He kisses him, hard, and for a moment Draco’s too stunned to do anything but feel. It’s a kiss meant to disarm him, he knows, surely, but Potter’s lips are unfairly soft, softer than they should be, and his kiss is hungry but deliberate, and Draco's head falls back, and he hates that it feels so good. Potter’s hand slides up to cup the back of his head, cushioning him from the stone, and his other arm tightens around his waist, drawing him close—and Draco can’t believe the way his body betrays him as he melts into the warmth of Potter’s touch, the firmness of his body. His mind is reeling, his thoughts scattering, the only thing he can focus on is the press of Potter's mouth against his, the heat of his breath. 

He can’t help it, and he tells himself it’s instinct, that it’s shock. Potter tilts Draco’s head back, his gentle touch entirely at odds with his demanding mouth, and by the time he finally realises what the fuck, I’m kissing Harry Potter, Potter is pulling away, still nipping lightly at his bottom lip, before disentangling Draco’s embarrassingly slack body from his.

Still dazed, he thinks, surely now Potter will start to gloat, or fight with him, or get angry, or accuse him of murder or—something—but instead, he just smiles, leaning in one last time to brush his lips against the corner of Draco’s mouth, so softly he could’ve imagined it.

“See you tomorrow before breakfast?” he says, and then he’s gone.

What. The. Fuck.

Chapter Text

This is how Draco Malfoy finds himself in this predicament—two months before the start of exams—rapidly losing control of his life.

In hindsight, perhaps avoiding Potter for an entire school year had been a touch too ambitious.

He does not have the time nor energy to embark on a side quest to figure out what mind malfunction or mental malady has taken hold of Potter. He has studying to do, damn it.

And since the rest of the school has evidently also succumbed to the madness—he can’t exactly confide in anyone, either…because they all think Potter is his soulmate.

So he finds himself retreating back into the relative safety of solitude: hiding in his dorm, lying perfectly still, staring up at the ceiling and tracing invisible constellations between the cracks.

He most certainly does not want to see Potter.

Unfortunately, fate is a cruel little thing.

Or perhaps, Potter is simply unhinged. And persistent.

And Draco is utterly, utterly baffled.

Though Draco tries to avoid the common room and the Great Hall, he can’t exactly avoid his lessons—four of which he shares with Potter. He thinks it surely can’t be that terrible, since the two of them are only paired up in Potions (thanks a lot, Severus)—but he’s quickly proven wrong.

It starts with the touches—innocent, barely noticeable—but not accidental. Potter finds any excuse to touch him: fingers ghosting over his hand when passing an ingredient, a thumb wiping away a stain from his cheek, the lightest brushing of their arms. And the most maddening of all—when Potter insists on squeezing between that narrow gap between his back and the table behind, placing his hands lightly on Draco’s hips as he passes—just the briefest of touches, but it sears into his skin like a burn, lingering long after the fact.

He thinks he might just be losing his mind.

Potter clearly has no concept of personal space. He’ll place his hand over Draco’s to ‘help’ stir the cauldron (completely unnecessary), leaning in close enough that Draco can feel his breath graze his neck.

It only gets worse from there, if that’s even possible. Potter has taken to smiling at him with something almost like affection, and he’s so agreeable—polite, even—that it simply has to be part of some elaborate plot; nefarious, humiliating, or both.

And then there’s the hair. Potter has taken to gently sweeping Draco’s hair out of his eyes, and if Draco doesn’t say a word of protest, it’s only because he’s too focused on brewing a perfect NEWT-level potion to risk causing an explosion by jerking away from Potter’s wandering hands. Surely no one expects him to prioritise his dignity over his grades?

But then—it’s not just in class anymore.

The first time it happens, Potter volunteers them both to stay after class and clean up the aftermath of a particularly gruelling brewing session. He can’t imagine why Potter would want to linger in the dungeons, but he certainly doesn’t mind spending time with his godfather, and really, Draco has nowhere better to be. What truly baffles him is when Severus pulls Potter aside for a private word—and there’s no venom between them, no sharp remarks. In fact, Severus looks…almost at ease with Potter, Merlin knows why. 

Draco doesn’t know what to make of it.

When they finally leave, Draco barely has a second to register what’s happening before Potter’s arms are around his waist, tugging him—no, sweeping him—into an arched alcove, his back pressed against cool stone. And then Potter is kissing him, slow and sweet, like they have all the time in the world.

It’s so dizzying, Draco can’t tell if his feet are still on the ground, or if Potter is somehow holding him up, and Potter’s hands are everywhere—curling into his hair, trailing down his jaw, tracing the line of his spine. Draco doesn’t know when he started kissing back, when he let his lips part—he only knows that he hates how much he loves the taste of him, hates it so much he wants to drown in it.

It happens again, and again—Potter pulling him into hidden corners of the castle, kissing him senseless before anyone can see. The first few times, Potter doesn’t say much—and Draco is apparently incapable of saying anything at all. He just smiles in that maddeningly soft way that makes Draco’s stomach flip, and then leaves with a kiss that’s far too sweet for someone so aggravating.

Reason tells him that, for all his stupid, unrealistic fantasies, the fact remains that Potter clearly has ulterior motives. Draco isn’t fool enough to think this could be a display of genuine affection. Physical attraction? More likely, he’s Draco Malfoy after all, but still—doubtful, because it isn’t like Saint Potter’s not spoilt for choice.

Draco—Draco is a loner. He doesn’t have people he can fall back on, people he can confide in. He isn’t like Potter. Even if Potter somehow did want him, Draco can’t afford to let him in. For as much as he’s never seen eye to eye with Potter—even Draco isn’t delusional enough to think he’d be able to handle losing him.

No. If he even has a chance with Potter—it would be the end of him, while Potter would always have his friends, his fame—everything, to fall back on. 

Draco doesn’t much like those odds.

And maybe this is all Potter wants—kisses in the shadows, stolen moments when nobody’s looking. Draco can live with that. He doesn’t need more.

But, Merlin help him, a part of him wishes Potter would ask for it.

One night, Draco hears footsteps shuffling down the stairs, and he knows who it is. It’s just past three in the morning, and the world outside is still cloaked in darkness.

Before he can think it through, he slips out of bed, padding quietly down the stairs—and there’s Potter, rumpled as ever, clearly about to sneak out. But the moment he sees Draco, his face lights up, his eyes softening as he bounds over like an overexcited crup.

“Were you going flying at this hour?” Draco asks, a little breathlessly, between kisses.

Potter’s lips curl into that gentle smile, the one that always seems to disarm him. “Why? Worried about me, Malfoy?”

“Of course not.” Draco wrinkles his nose, but Potter’s watching him closely.

“Couldn’t sleep either?”

Draco shakes his head, shivering slightly. His silk pyjamas are thin, and he hadn’t thought to grab his dressing gown before chasing after Potter.

Potter glances over at the hearth. “I wasn’t going to fly just yet. Thought I’d sit by the fire for a bit. Join me?”

So they end up tangled together on the sofa, bundled in blankets—but this time, Potter doesn’t kiss him, doesn’t talk. He just lets Draco drape himself over his body, looping his arms protectively around his back. Draco buries his face in the crook of his neck, which somehow smells even better than his cologne—a little earthy, like moss and sweat and firewood.

It’s the most soothing sleep he’s had in a while, but when he wakes, he’s alone in his own bed.

Draco knows that it isn’t a good idea for him to seek Potter out; he should take what he can get, and nothing more. But something about the way Potter makes him feel when they’re together, something about those kisses, seems to have eroded his common sense. So, like an imbecile, he finds himself slipping out after Potter one morning.

Potter doesn’t go flying this time. He’s down by the lake, barefoot, toes dipping into the shallow waves by the shore. Dawn hasn’t broken yet, but the sky is tinged with a soft, pale blue.

Draco stays beneath the chestnut tree, watching from a distance.

Usually, Potter will throw on his Invisibility Cloak when he’s ready to head back to the castle, and Draco will wait for him to disappear before he makes his own way up. But today, he seems to have blinked and missed it—because when he looks up again, Potter is gone, the lake stretching out empty before him.

He sits beneath the tree a little longer, casting another warming charm to replace the last—and then Potter’s there, murmuring a string of words into his ear, words Draco can’t quite detangle. But he can feel Potter’s arms around him, and the warm, firm chest pressed to his back—and then Potter’s lips are on his. It’s not soft, not gentle this time—but urgent, frantic, Potter’s mouth moving against his almost feverishly, pulling ragged gasps from Draco’s throat into the cold morning air.

And Draco knows, with exams looming, and graduation on the horizon, that this—whatever this is—may only last a few more months. Three, at best.

But as Potter’s hands tangle in his hair and his kisses leave Draco breathless and undone, he thinks…it could be worse. It could definitely be worse.

Potter has started to get reckless which, as expected, means that Draco’s saddled with the task of keeping him in check.

The stolen kisses are becoming more and more frequent, as if Potter’s started caring less and less who might catch them. Sometimes, the bell hasn’t even finished ringing and Draco’s already being dragged away into some hidden corner of the castle.

He’s become so sloppy that he’s even started grabbing Draco’s hand absent-mindedly; not just a quick touch—he actually laces their fingers together, which is very considerate of him, clearly thinking about Draco’s poor circulation, but—honestly, what would people think if they were to see? He finds himself constantly having to counter Potter’s carelessness, berating him when he gets too bold, though he hardly seems to notice at all.

Draco can’t understand how someone so desperate to keep their relationship hidden could be so reckless. It’s a miracle no one’s noticed yet—though he chalks that up to his own efforts for discretion, in spite of Potter’s determination to ruin his own sanity.

And yet, Draco finds himself clinging to those moments, even as his heart pounds in his chest, as his eyes dart around to make sure no one’s looking.

The eighth-years have taken to gathering in the evenings for study sessions, so Draco’s stopped avoiding the common room—though, naturally, he sticks close to Theo and Pansy. That is, until everyone else finally shuffles off to bed, leaving him alone with Potter. In those quiet moments, when the firelight flickers and the shadows stretch towards them, Draco lets himself believe—just for a breath—that they could be something real. As if, when no one’s watching and the silence softens the night, the impossible might be almost within reach.

When Potter asks if Draco might like to go to Hogsmeade, he doesn’t even look up from his book. “Good heavens, no,” he says, feet curled up against Potter’s side. If Potter looks slightly crestfallen, Draco doesn’t notice.

Easter rolls around, and a rather baffling letter arrives from Mother, cryptically reminding him to invite Harry home for the holidays. He stares at it, dumbfounded. Why on earth would she suggest such a thing? Mother’s quite possibly going a bit mad, rattling around the empty Manor with no one but the house-elves for company. There’s no reason to even mention it to Potter—he probably has plans with Ron and Hermione, anyway.

Draco’s still packing frantically when Theo strolls in, grinning, with Potter in tow.

“Hey,” Potter says from the doorway.

“Oh—hello.” Draco doesn’t turn around, too busy wrestling with his trunk, which is stubbornly refusing to shut. He hasn’t even packed that much.

“So…you’re spending the hols with Narcissa?”

“Yep.” Draco throws the response over his shoulder, still fighting with the lid.

“Just the two of you?” Potter’s voice sounds unusually careful, and it gives Draco pause.

“Are you ill?” he asks, turning to assess him properly.

“No.”

Draco frowns. “Oh. Well, of course, it’s just the two of us. My father’s in Azkaban…?”

Potter just nods. “Right. Okay, then.” He turns to leave before Draco can even begin to decipher his expression.

“You won’t be able to hide Harry from your mother forever, you know,” Theo says from where he’s lounging casually on his bed, his light tone not quite matching the sharpness in his eyes.

“Well, of course not,” Draco snorts. Forever? He doesn’t have time to dissect Theo’s eccentricities today.

Theo, however, seems placated by this. His grin returns. “Glad to hear it. Ah, you just want him all to yourself for a little longer, don’t you?” He waggles his eyebrows, and Draco rolls his eyes in response. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep him out of trouble while you’re gone.”

“Potter’s staying here for Easter?” he asks distractedly, giving his trunk another hard shove.

Theo shoots him a curious look. “Yeah, didn’t you—”

Draco doesn’t hear the rest, glancing at the clock. “Christ, I’ve got to run—”

In his rush, he doesn’t manage to find Potter to say goodbye before leaving. Not that it matters, he tells himself. It’s probably better this way.

He’s practically hurtling across the main entrance when he nearly collides with Severus, who regards him with a slight frown.

“Draco. Are you going home for Easter?”

Draco adjusts his floating trunk and glances at him, confused. Surely Severus should know this by now. “Well, yes. I always do.”

“Alone?” Severus’s tone shifts almost imperceptibly.

Draco pauses, blinking. “Do you know any other Malfoys at this school?”

Severus raises an eyebrow but says nothing as he sweeps past, leaving Draco to hurry out, still puzzling over everyone’s peculiar behaviour.

He boards the train still feeling as though he’s missing something, some grand joke that no one’s bothered to let him in on.

He finds out soon enough, though, because Mother is absolutely furious when he arrives at the Manor.

Draco barely makes it past the threshold before Narcissa’s voice cuts through the air, her footsteps echoing across the polished marble.

“Draco.”

Her tone is measured, but he knows her well enough to detect the chill beneath it. She sweeps towards him, and he straightens his spine instinctively.

“Mother,” he says cautiously, setting his trunk down. “Is something the matter?”

“Is something the matter?” Her tone is incredulous. “The matter, Draco, is that I have been planning for weeks—weeks—to host a guest for the holidays, and you have apparently gone out of your way to forget him.”

Draco blinks. “A guest?”

Narcissa stares at him like he’s lost his mind. “Harry,” she says slowly, clearly thinking he’s being deliberately obtuse.

“I—I beg your pardon?”

“Harry. Potter,” she repeats, as though he might have forgotten who that is. “I distinctly remember telling you to invite him for Easter. And yet—here you are, alone.”

“But—why on earth would I invite Potter?” He stares at her helplessly, wondering if she might have come down with something.

Narcissa’s eyes narrow. “Because, Draco,” she says icily, “he’s your boyfriend.”

The world tilts on its axis. “What?”

“Oh, don’t pretend you haven’t been writing about him in every other letter since September,” she huffs, folding her arms.

Draco blanches. “Mother, we’re not—he’s not—we aren’t dating!”

Her expression turns even frostier. “So you’re telling me that you’ve been sneaking around with him for months, and it isn’t because you’re romantically involved?”

He opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a strangled noise. “How—how could you even—”

“Draco,” she says, with the long-suffering patience of someone dealing with a particularly slow child, “I am your mother. Did you honestly think you could hide something like this from me?”

“But—no one even knows—”

“No one knows?” Her eyebrows lift in disbelief. “Draco, I am quite literally under house arrest, and even I know! At Christmas, I thought perhaps I should give you more time to come to your senses, but really, this is getting absurd—”

“At Christmas?” he blurts out, baffled. “We weren’t even friends then!”

Narcissa sighs. “Darling, you’ve been obsessed with the boy since you were eleven. Severus tells me you’ve barely left his side since September—”

“Severus?” Draco yelps, horrified. “Why would he—?”

She gives him a look that plainly says, You poor, oblivious thing. “Really, Draco. Do you think you’re being subtle?”

His mind scrambles to keep up. “But—but Potter doesn’t—Mother, he doesn’t feel that way about me—”

Her lips press into a thin line, and she folds her arms again. “Do you truly believe that?”

Draco deflates, his throat tightening. He can’t very well say Potter only wants me in secret to his own mother, can he?

She sniffs disdainfully. “You needn’t be so dramatic. The boy clearly cares for you.”

A cold, horrifying thought strikes him—the letters, the way Potter had asked about the holidays. “You—you already invited him, didn’t you?”

“I may have hinted that I would like to meet him properly over tea,” Narcissa says, her lips twitching faintly, “but I left it to you to extend the invitation. Evidently, I made the mistake of assuming you would have the sense to actually issue it.”

“Mother,” he says, a frantic edge to his voice. “It isn’t like that. He doesn’t—”

“Do not be absurd, Draco,” she snaps impatiently. “Really, it’s painfully obvious.”

His heart races. “What have you said to him?”

Her irritation melts just a touch, though her tone remains sharp. “I merely wrote to him to thank him for his support after...over the summer. I would never interfere directly in your relationship, Draco,” she says, as though that should be comforting.

“But—”

Narcissa cuts him off, her eyes hardening. “You will return to Hogwarts and spend the remainder of the holiday there,” she declares, her tone leaving no room for argument. “As you have failed to bring Harry, I see no reason for you to remain here. Do not even bother unpacking.”

With a final, reproachful stare, she turns on her heel and glides back down the hall, leaving Draco standing in the entryway, utterly floored.

Draco stares up at the ceiling.

The day seems to have passed by in a dream—the fact that he let his mother shoo him out of his own home without so much as a peep of protest is a testament to his entirely uncharacteristic stupor.

Though it wasn’t a particularly long journey to Apparate to Hogsmeade from the Manor, it was nightfall by the time he’d made it back to the castle. And, to his absolute astonishment, he had entered the common room to be greeted by—concern. Potter’s concern, which couldn’t have been more blatant if he’d been wearing a Muggle shirt with I Heart Draco Malfoy splayed across it: a ridiculous mental image, and quite possibly a sign of Draco’s imminent descent into madness.

But—with his mother’s words still bouncing around in his vacant skull, even Draco can’t conjure an alternative explanation. Potter, who had rushed over to him before the door had even swung shut behind him, his arms around him like the only solid thing in the world, his eyes wild with worry. He’d touched him quickly but almost tenderly, as though afraid to find him injured, his voice frantic as he asked whether he was alright, if Narcissa was alright.

Of course he’d be worried—Draco had inexplicably returned after leaving just that morning! Idiot, virtuous, Good Samaritan Potter, who can’t even bear to see his own arch-nemesis in distress; that infuriatingly self-sacrificial dolt with all the subtlety of a hippogriff in heat. The boy whose witless displays of ostentatious loyalty had never failed to provoke Draco’s temper.

But now, on the receiving end of Potter’s…devotion—now that they’re somewhat involved—somehow, it’s no longer anger that flutters inside his chest.

Lying in his bed at night, for the first time, he wonders whether he’s got it all wrong.

It quickly becomes apparent that most of the eighth-years had decided to stay over the hols, something he is both eternally grateful for (to have Pansy and Theo to lament his woeful confusion to) and uniquely tormented by (to have Pansy and Theo bear witness to said confusion).

“I believe I may have erred,” he says to them without looking up. They’re in the library, hiding from certain green-eyed harbingers of chaos—ahem, studying for their NEWTs.

“Only marginally, of course,” he adds, calm and casual as ever. It’s merely due to Slytherin shrewdness—and Pansy and Theo’s chronic nosiness—that their beady eyes snap to him at once, like he’s just handed them supper on a silver platter. (Why does it feel like they’re ready to butter him up for the main course?)

“Oh?” Pansy begins, dark eyes glinting. “What have you done this time?”

“Yes, do tell, Draco. I can barely keep up, what with your—ah, inclination to err,” says Theo, who has clearly been spending far too much time with Potter—he’s about as subtle as a Bludger to the head.

Draco purses his lips, smooths the pages of his textbook, then leans back to regard them loftily. Really, if he squints, they might just morph into Crabbe and Goyle before his very eyes.

As someone with far more tact, Draco knows how to play his cards. He takes a deep breath.

Slytherins keep each other’s secrets, after all.

“My mother appears to be under the impression that Potter and I have been…canoodling,” he says, watching them carefully.

The reaction is, frankly, underwhelming. Pansy arches one perfect brow, and Theo just looks at him expectantly, as if to say, And?

Draco falters. “Well?” he demands, covering up his surprise with irritation. “Aren’t you two going to enlighten me with your unsolicited advice, despite my obvious lack of enthusiasm?”

Pansy exchanges a barely perceptible glance with Theo.

“Draco, are you truly curious about your mother’s methods of infiltrating the school gossip, or is this a thinly veiled attempt to ask for relationship advice?” she drawls, her tone dripping with amusement.

He blinks. “Relationship advice?”

“Oh, excellent,” says Theo, leaning forwards eagerly. “I’ve been itching for a chance to be someone’s Agony Aunt, ever since Hermione showed me that Muggle magazine—”

“I’m sorry!” Draco sputters, then lowers his voice, glancing around. “What do you mean, relationship advice? I’m not in a relationship!”

Pansy’s other eyebrow rises to meet the first, vanishing into her perfectly straight bangs.

“Surely we’re past the pretences now, Draco. Did you intend to discuss your mother and your boyfriend without having to say the words?”

Draco stiffens. “He’s not—”

But he stops himself. Pansy isn’t an imbecile, and he can tell she’s not joking now. She must…know something.

He stares at her. “You know about the kissing.”

Her eyes narrow into slits. “The kissing?”

Oh. Maybe she didn’t know. Draco flushes, looking away.

“Well—Potter and I may have recently…initiated a purely physical arrangement, if you could even call it that. He may have kissed me—sporadically. Over the past few months. Several times…”

He trails off, wilting slightly under their identical looks of disbelief.

Oh, he’s done it now. He’s let the Kneazle out of the sack. He knows precisely what they’re going to say, and suddenly he can’t bear to hear it. That he should have known better than to get involved with a bloody Gryffindor, that it’s Potter and he’s a Malfoy, that—

“Draco. You can’t honestly believe we didn’t already know that,” Theo says, looking almost comically bemused.

“I—wh—pardon?”

Pansy rolls her eyes to the ceiling and makes a dramatic gesture over her heart. “Heavens, it’s like watching one of those Muggle contraptions collide with a Permanent Sticking Charm; I can’t look away. You’re hopeless, Draco. Everyone knows about your clandestine love affair—”

“My what?”

Memories press against the edges of his mind, of stolen kisses and secret, green-eyed glances, hands brushing hands, late nights curling into early mornings…

“—we just assumed you weren’t ready to announce it yet, what with your inferiority complex and general aura of impending doom and gloom—”

“B-but we’ve been discreet!” he bursts out, nearly bolting upright.

“Discreet?” Pansy shrieks into his ear just as Theo sighs, “As discreet as a dragon in a broom cupboard.”

Suddenly, the need to explain himself, to make them understand, overtakes him—before he knows it, the words are tumbling out on a string, one after another.

“I—it just sort of happened. I don’t even remember how it started, but we’ve never talked about feelings—he just drags me into corners and we kiss, sometimes, and that’s it, but my mother seems to think, thanks to Severus, that we’re dating, and she was furious I didn’t invite him home, so she sent me back to the castle, and now I’m utterly confused because Potter was actually concerned when I got back, almost like he cared, but he’s just this insufferable, good-natured twat, and he probably acts this way with everyone, and I’m losing my mind!” He collapses back into his chair, cheeks flaming.

Oh. He’s such a fool.

He likes Potter.

Salazar have mercy.

Silence descends. Pansy opens her mouth, but Theo cuts in first. Just as well—her expression alone could have carved him open.

“Draco,” he says with exaggerated calm. “Please, please tell me you know you’re dating Harry Potter.”

Draco does his best impression of a fish out of water—perhaps not entirely on purpose.

“You can’t possibly be this oblivious. Salazar would be rolling in his grave—”

“What are you—”

“—and don’t even try to pretend you don’t like him, you’ve been following him like a shadow for half the year—”

Draco pales. “I—thought I was—I wasn’t doing anything nefarious! I was just—I had to memorise his schedule. In order to avoid him.”

The words hang before his eyes and, hearing them aloud, he suddenly wants to dig a hole and hide in it.

Pansy looks positively dangerous, her gaze so steely it could fell a troll. “Draco, darling,” she says silkily. “You are so pitifully inept at lurking in the shadows, you might just single-handedly dismantle the entire legacy of the House of Slytherin.

“You may as well have leapt out in front of him dressed as a dementor, doused him in amortentia, and whacked him on the head with your wand. Your only saving grace is that Harry, bless his poor soul, is possibly the only person who could rival you for sheer cluelessness.”

He opens his mouth dumbly, but Pansy’s merciless dissection of his life continues, sparing him from having to conjure up a coherent response.

“And despite all of that, Harry’s somehow realised his feelings before you. The boy’s been hanging off your every word for months! He’s practically glued to your side like a lovesick cruppy. He’s been asking you out on dates for weeks, which you’ve kept refusing, by the way—honestly, we just thought you were being a hermit. A blind bat would have seen you two holding hands under the desk in Potions. Don’t you dare insult my intelligence, Draco Lucius Malfoy, as if we haven’t all been sharing quarters with the pair of you,” she finishes haughtily, holding his gaze with a glower.

“It’s actually quite sickening,” Theo adds cheerfully.

Draco’s heart sinks as he tries to process their words.

“Salazar’s soiled smock!”

Draco is panicking.

Potter had easily swallowed his clumsy excuses that he’d simply changed his mind about spending Easter at home—though, having been subjected to a thorough berating from Pansy and Theo behind a Silencing Charm in the library (they’ve clearly been learning from Hermione), Draco has lost all faith in his ability to deflect suspicion from himself.

Everything seems normal—well, as normal as it could be in a world where Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy willingly snog each other senseless.

He’s loath to label himself an over-thinker, but what can those cursed with superior intellect do but think? Hermione would understand, he thinks forlornly.

Idly, he wonders if being Draco Malfoy is a curse in itself. Would he rather be figuring out how to unleash Death Eaters upon the school, or his feelings for Harry Potter?

Ugh.

Because now that the thought has been planted, he can’t seem to stop it from growing, can’t seem to find the strength to cast it aside. It spreads like a stain, tied to each traitorous beat of his heart.

Does Potter like him?

(He almost winces instinctively—if Pansy could hear his inner musings, she’d clobber him over the head in exasperation.)

Draco prides himself on being practical and sensible, driven by reason and logic. Survival. He’s not one for flowers and roses (save for his mother’s wonderful rose garden), nor is he one to indulge in unrealistic dreams (his adolescent aspirations were drilled into him by Father!), and he certainly wouldn’t throw himself into the deep end with only the faintest hope of success (he hardly had a choice in sixth year, alright?)

It isn’t even whether Potter likes him that gnaws at him—thanks, Pansy—it’s what might happen if he does.

How could it possibly work? He’s a Death Eater, albeit reformed, never mind that his mother helped Potter save the world, and that they both seem disconcertingly at ease with that.

He’s a Slytherin who once hurled despicable slurs at Hermione—when did he even start calling her that?—with little to no understanding of the true weight of those words.

He’ll have to beg for forgiveness—go on a whole apology tour. Good grief; would he even be able to get through all of the Weasleys before he inevitably ages into a relic?

Merlin, would he have to actually confess his feelings? Pray against all odds that he wouldn’t be rejected again by the insufferable Saviour? (Insufferable and, unfortunately, far too lovely for someone so intent on ruining Draco’s life.)

Though, there’s no denying Potter has been rather considerate lately—has been for weeks, in fact.

Which brings him to another problem: despite Draco’s instinct for self-preservation (call it stubbornness all you want—gah), Mother, Pansy, and Theo had all made it painfully clear that Potter’s been trying to win his affections for weeks while he “sulked and assumed the worst of everyone, as usual”. Logic would dictate that Draco should be the one to make the next move.

Heavens, must he be coerced into bulldozing his own dignity once again for Harry bloody Potter? Would he be condemned to forever atone for his past sins?

Potter, of course, that emerald-eyed blockhead, has been cheerful as ever, absolutely lovely, and blissfully oblivious to the invisible storm raging within Draco’s head.

How had he missed it before? Pansy was right (to his dismay, despite his traitorous heart). Potter clearly wasn’t attempting to hide his affection whatsoever; evidently, Draco’s own attempts at discretion had been in vain.

How could he have ever thought Potter must harbour some ulterior motive? He’s never been able to conceal his true thoughts to save his life.

Draco had been mistaken: Potter simply has nothing in that head of his to hide. (If he were to knock on it, would it echo?)

He sighs, resigning himself to the terrible, terrifying burden of winning Potter’s heart.

For all of Draco’s meticulous schemes and master plans—when it happens, it’s entirely unintentional.

They’re sprawled on the sofa in front of the dwindling fire, limbs tangled together, Draco’s head resting on Potter’s chest, as two people who are not boyfriends often do.

It’s too easy to lose track of time here, in his arms. Draco is shaken from his sleepy stupor by a single, shudderingly maudlin thought:

When did his arms around me start feeling like home?

(The less sentimental thought—Will I ever be released from the curse of having my life ruined by Harry bloody Potter?—also flits through his mind, but he graciously ignores it.)

He doesn’t mean to blurt it out—he’s not someone who doesn’t think before he speaks, like an impulsive Gryffindor—but Potter’s fingers are threaded through his hair, lightly stroking; Draco can’t help but sink into the sensation, it feels like…safety, and then Potter shifts, adjusting their bodies to lie down more comfortably, and kisses the top of Draco’s white-blond head. So absent-mindedly, it’s like he doesn’t even have to think about it.

Guilt creeps into his heart—by some twisted miracle, Potter’s still interested in him, and Draco’s unending inability to do anything hasn’t sent him running for the hills. He’d had his epiphany weeks ago—the begrudging admittance of his very inconvenient feelings for Potter—yet he still hasn’t summoned the courage to even say it, let alone act on it—or to attempt something truly wild like calling him by his given name, Salazar wept.

And Potter’s somehow shown practically virginal levels of patience—barely even mentioning it, let alone expressing frustration.

So Draco—very bravely, he thinks, the Gryffindors would actually applaud—mumbles into Potter’s neck, “I like you.”

And then he immediately squeezes his eyes shut and braces for the inevitable collapse of civilisation as he knows it.

To his utmost surprise, the windows don’t break. The wind doesn’t scream its way in through the cracks; the embers don’t roar into a spontaneous inferno, rising up to incinerate the room.

The air remains, flowing steadily through his lungs—even though his heart is pounding so hard, surely Potter must hear it rattling against his chest.

In the wake of his reality-tearing confession, there is only a gentle movement against his hair, like Potter’s lips tugging upwards, and a soft, barely audible murmur that sounds suspiciously like, “Aww.” 

What the hell?

Frowning, Draco lifts his head, stealing a peek. Potter’s eyes are closed, a faint smile plastered on his face, and the only sign he’s even awake is his hand, still absently stroking the nape of Draco’s neck.

“Oi, Potter.” Draco pokes his cheek. “Did you even hear what I just said?”

The git doesn’t even bother to open his eyes. “Mm,” he hums in response, pulling Draco’s head back down for a light peck.

“Well? Aren’t you going to say anything back?” Draco demands.

Potter’s only answer is a soft laugh, his breath warm against Draco’s lips as he murmurs, “You’re so cute when you’re clingy.”

Right, that’s it. Clearly, the idiot’s gone completely senile at eighteen, there’s another world record he’s set.

Draco scrambles upright, disentangling himself from Potter, who lets out a small grunt of dissent and—finally—deigns to open his eyes. He sits up with the dazed look of someone rudely woken from a nap, his hair sticking out at angles Draco would describe as ghastly if they weren’t so infuriatingly him.

“What’s wrong?” Potter asks, green eyes bleary.

“What’s wrong? Are you serious? I just told you—I just confessed something to you, you absolute dunderhead, and you barely even reacted!” Draco tries not to huff, looking away to hide his embarrassment.

Potter blinks owlishly. “Well, yeah. Of course you do?”

Draco bristles, momentarily speechless. “Of course I do? You arrogant prick! Are you even trying to take this seriously? Aren’t Gryffindors supposed to be brave and righteous and all that rubbish?” he snaps. “Yet here you are, Saint Potter, with that stupid smirk on your face, not even having the decency to reject me properly—calling me clingy, well I’ll have you know—”

Potter’s gormless mouth has fallen open. “Reject you—hang on, what?”

Draco stares at him as though he’s just declared himself Supreme Mugwump of the Department of Dunderheads.

“Well, typically, Potter, for people who weren’t raised by beasts, it’s considered polite to respond to a confession of—of romantic intent with either a reciprocal declaration of interest, or a rueful rebuttal—which, might I add, should be followed up with a formal letter of apology to the family of the rebuffed!”

Potter lets out a snort, clamping a hand over his mouth to try in vain to contain it, his shoulders shaking with barely suppressed laughter. Draco glares, crossing his arms. Really, this is who he’s decided to fall for?

Potter reaches out and, ignoring his feeble protests, tugs Draco back into his arms, smiling at him stupidly (it absolutely doesn’t make Draco’s heart flutter).

“But I love that you’re clingy. All this just because I didn’t say I like you too?” Potter laughs breathily. “You already know I do, silly.”

“Excuse me? I most certainly do not!” Draco splutters. “That’s the first time I’ve told you that, you monumental nitwit, unless you’re actually thick enough to have confused me with someone else?”

Potter looks bemused again. (When does he not?) He leans back and regards Draco seriously, brows furrowing, as if he might be the one grappling with some brain-blundering affliction.

“Draco, obviously I know you like me,” he says slowly, as if explaining to him that the Dark Lord would not, in fact, be a fun party guest. “I thought you knew that…I’ve been waiting to tell you I love you?”

It’s Draco’s turn to gape at him. “What in Merlin’s name—?”

The crease between Potter’s brows deepens. “Well, I just thought we already made our grand declarations of love months ago?”

“When?” Draco demands.

Green eyes search his face, a little frantically, as though hoping to find some hidden clue scribbled across his forehead.

“When we literally stalked each other all year? Merlin, Draco! That first time—I mean, I wouldn’t have kissed you like that if I hadn’t been absolutely sure you liked me?”

He looks so bewildered it might have been funny, if Draco’s soul hadn’t just been tossed out of his body.

Whatever expression Draco’s face is making now seems to soften something in Potter’s eyes.

“Oh…I thought you knew, love. Luna told me about the hexing. So I started keeping an eye out for you—and you were always there, lurking behind a tree or a wall, wherever I went. I know that’s how you were able to get to Hagrid so quickly, that morning I fell into the lake. At first, I thought you were following me for your own safety. But just knowing you were there became…calming.”

He pauses. “I think Luna understood—that I sometimes liked to be near people without the pressure of words or social interaction. Then I started following you too, just in case you needed backup or…company.”

Draco stares at him, his mind reeling. Potter gives him an awkward, apologetic smile.

“I thought…well, I thought you’d caught on that we were following each other on purpose,” Potter says, scratching the back of his neck. “I thought you knew that it was our…thing.”

Draco feels his cheeks heat. He can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Let me get this straight—you knew you had feelings for me back then?”

Merlin, had he really been the last to know?

Potter looks sheepish. “Well, not exactly. It took a push from Hermione for me to realise that it had nothing to do with protecting you anymore—”

“Potter, I was never being hexed—never mind.” Draco’s eye twitches as he adds Luna to his mental list of people to demand explanations from…

“Heavens, am I really that abysmal at being discreet?” he groans miserably.

Potter ruffles his hair, looking even more sheepish. ”To be fair, I had an advantage. I have this Map,” he explains, pulling out a large piece of parchment and tapping it with his wand.

Slowly, as if pulled from a memory, inked lines begin to unfurl, forming a blueprint of the castle. Draco watches the moving names in amazement.

“…so I’d use it to check on you, make sure you were safe. And when you’d follow me down to the lake in the mornings, I’d sit there for a bit, just looking at our names side by side on the Map. It was oddly comforting,” he finishes, blushing furiously.

Draco’s mind struggles to keep up. “You mean to tell me,” he says, his voice dangerously calm, “that you’ve been using this to stalk me? You’ve had this all year?”

Potter’s eyes widen in alarm. “I—well, I’ve had it since third year, actually, but—are you angry? I didn’t mean to—”

Draco huffs a laugh that, regrettably, comes out more deranged than dignified.

“That’s how you always managed to be one step ahead of me? I thought I was going insane, Salazar save me, you’re telling me you had this ridiculously overpowered artefact that defies the ancient magic of Hogwarts itself, while I had to stalk you manually? Potter, do you know how many hours I spent lurking in alcoves?”

Potter blinks, taken aback. “That’s what you’re upset about?”

Draco decides to preserve what’s left of his dignity and ignore him. “But aren’t you annoyed that I kept—ah, unintentionally rejecting you…? My mother—she told me she was in contact with you…” A thought suddenly crosses his mind. ”Did she tell you I liked you, for Merlin’s sake, is that how she knew—”

Potter laughs, his expression fond. “Calm down! No—first of all, none of this has anything to do with Narcissa—or at least, we didn’t explicitly discuss our relationship. I swear, she only wrote me to thank me for my testimony, and then we just kept writing each other. Though, I may not have exactly been subtle about my feelings…

“Secondly, I always knew it might take some time for you to be comfortable with us as a couple, and all the changes that come with that. I mean, I thought you weren’t ready to be seen with me publicly, or bring me to the Manor just yet. But I never doubted your feelings—I just thought maybe you needed the space to figure things out in your own time.”

Draco falls quiet for a moment.

“So…do you really love me?”

“Yes,” Potter says simply.

Draco’s heart speeds up, but he swiftly squashes it and drawls, “Well, say I did—hypothetically, of course—love you back…haven’t you thought about how difficult it would be to date an ex-Death Eater?”

He glances away.

“I mean, even if I’m reformed, people aren’t going to forget what my family did overnight. It’s not suitable for me to date the Boy Who Lived, is it?”

Potter regards him seriously. “It’s more than that, isn’t it? You’re not afraid of what strangers who don’t even know us will say. Your father’s in Azkaban, you’ve been cleared, and your mother saved my life—people know that. What’s really scaring you?”

Draco tries not to waver under his gaze. “It’s just that we could never be…on equal footing. I’d always be terrified of losing you—and if I did, I’d lose all the good in my life. I…I don’t have friends, Potter. People don’t like me the way they like you. I’ve spent my life thinking loyalty comes from power and status, and I don’t have either anymore, so…”

“What—? You really think you don’t have friends?” Potter’s eyebrows lift in disbelief.

“Look, I’ve got Pansy and Theo, sure, but they weren’t Death Eaters. They stick by me out of Slytherin loyalty—but even they’re getting along with everyone who fought on the right side of the war. I called your best friend slurs, my insane aunt tortured her in my house, poor Luna was locked in our bloody dungeons—”

“You’re really serious, aren’t you?” Potter interrupts, wide-eyed. “You genuinely haven’t noticed?”

At Draco’s flabbergasted expression, he continues abruptly, “How does Hermione take her tea?”

“I don’t see how—well, milk and one sugar, except of course when she drinks apple and cinnamon tea in the evening—”

“What’s Ron’s favourite subject?”

“Lunch,” Draco answers automatically.

“What plants does Neville keep in the greenhouse that can enhance a cure for a migraine?”

Draco frowns. “Jewelweed, mandrake root, lavender, and peppermint. But what’s that got to—”

“And how do you know that, despite not taking NEWT Herbology?”

“Um. Because I worked with Neville to brew a cure when you had a migraine.”

“And?” Potter prompts.

Draco sighs, defeated. “And…I brewed more for Madame Pomfrey when Neville had one.”

“And what does Luna—”

“Alright, Potter, I get it,” he mumbles.

Potter nods, satisfied. “They’re your friends too, Draco.”

Still processing this, he says, “Are you saying they…more than tolerate me?”

Potter grins. “Didn’t you notice when you started calling even Ron by his first name?”

“There are too many Weasleys. It became too tedious to differentiate,” he tries lamely.

“Didn’t you used to call Ginny ‘Weaslette’?”

Draco’s lips twitch. “Fine, maybe I see your point…wait, then why aren’t you upset that I still call you ‘Potter’?” It dawns on him that Potter, one step ahead as always, already calls him Draco.

He tilts his head thoughtfully. “Oh, that. I never minded you calling me ‘Potter’, actually. I just thought you were being cute, you know, telling me that it’s our special thing. Like the stalking!” He grins. “Though, I wouldn’t be opposed to finally graduating to ‘Harry’. We are dating, after all.”

Draco buries his head in his hands. “Good Lord, this is the most embarrassing moment of my entire life.”

“This is the best moment of mine,” Potter—Harry—tells him solemnly.

Draco grumbles, “Well, the whole school’s been on some barmy mission to get us together. They’ll go mental once they find out we’re actually dating. How on earth are we going to break the news?”

An exasperated chorus erupts from somewhere behind them. “WE ALREADY KNOW!”

Well. To hell with being discreet; clearly he’s always been rubbish at it anyway.

Without another thought, Draco clambers further onto Harry’s lap and snogs him senseless.

So, despite having managed to fail spectacularly at two out of three of his very simple resolutions, perhaps it isn’t so bad: Draco still has a chance to meet his academic goals, and he’s somehow ended up with a boyfriend (quite an adequate consolation prize in the grand scheme of things, really).

The news was met with a wave of near-universal indifference. The general consensus seemed to be some variation of “Finally!” delivered with all the fanfare of Madame Pince receiving an overdue library book.

Theo, whom Draco had thought would have the decency to at least feign surprise, merely said, “Thank Merlin, I was starting to think I’d have to stage an intervention.”

Pansy didn’t bother to grace him with words at all; her exaggerated sigh and pitying eye roll spoke volumes.

The Gryffindors responded in much the same vein: Ron gave a grunt of approval between mouthfuls of pie, followed by a suggestive eyebrow wiggle that Draco actively chose not to interpret.

Hermione muttered something about “unresolved tension” with a gleam in her eye that suggested she was dangerously close to burying herself in textbooks with titles like Wand to Wand: A Complete Guide to Wizard Love, Sex, and Intimacy (and, of course, dragging the two of them to hell with her).

Thankfully, the rapid approach of the dreaded NEWT examinations provided a convenient distraction, as Hermione took to loudly threatening every unsuspecting student in her vicinity to focus on their revision, in order to move onto ‘stable employment with respectable institutions that can provide indispensable benefits such as mental health resources’. This was often punctuated with grim warnings such as ‘unless you want to be a struggling war veteran, crippled by trauma, raving mad in the streets, addicted to unhealthy coping mechanisms, and ruining your life’. (Draco, admittedly, may have found his rival in the melodrama department.)

The sole heartfelt reaction came from Neville, who congratulated them earnestly and patted Draco on the shoulder, bless his heart.

Luna, of course, was Luna. She simply looked at Draco with her usual faraway yet shrewd expression, as though solving the great mysteries of the universe, before murmuring something about how the flutterfawns would be throwing a lovely celebration in his honour.

Then, with the kind of surreal clarity only Luna could summon, she turned to Harry and enthusiastically declared, “See, didn’t I tell you, Harry? You were the key all along, showing your little storm cloud how beautiful the rain could be! Only you could make Draco...erupt!” which left Draco fairly certain he’d just melted into a puddle of flobberworm, while Harry blushed so deeply, he could’ve passed for a Weasley Christmas jumper.

But the real revelation came from Professor Snape who, as it turns out, had organised a school-wide betting pool for the exact moment that Draco and Harry ‘finally got their act together’. Draco can hardly believe it. Apparently, Severus had made it the worst-kept secret in Hogwarts since Filch’s ‘experimental cleaning supplies’.

Professor McGonagall, no less, had been in on it, winning a tidy sum that she claimed would go towards replacing a set of particularly elderly Transfiguration textbooks. Draco wouldn’t have batted an eye if it weren’t for Severus who, in an unusual moment of chattiness, casually mentioned the rather suspiciously-timed appearance of a crate of vintage sherry in her office.

Draco makes a mental note to never question the finer details of the Hogwarts finance department.

In his bemusement, Draco almost forgets to ask why Severus hadn’t thought to let him in on his little side hustle. Surely he deserves a cut of the profits—after all, it was his love life being bet on.

But before the indignation can take root, a much more unsettling realisation strikes him: somewhere, amidst all these bizarre, nearly-friendly exchanges, his new relationship with his former arch-nemesis, and his looming graduation, he’s somehow managed to acquire...real friends. Friends he finds himself inexplicably protective of (though, if he were to admit it, they’d probably have him checked into St Mungo’s).

This of course leaves him with the familiar feeling that his life is, once again, spiralling dangerously out of his control. And yet Draco can’t quite bring himself to muster up any genuine negativity.

No—it isn’t so bad, all things considered.

As they step into the conservatory, Draco lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. The space is lovely during the summer, lush and alive, sunlight spilling golden over the greenery. Mother looks remarkably well, even after a year of house arrest. She’s chosen a room that happens to be as far away from the old drawing room as possible (though, thankfully, that wing of the Manor remains sealed off for ‘fumigation’).

Narcissa rises gracefully from her seat by an elaborate tea service, poised and elegant as always—though today, a rare warmth softens her usual reserve.

“Harry, dear,” she greets, almost fondly. “How lovely it is to finally host you properly, after all these years. I had begun to wonder if Draco was planning to keep you hidden away indefinitely.”

Harry beams, taking her hands in his. “Thank you, Mrs Malfoy. It’s an honour to be here.”

“Oh, I told you—please, Narcissa,” she insists, with a slight but unmistakable smile. “There’s no need for such formality, especially when Draco here has done enough of it for the both of you, I imagine.”

Draco, halfway to kissing her cheek, raises a brow. “Really, Mother.”

“Formality?” Harry looks between them, suppressing a laugh.

“Oh, yes,” Narcissa continues airily, pretending not to notice Draco’s warning look. “Seven-year courtships before so much as a kiss may have been all the rage in the seventeenth century, but I was beginning to fear that Draco had taken it quite literally. I’d nearly convinced myself I’d never get the pleasure of seeing you in person.”

Draco resists the urge to roll his eyes. (Does Mother need to be reminded that seven years ago, the two of them were twelve?)

“Seven years? It was one holiday, and I’ll never live it down, will I?”

Narcissa waves a hand, unconvinced. “Please. It was letter after letter about Harry this, Harry that, to the point where I wondered whether I ought to start the wedding preparations—though, as the years dragged on, and still no Harry, I began to suspect you simply fancied yourself the protagonist of a romance novel, starring only you and your very vivid imagination.”

Draco clears his throat, trying to channel some semblance of dignity. “I was simply keeping you informed, Merlin knows how you like to know all the details.”

“Oh, yes. I waited with bated breath each week for your detailed accounts of every Quidditch goal Harry scored, naturally.”

Harry hides his smile in his teacup as Draco splutters, his ears tingeing pink.

“Draco does have a flair for the dramatic,” his traitorous boyfriend agrees fondly.

“Oh, I’m aware.” Narcissa’s smile widens. “And quite frankly, after woefully losing my husband to the questionable throes of power, I feared my son might follow in his footsteps and sabotage every good thing that came his way.” She looks at Harry, her gaze almost tender. “But I see I needn’t have worried. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your positive influence on my son—though, for a moment, I worried that even you might not have the patience to deal with his…particularities.”

“It’s been no trouble, Narcissa,” Harry replies, disgustingly earnest. “I’m rather fond of them, actually. The prickliness is all part of his charm.”

Draco rolls his eyes skywards. “Lovely. By all means, talk about me as though I’m not here.”

Harry’s grin is so wide, it would be a miracle if his face weren’t sore by the time he finishes his tea.

“And I can’t let Draco take all the blame. I’ve made it my sworn duty to remind him at least once a week that we are, in fact, dating,” he adds affectionately.

Just as Draco wonders if he might be able to summon a sinkhole to swallow him whole, a familiar voice cuts in from the doorway.

“Ah, ganging up on Draco already, are we?” drawls Severus, robes sweeping behind him as he enters, a practised scowl in place.

Narcissa’s eyes light up. “Severus, splendid timing. After all, I couldn’t have pulled this off without your assistance.”

“Pulled off…what, exactly?” Draco asks, eyeing them both with growing suspicion.

Harry laughs. “Oh, she means the two of them plotting to get us together. Honestly…even you, Professor, really? Putting me on Malfoy watch duty?”

“Malfoy watch duty?” Draco splutters.

Narcissa looks far too entertained. “Yes, well, Severus was really quite dedicated with his updates. By the end, I daresay he was almost as invested as I was.”

Severus wrinkles his nose, clearly irritated. “Do not act as though this was some grand conspiracy, Draco. I was merely a reluctant informant, gathering critical intel for the concerned mother of my godson.”

“And I only caught on when I realised you didn’t actually need a personal bodyguard!” Harry adds, not even attempting to appear remorseful.

Narcissa sniffs, as though she were the one surrounded by madmen.

“Someone had to take action. I couldn’t very well do all the work while under house arrest, could I?” She sighs wistfully. “I’d empty my vaults to have seen it for myself, rather than living vicariously through Severus—who, I assure you, could have turned When Albus Met Gellert into a how-to guide for organising your potions shelves. Really, I’d have had more passion from a Ministry audit.”

Severus remains entirely unbothered.

“My expertise in espionage, regrettably, tends to favour diplomatic subterfuge and magics of mass destruction, as opposed to the perils of adolescent infatuation,” he intones.

“Yes, yes…I gathered from your notes—painstakingly detailed, of course, but tragically devoid of any romantic finesse. Minimal eye contact, possible hand brush…Draco’s tone was sharper than necessary—possible attempt to mask affection…I applaud your diligence, Severus, though I’m sure I could have lived without the precise number of seconds they spent gazing at one another during class…”

“I assure you,” Severus says stiffly, “it was hardly an exhilarating task. Though,” he adds with a faint smirk, “I did have one personal motive…”

Draco narrows his eyes. “You spied on us at my mother’s request, all so you could profit from your own betting pool?”

Harry chokes on his tea. “Betting pool?” he gasps out. (Draco, ever the supportive partner, dutifully pats him on the back.)

Severus sneers. “I daresay you’ve cost me far more than five thousand galleons in this lifetime, Potter,” he grumbles.

Draco gapes. “Five thousand—”

“Oh, please,” Harry says, with a mischievous glint in his eye (and likely no real concept of what five thousand galleons entails). “Call me Harry. After all, we’re practically family now, aren’t we?”

As Severus splutters, Draco levels another wounded look at his mother. “And you said you wouldn’t interfere.”

Narcissa sighs, looking at Draco with a pitying shake of her head, evidently disappointed in her son’s failure to appreciate the fine art of manipulation.

“Darling, I said I wouldn’t interfere directly. If I’d simply told you how you felt about each other, it would have spoiled all the charm of an organic slow-burn romance.”

Severus, apparently having recovered from the notion of being even remotely linked to Harry Potter, lets out a snort. “Organic is certainly one way to put it,” he mutters.

“Oh, hush, Severus,” Narcissa chides. “All I did was suggest a gentle nudge from the winds of fate.”

She smiles innocently at Harry and Draco. “It’s hardly my fault if Severus interpreted that as—well, taking matters into his own hands.”

Three pairs of eyes settle on Severus, who looks like he’d rather be watching parchment dry.

“I fail to see how my approach was lacking, Narcissa,” he says disdainfully. “You asked for a subtle push. Did I not deliver?”

“By a subtle push, Severus, I meant something along the lines of pairing them together for an assignment, not an overt manoeuvre.”

“Make your mind up, woman,” Severus sniffs. “First, you mock my lack of theatrical flourish, and now you find fault with my excessive involvement? Quite the tightrope I walk.”

“What in Salazar’s name,” Draco interrupts loudly, “are you two talking about?”

“I did not expect you to stupefy him mid-air, Severus!” Narcissa says, rolling her eyes.

“What?”

Severus purses his lips, unimpressed. “You are all so dramatic. Potter was hardly in any mortal danger. What do you take me for, some kind of bungling amateur? Obviously, I had his soup infused with gillyweed.”

“…even though my father’s rotting in prison, my mother’s still under house arrest, and my godfather thought an attempted drowning would be an appropriate matchmaking tactic?”

Harry laughs, low and warm, then leans in to press his lips to a spot just below Draco’s jaw.

“I’d say I’ve got space in my life for another father, mother, and godfather,” he teases, his breath soft against Draco’s skin—Merlin, why doesn’t Draco think before speaking?

“Oh fuck, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was—”

But Harry’s hand is cupping his face, cutting him off with a kiss that sends Draco’s thoughts tumbling, already hopelessly scattered.

When they part, Harry’s eyes are satisfyingly hazy, pupils blown black against green. “Besides,” he murmurs, slightly breathless, “I don’t think Snape would have risked my life after all he’s done to save it, would he?”

Draco bites his lip. “So…it doesn’t scare you off?”

“You know how hard it is to form a coherent thought when we’re in your bed and you’re looking at me like that?”

Draco sighs, surrendering as Harry drags him into another brain-melting kiss (yes, clearly this was the true source of the mind malfunction plaguing the both of them).

(Actually, they end up losing a considerable amount of time to these kisses, as Draco can’t seem to stop babbling, and Harry—despite all his noble efforts—can’t seem to find a better method to silence him.)

Later, when they’re curled into each other’s arms, Harry says quietly, “I’d follow you anywhere.”

Draco blinks his eyes open to look at him, his fingertips brushing softly over Harry's face—across his lips, the dark lashes fluttering slightly, the faint creases at the corners of his eyes. And Draco thinks he’d count himself lucky if he could die right here, held within this single, perfect moment.

“Anywhere?”

“Anywhere you want.”

He’s quiet for a moment, perfectly still but for the fluttering of his pulse. Then, “But what if all I want is to be with you?”

Harry’s face breaks into that breathtaking grin, his eyes alight as he pulls Draco closer. “Then we’re on the same page.”

Draco lets himself sink into Harry’s chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his cheek. “I can’t believe I fell in love with you,” he whispers against Harry’s skin, like it’s something sacred.

Harry hums. “I can’t imagine a life without you in it,” he replies steadily, like he’s stating the oldest truth in the universe.

Draco loves him so much it’s terrifying.

“What if I don’t know what I want my life to look like?”

Harry’s fingers slide down to meet his. “Then we’ll figure it out together.”

“What if we don’t work well together?”

Harry smiles against the top of his head. “Then we’ll figure that out, too. But, it’s cute that you think I’m ever letting you go.”

Draco blushes. “You don’t think it’s weird to fall in love with your arch-nemesis?”

“I don’t know, love, mine did try to kill me multiple times and left a fragment of his soul inside me when I was a baby…”

“Oh, you know what I mean.”

“You’re way prettier than him, anyway,” Harry murmurs playfully.

“Hardly an impressive feat.” Draco wrinkles his nose in distaste.

“Not true. I saw him as a student, he wasn’t too—ow!”

Draco glares, which only seems to make that stupid, lovesick grin spread wider across his boyfriend’s annoyingly handsome face.

“Of course, he wasn’t you.” Harry smirks, and Draco rolls his eyes.

“Sweet talker.”

“Only to you.”

There’s a brief silence, and Draco breathes in the intoxicating warmth of it; the sweetness of something he had never dared to hope for, until now; the promise of clear skies and an unknown future stretching before him, before them.

“You’d really follow me anywhere?”

“Even if you didn’t know it,” Harry tells him cheerfully.

“Stalker,” Draco says fondly.

“Of course,” says Harry. “It’s our thing.”