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Chapter Text

The first real cold snap of the season arrived overnight, icing over the windows of Hogwarts and turning the castle corridors into a warren of chilly stone and muffled footsteps. Students pulled their scarves higher and walked faster between classes, and Hagrid could be heard complaining loudly about the frost on the pumpkins. But the cold wasn’t what had the school buzzing that morning.

At breakfast, the Great Hall was alive with speculation. The enchanted ceiling was a swirl of pale grey clouds and drifting snow, but the real storm was brewing on the floor below.

“It’s an exchange programme,” Hermione explained, as if she’d organised the whole affair herself. “Durmstrang’s sending six students to spend the winter term here. Apparently, it’s part of some international magical education initiative. Very forward-thinking.”

Ron made a face. “Durmstrang? Isn’t that the place where all the students look like they wrestle bears for fun?”

"The whole point of this is not jumping to stereotyping," Hermione sighed. “And I'm sure the students are perfectly lovely.”

Before anyone could argue further, the great doors creaked open with a bit more theatre than strictly necessary, and in walked the Durmstrang students.

They entered in a wedge formation, red and black cloaks billowing dramatically, like someone had briefed them on how to make an entrance and they’d taken it very seriously indeed. At the head of the group was a boy who moved like the floor should feel honoured to be stepped on.

Tall, with impeccably neat black hair that looked offensively expensive and shone like it had been kissed by moonlight, he paused just long enough in the centre of the room for everyone to get a good look. Then, with all the arrogance of a boy who’d probably been told he was a prodigy since infancy, he made his way to the Slytherin table.

Draco Malfoy, who had up until that point been enjoying a particularly good crumpet, looked up in mild confusion as the Durmstrang boy slid into the seat directly across from him.

“That’s a bit on the nose, isn’t it?” Ron muttered. “Of course, he goes straight for the snake pit.”

The rest of the Durmstrang delegation fluttered vaguely behind, taking spots dotted along the Slytherin table like elegant, silent ducks. There was a murmur around the hall, a mixture of admiration and thinly veiled judgment.

“I’ll say one thing,” Theo remarked from down the Slytherin table. “He’s giving Draco a run for his money with that hair. You reckon he triple conditions?”

Across the table, the Durmstrang boy turned his head slowly and assessed Draco with a look that was both calculating and casually dismissive. Then, to the surprise of absolutely everyone, he winked.

Draco blinked. Then blinked again, but with more disdain this time.

There was a subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth that might have been the beginning of a horrified snarl. Instead, he very deliberately rolled his eyes, turned back to his plate, and picked up another crumpet with the weary air of someone refusing to engage with madness.

The Durmstrang boy looked vaguely put out. He was not, one imagined, used to being ignored.

That was where it all began.

They met again in Defence Against the Dark Arts.

The Durmstrang boy- Aleksandr Vasiliev- had already gained a sort of mythic reputation by day two, mostly because he had corrected Professor Flitwick’s pronunciation of an obscure spell during Charms, and done it in the tone of someone genuinely trying to be helpful while still managing to sound devastatingly superior.

Draco had not taken it well.

So when they were placed in a group together, along with one poor Hufflepuff girl who looked like she was considering throwing herself out the window, the tension was immediate.

“I’ve already completed this section,” Aleksandr said, glancing over the worksheet. “It’s quite basic.”

“It’s introductory,” Draco said with a tight smile. “Because not everyone has had the benefit of being taught combat magic by Bulgarian psychopaths.”

“I wouldn’t call him a psychopath,” Aleksandr said, utterly calm. “He’s only tried to murder two students. Statistically, that’s very low for Durmstrang.”

Draco’s nostrils flared. “Well, here at Hogwarts, we don’t consider attempted murder part of the syllabus.”

Aleksandr raised a brow. “Is that not what you all spent fourth year doing?”

The Hufflepuff girl giggled nervously and slowly began inching her desk away.

By Thursday, it was war.

In Potions, they competed over who could produce the clearest Draught of Insight. (Aleksandr’s glowed faintly. Draco’s turned gold. Snape refused to comment and awarded them both top marks, which only made it worse.)

In Transfiguration, they spent twenty minutes passive-aggressively turning each other’s rat sculptures into increasingly complex materials- wood, glass, quartz, a functioning model of a rat made out of interlocking brass gears.

In Arithmancy, they both completed the final equation before Professor Vector had finished writing it on the board. Draco smirked. Aleksandr smiled thinly. Neither looked at the other, which meant they were absolutely looking at the other.

Harry watched all of this with increasing unease.

Not because he cared, obviously. Not because it mattered what Malfoy did, or who he glared at with that intense, furrowed-brow thing he usually reserved for Harry himself. No.

It was just...

Well, it was a bit off-putting, watching someone else be Draco’s enemy. Someone new. Someone with shiny hair and a slight accent and the gall to wink like that wasn’t a crime. He found himself staring more than was strictly reasonable. And the more he watched Aleksandr, the more bizarre, petty thoughts began to creep in.

Like how annoying it would be if someone accidentally hexed his eyebrows off. Or if a rogue hippogriff kicked him. Or if he tripped and got run over by the Knight Bus.

Hermione caught him glowering at the back of Aleksandr's head during lunch. “You all right?” she asked.

Harry started. “Fine.”

Ron squinted at him. “You look like you’re planning a murder.”

“I’m just… observing,” Harry muttered, still staring across the room. “He’s my enemy.”

“Er,” said Ron.

“No, listen. Malfoy is my enemy. It’s basically official at this point. You don’t just- just get a new one halfway through our last year.”

Hermione closed her book slowly. “Are you feeling... territorial?”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Harry snapped. “You can’t abandon years of perfectly functional antagonism for some flashy new rival from overseas. It’s rude.”

Ron burst into laughter.

Hermione rubbed her temples. “Harry, are you sure this isn’t just... jealousy?”

Harry blinked. “Of what?”

“Of who, maybe,” she said dryly.

Ron snorted. “Mate, you’ve got it bad. Do you want Malfoy to hate you best?”

“Yes!" 

By Friday, Hogwarts was abuzz, and it wasn’t about Quidditch or a troll in the dungeons this time.

It was about Malfoy and Aleksandr.

"Did you hear they both got detention for hexing each other outside Charms?"

“I heard Aleksandr sent Malfoy a Howler in Bulgarian and threatened his life. Or asked for his hand in marriage.”

“Did you see them in the corridor yesterday? They were practically nose to nose. Honestly, the tension.”

Harry was sick of it.

Sick of the whispering, sick of the watching, sick of pretending he didn’t know why he was so bothered by any of it.

And the worst part? Draco hadn’t even been being particularly mean to him lately. Barely acknowledged him at all. He’d even skipped their usual post-Transfiguration corridor collision, where Draco usually “accidentally” shoulder-barged him and Harry pretended not to like it.

He felt like chopped liver. But angrier.

By lunchtime, he'd pretty much had enough and walked with a scowl on his face and eyes firmly on the ground to avoid risking a glance at Aleksandr's stupid shiny hair, which is precisely how he ended up bumping directly into Draco.

"Shit, sorry," A splatter of thick gravy landed right on Malfoy's polished black shoe. Harry winced. Here it comes, he thought, heart doing that weird, unpleasant-yet-excited flutter.

Malfoy looked down at his shoe. His jaw twitched. Then- “Tergeo,” he muttered, casually swishing his wand at his foot before turning back to Blaise beside him. “-and then he said I was being overly dramatic, can you believe the absolute nerve? The boy’s got a persecution complex the size of-”

Harry stood frozen, tray still in hand, gravy dribbling over the edge. That was it? No insult? No dramatic flourish of indignation? No Potter, you cretinous trollspawn, look what you've done?

He stared after Draco, the burn of humiliation mingling with something far pettier. He dumped his plate onto the Gryffindor table with a loud clatter, turned on his heel, and stormed after him. “Hey!” he snapped.

Draco barely turned, looking vaguely annoyed until Harry grabbed a fistful of his sweater and yanked. “What the-?”

“I spilt gravy on your shoe,” Harry said tightly.

Draco blinked at him. “Yes, I noticed, you stupid numbskull. I had to clean it up.”

That should have made Harry angrier. It really should have. But the insult was so perfectly Malfoy, so familiar, that something inexplicably warm twisted in his chest.

He grinned.

Actually grinned.

Draco scowled. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“You think I’m a stupid numbskull.”

Draco squinted at him like he was trying to work out whether Harry had taken a Bludger to the brain. “Yes?”

“So you still hate me.”

There was a pause. Blaise, now standing a few feet away, had gone conspicuously silent, arms folded with the world’s most interested expression. Draco tried to tug his jumper out of Harry’s grip, unsuccessfully. “What are we even talking about right now?”

Harry stepped a little closer. “Do you hate me more or less than Aleksandr?”

Draco’s eyes widened slightly, and, yes, definitely, his ears went a little pink. “What?”

Harry tilted his head, watching him with infuriating curiosity. “It’s a simple question. More or less?”

“Is this a joke? Have you finally gone mental?”

Harry leaned in, close enough that Blaise took a slow, delighted step backwards, clearly planning to repeat every detail of this to Pansy later. “I just want to know where I stand,” Harry said.

Draco opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again, like a fish gasping for air- or maybe for the will to live- and his face was rapidly approaching the colour of a well-boiled beetroot. His eyes flicked up to Harry’s, then down again, as though whatever he was looking at directly in front of him was more dangerous than eye contact.

Harry, confused and a little bit dizzy from the whole thing, couldn’t work out what Draco kept glancing at. His mouth? His chin? His... was there something on his jumper?

Then suddenly, “Where you’re standing is far too fucking close to me, back off, Potter.” Draco shoved him. Not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to knock Harry a step back and his sense of dignity a few more.

Then he turned and stalked off down the aisle, jumper tugged into place, shoulders rigid, ears still pink, muttering something that definitely included the word dickhead.

Harry stood there for a beat, slightly dishevelled, and then-

Grinned. Again.

Like an idiot who’d just been insulted and shoved but had still somehow won something deeply stupid and deeply important.

He turned around, ignoring the way half the Hall was staring at him now (and Blaise looked like he was about to physically combust with delight), and made his way back to Gryffindor table, tray swinging jauntily in one hand.

Hermione looked at him over her goblet of pumpkin juice with the wide, alarmed eyes of someone watching a car crash in slow motion.

“What on earth was that?” she demanded.

Harry dropped into his seat, still grinning like he’d just stolen Christmas. “Nothing,” he said airily. “I’m still his enemy. Don’t worry about it.”

Ron, halfway through a sausage roll, muttered, “Felt more like a lovers’ quarrel to me.”

“Shut up,” Harry said cheerfully, and reached for the gravy.

Chapter Text

The thing about being replaced as someone's mortal enemy was that it left a rather large hole in your weekly routine. He felt removed from Malfoy's day-to-day life, and in his place, like some broad-shouldered, fur-lined imposter, was Aleksandr.

Aleksandr, who had opinions about everything. Aleksandr, who rolled his sleeves up to his elbows in a way that made half of the year swoon and the other half jealous.

Harry hated him.

No, not hated. That was dramatic. He firmly disliked him.

Which was why, that following Monday afternoon, Harry decided that something had to be done.

Harry spotted Malfoy striding down the corridor outside the Arithmancy classroom. His school robes were pristine, his hair was shining, and his hair flicked back just so with every step like it had been individually trained by a team of stylists. Harry acted.

He flicked his wand.

Just a quick, harmless hex. Small cosmetic charm. He wasn’t a monster.

The effect was immediate. Malfoy’s perfect, silvery-blond hair darkened, dulled, and then exploded into a mop of unruly, untameable, dark brown chaos. It poofed. It flopped. It curled rebelliously at the edges. And it moved- bounced, even- with every step, tangling into his lashes and sticking to his forehead like it had formed a union against personal grooming.

Harry bit back a laugh and trailed after him at a safe distance, eyes fixed on the back of Malfoy’s head like it was the most beautiful disaster he’d ever seen.

Draco slowed to a stop in front of the mirror hung between the tapestry of Gifford the Gouged and the locked door to the disused duelling chamber. He frowned. Then frowned harder like it would change his reflection.

And then, dramatically, he reeled back from the mirror like he’d been slapped. “What the-” He grabbed a handful of his hair, staring at it as though it had personally betrayed him. A lock flipped stubbornly into his left eye. He batted it away with increasing fury. “What the actual fuck?!”

He turned sharply and locked eyes with Harry, who was leaning against the wall, looking smug. Or, he had been until he got a proper look at Malfoy. The hair was wild. It stuck up in places and curled in others and looked like it hadn’t seen a comb since last Tuesday. It was very, very much like Harry’s.

But Malfoy- he looked good.

Not in the way he normally did, all composed and elegant and annoyingly shiny, but something else. Ruffled. Flushed with fury. His tie slightly askew. His pupils too big for the lighting.

It was doing something to Harry’s lungs. Which was unfortunate, because now Malfoy was storming straight towards him. “Did you-” he demanded, voice low and venomous, “did you hex my hair?”

Harry tried to smile. He meant to smirk, even. Something cool. But it came out all wrong. Malfoy stopped inches away. His eyes were gleaming. There was a curl hanging right over one of them, giving him a vaguely feral look, and Harry could smell his aftershave and count the angry little creases by his mouth. Godric, his heart was thudding.

“Well?” Malfoy snapped. “Are you going to admit to it or just stand there gaping like a concussed Puffskein?”

Harry opened his mouth. Closed it again. Tried again. “You look-” Harry started, then cut himself off. He absolutely could not say good. That would be the end of it all. “Different.”

“Different,” Malfoy echoed, voice flat with disbelief. “I look like I was raised by wolves.”

“You’re welcome,” Harry said, still not sure what was happening.

Malfoy took a step closer, and Harry, in an act of cowardice so intense he might later write to apologise to his own spine, bolted.

He turned and fled down the corridor at full speed, cheeks burning, hair bouncing, dignity left far behind near the duelling chamber door. Behind him, he could just hear Malfoy shouting, “Potter, get back here and fix this immediately or so help me-”

But Harry didn’t stop. He didn’t even want to fix it.

Not when Malfoy looked like that.

Okay, Harry had learned his lesson, schemed some more, and devised the perfect plan.

Elegant. Subtle. A throwback back to one of Malfoy’s own pranks: third year Charms, right after Gryffindor’s devastating loss to Ravenclaw, when Harry had been in the foulest mood known to wizardkind and Malfoy had decided to “lighten the mood” by jinxing Harry’s chair to buckle under him the moment he sat. Harry had ended up on the floor with a sprained ankle and a wounded ego, while Malfoy cackled like a pantomime villain for three solid minutes.

Well. Payback was a dish best served extremely petty.

Harry had arrived early to Magical Theory and Applications- a class so dry it made the Hogwarts stonework look lush- and made straight for Malfoy’s usual seat, second row from the back, two from the right. With a few careful wand movements under the desk and a charm so subtle even Flitwick might’ve admired it, Harry rigged the joints of the chair to collapse when met with Malfoy's arse.

He backed away, grinning sadistically.

“Harry,” Hermione said slowly, eyeing him from the desk she and Ron had already claimed, “what exactly are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Harry said, sitting down and failing- badly- to look innocent. He was snickering under his breath. Giggling, really. Like he’d finally gone and lost the plot. It was only a matter of time.

Ron gave him a look. “You alright, mate?”

“Peachy,” Harry said. “Just restoring balance to the universe.” He laughed conspiratorially. One of the Ravenclaws near the front glanced over at him like she was considering alerting a member of staff.

The classroom filled gradually, the low hum of conversation bouncing off the high stone ceiling. Quills were unrolled, books stacked. Aleksandr strolled in, all confidence and impeccable posture, and dropped into a seat near the middle, two down from Malfoy’s usual spot, draping his arm along the back of the chair like he was posing for a portrait.

And then, like a punchline arriving on cue, Malfoy. Harry sat up straighter. He could feel the anticipation buzzing in his fingertips.

The Slytherin barely glanced around, preoccupied with whatever conversation he’d been having outside the door, and made straight for his desk. He placed his books down, flicked his hair out of his eyes with a practised flourish (still brown: Harry hadn’t reversed the hex, the sly bastard), and lowered himself into the chair.

Which promptly collapsed beneath him.

There was a horrified creak, followed by a sharp crack of splintering wood and a yelp that might’ve been half indignation, half terror. Malfoy flailed. His arms pinwheeled wildly as the chair gave way beneath him.

And then- of course- Aleksandr turned, calm and unhurried as if this happened regularly, and caught him.

Not just caught him.

No. He caught one of Malfoy’s wrists in his hand and, with the other, slid an arm around his waist and lifted him. Like he weighed nothing. Like this was a rehearsed dance. Malfoy blinked up at him, wide-eyed, chest rising against the taller boy's.

They paused, just staring at each other, as the classroom fell eerily silent, watching them.

If someone had started playing My Heart Will Go On in the background, Harry would not have been surprised. There was a faint glow around them. Harry swore there was a literal shimmer in the air. Was that a breeze? Where the hell was it coming from?

“Jesus,” Ron muttered beside him. “They’re practically shagging.”

“Honestly, Ronald”, Hermione whispered back, smacking his arm. But she conceded. “Are they in a bloody perfume advert?”

Harry gaped. This was not the scene he’d envisioned. Malfoy was supposed to land flat on his arse, swear creatively, maybe hex Harry back. The Durmstrang git was not supposed to rescue him like a bloody ballroom dancer mid-lift.

“I’m going to be sick,” Harry muttered.

Aleksandr finally set Malfoy gently upright, like placing a glass bauble on a shelf. “You are alright?” he asked, voice low and stupidly smooth.

Malfoy, still looking flustered, nodded once and muttered something that might’ve been ‘thank you’, which made Harry’s stomach turn over with dramatic flair.

Then he turned and locked eyes with Harry. Harry smiled. Well. He bared his teeth in a shape that was trying to be a smile but was probably closer to a grimace. Malfoy stared at him for a long moment, then looked down at the heap of splintered chair at his feet. Then back to Harry. His eyes narrowed. Slowly. “Potter,” he said, in the tone one might use upon finding a slug in their bed.

Harry lifted his hands. “You started it.”

“I was fourteen.”

“You haven’t grown that much.”

Malfoy opened his mouth, clearly ready to start a full-scale verbal assault, but the professor chose that exact moment to walk in. Harry slumped down in his seat, grinning to himself in triumph. Sort of.

Because even though the prank technically worked, the only thing he could think about was how bloody romantic Malfoy and Aleksandr had looked.

And how absolutely not romantic it would have been if he’d caught Malfoy like that. Which, tragically, he hadn’t even considered trying.

Ron nudged him with a quill. “Maybe next time rig his books to sing Celestina Warbeck.”

This was it.

The final move. The last hurrah. Harry had thrown everything he had at Malfoy this week- hair hexes, chair sabotage, thinly veiled barbs about his handwriting, which he actually sort of admired if he were honest- and none of it had had the desired effect. Which was to say: Malfoy hadn’t risen to the bait. Not properly. He hadn’t hexed Harry back. He hadn’t dramatically declared war in the corridor. He hadn’t even called Harry a scar-headed berk, which, frankly, was bordering on negligence.

It was getting desperate.

So Harry turned to the only surefire method left to him: fart jokes.

He wasn’t proud of it. But it was funny. Universally funny. It was childish and absurd, yes, but he’d tested the charm on Ron’s broom earlier in the day and it had absolutely delivered. The sound was tremendous. Echoing. Comical in its commitment to realism. And it was only triggered by a specific threshold of speed, so Malfoy wouldn’t even realise it until he’d already committed to a dramatic manoeuvre. Like, say, catching a high-speed quaffle.

Which, lo and behold, was exactly what he were doing.

It was one of those rare spring afternoons where the sky was so stupidly blue it looked fake, and the pitch had been casually claimed by a group of seventh-years from every House. There were no teams, no rules. Just people flying around, tossing quaffles, laughing, and not revising for N.E.W.T.s like they were supposed to.

Malfoy was flying with Theo Nott, looking sleek and smug and unbearably competent as always. His hair, finally back to its usual silvery-blond glory after several scourgings and one angry letter to Madam Pomfrey and a threat of alerting his father, was falling in loose waves, a few strands whipping around in the breeze.

Harry, hovering a few metres above the ground, pretended to be distracted by a snitch someone had conjured.

He was not distracted. He was watching Malfoy.

Because Malfoy had just zipped forward to intercept a pass, and Theo, being the dramatic bastard he was, hurled the quaffle sky-high with a theatrical flourish.

And Malfoy shot upwards, broom tilting nearly vertically as he accelerated to meet it.

And then-

PPPPPFFFFFFFFRRRTTTTT.

The fart was resounding. It was bold. It echoed off the stands like a trumpet announcing divine arrival. Every single head turned as Draco stopped mid-air. Froze. The quaffle bounced off the side of his arm unnoticed and spiralled to the grass below.

He looked down at his broom.

There was a beat of silence before everyone broke out into an absolute uproar. People were howling. Parvati clutched her stomach and rolled off her broom to land gently in the grass, convulsing with laughter. Harry bit down on his knuckles. He was laughing, but it felt precarious, like standing on a cliff.

Theo was snorting so hard he could barely stay aloft. “Mate,” he gasped, “what was that?”

“I-” Malfoy started, staring at his broom like it had just revealed a deep betrayal. “I don’t-” He hesitated. Then, very deliberately, he leaned forward and accelerated.

FRRRT.

He slowed. No sound.

Sped up again.

PPFFFRRRTTT.

Harry nearly fell off his broom from giggling. He covered his mouth with both hands, watching as Malfoy experimentally tried the same thing three more times.

Brrrrrt.

Pppbbbt.

FRRrRRrRT.

Malfoy’s face was pinched, pale, annoyed, until suddenly it wasn’t. Because he started laughing.

Actually laughing. Head thrown back, shoulders shaking, legs kicking slightly as he hovered. His hair caught the sunlight like a halo. His mouth was wide open with glee, and his eyes were crinkled at the corners in that way Harry didn’t think he’d ever properly seen before, not like this. Not unguarded. 

Everything else dropped away. The snitch, the quaffles, the pitch, the broom under his hands- none of it mattered. Just Malfoy, radiant in the sunlight, laughing so hard he was hiccuping, perched atop a farting broom like some mythical creature of joy and humiliation.

He looked stupidly, unfairly beautiful, and, well, Harry’s brain just sort of broke.

Because that wasn’t how you were supposed to look at someone you were feuding with. You weren’t supposed to notice the way their laugh made their whole face come alive. You weren’t supposed to want to make someone laugh again just to see it.

You weren’t supposed to feel warm, watching your enemy float laughing above a farting broom.

Harry blinked hard, tilting his head to get a better look. Because Malfoy was quite far away, and the sun was in his eyes, and he needed to be sure-

But he tilted too far. His broom wobbled. “Harry?” Ron said from a few feet below, looking up in concern, as Harry slid off rather dramatically.

He dropped like a stone, limbs flailing with absolutely no dignity, and landed in a spectacular sprawl on the grass.

“Oh for the love of-” Hermione leapt to her feet. “Harry!”

The last thing he saw before everything went dark was Malfoy wheeling his broom around mid-air, his laughter cutting off, concern knitting across his forehead.

Chapter Text

Harry came to in the infirmary with a bandage wrapped around his wrist and what felt like a dozen small, determined creatures in his head all arguing about whether they were allowed to kick him in the brainstem.

He blinked blearily at the ceiling. There were stars on it.

Not real ones, he didn't think. Probably enchanted. Or fake. Or maybe very real and he was just floating into the sky now and that was that. Who knew? Who cared?

He groaned.

Madam Pomfrey bustled past, gave him a look that suggested she’d seen many, many worse patients than him and yet somehow found him the most annoying of all. “You’ll live,” she said crisply. “Though not if you keep hexing yourself off brooms like an absolute dunderhead.”

Harry tried to say something cutting and witty and charming, but what came out was something like, “'M not a dun’ead, I’s strategic.”

She rolled her eyes. “Concussion and a wrist sprain. Pain relief should kick in fully within a few minutes.”

Too late. It had already kicked in. Harry was riding that potion high straight into the clouds. Everything was fuzzy at the edges and slightly hilarious. So naturally, that’s when Draco Malfoy walked in.

Harry heard the door open and turned his head too quickly, which made the stars on the ceiling do a little jig. Draco strode in like he owned the place, arms crossed, expression suspiciously neutral. “Potter,” he said.

Harry blinked. “Oh,” he said, quite loudly, acting like he'd only just noticed him. “You.”

Draco stopped beside his bed, squinting at him. “You look like death.”

“I feel like a pigeon,” Harry replied cheerfully. “But one of those posh ones from Kensington.”

“Right,” Draco said slowly. “They said you weren’t concussed badly, but clearly they overestimated your usual level of brain function.”

Harry grinned. Or tried to. His face felt like it wasn’t quite attached correctly. “Came all the way here just to insult me?”

“No. I came to ask what the fuck has been wrong with you the past few days.”

Harry frowned, or tried to. “Nothing's wrong with me. Just being a good nemes— nemish—" He huffed in frustration. "A proper rival, is all.”

Draco’s eyebrows rose. “By hexing my broom to fart.”

“You laughed,” Harry pointed out, somewhat smugly.

“I laughed because I wasn’t expecting my broom to sound like a walrus with gastrointestinal issues. Doesn’t mean I enjoyed it.”

“Sounded like joy,” Harry muttered into the pillow.

There was a pause. Draco stared at him for a long moment, then sat down in the chair beside his bed. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, expression pinched with confusion. “Seriously,” he said. “What’s going on with you?”

Harry blinked slowly. He felt warm. Floaty. A little like he was having a very intimate dream, except it involved Malfoy and his concerned face, which didn’t feel quite right. He frowned. “You haven’t looked at me,” he said, mournfully.

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Since that knobhead… Alecander. Alex. The… foreign one.” Harry waved a hand vaguely. “You just. Stopped. All the… shoulder-barging. The sneering. The verbal sparring. You even skipped insulting my hair. You always insult my hair.”

Draco was staring.

“I’m supposed to be your rival,” Harry said, pointing an unsteady finger at him. “And you—you went and got a new one without even giving me formal notice.”

“Are you,” Draco said slowly, “jealous?”

Harry made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a hiccup. “Why does everyone keep saying that? I’m not jealous. I just think you should, you know, not violate the terms of the rival agreement.”

Draco blinked.

Harry waited.

Then Draco burst out laughing.  He'd been doing that a lot lately, and Harry found that he liked the look of it even more than his frown.“Rival agreement?” he repeated, incredulous. “Merlin’s tits, Potter. You can't be serious.”

Harry scowled. “It’s an unspoken agreement. It has rules. Guidelines.”

“Right,” Draco said, still half-laughing, “and you’re upset because I didn’t provide two weeks' written notice before shifting my attention elsewhere?”

“Exactly!” Harry slurred, flopping back against the pillow triumphantly. “You get it.”

Draco studied him. The laughter had faded now, but not completely. It lingered around his eyes, softening them in a way Harry didn’t like, because it made his chest ache for no good reason. “I see,” Draco said eventually, standing.

He hesitated at the edge of the bed. Harry was trying to keep his eyes open, but the warm haze was dragging him under again, like a tide. Draco looked down at him, unreadable. “Get well soon,” he said.

Then, after a beat, he smirked faintly. “Or don't.”

And with that, he turned and left.

Harry blinked once, eyes fluttering shut. “…wanker,” he mumbled into the pillow.

And then he was asleep, a smile on his face.

Harry woke again to much less pain, thankfully. But his head still felt a little muddled, and the lights were far too bright above him. “Oh, fuck off,” he groaned at the ceiling.

A chuckle from somewhere above him. “Good morning, Harry,” said Ron cheerily. “He lives!”

Harry squinted at Ron, who was hovering at his bedside, looking far too pleased with Harry's sorry state. Hermione, seated primly in the chair next to Ron, looked less amused and more deeply judgmental, like she’d already filed away three separate lectures she was waiting to unleash.

“You fell off your broom staring at Draco Malfoy,” she said, tone accusatory and eyes narrowed.

“I was not—”

“Oh, you definitely were,” Ron interrupted. “Neck craned. Slack jaw. Eyes like saucers. The works.”

Harry groaned and flopped his arm over his eyes. “Can we not do this at the crack of bloody dawn?”

“It’s nearly ten,” Hermione said primly. “You missed breakfast.”

“Oh, brilliant.”

“Don’t worry, we brought you toast,” Ron said, producing a squashed slice wrapped in cling film. “Well. It was toast. At one point.”

Harry waved them both off. “Whatever. It’s fine. Everything’s back to normal now.”

“Define normal,” Ron muttered as Hermione snorted.

But Harry wasn’t listening—he was already swinging his legs off the bed and fumbling for his outer robes. If he remembered his timetable correctly, he had Potions this morning. While he didn’t much care about most classes, being late to Snape’s was the fast track to a slow, painful death by snark and deduction of house points. He waved goodbye to Ron and Hermione, who had different classes.

By the time he was dressed and halfway down the corridor, he’d already worked up a sweat. His wrist ached faintly, and his head still throbbed, but at least the room wasn’t spinning anymore. Victory.

He reached the dungeons panting, hair a mess, tie askew, shirt half-untucked. As he creaked the door open to the Potions classroom, he breathed a sigh of relief—Snape wasn’t there yet. The rest of the class was bustling around quietly, setting up stations. The board at the front read:

Volatile Concoctions and Their Disastrous Mishandling: A Practical Exercise.

Underneath it: Protective Robes Required.

Harry sighed and made his way to the rack of spare protective robes at the side of the classroom. He was halfway there when something prickled at the back of his neck. He paused.

Malfoy was watching him.

Not just watching—tracking, eyes following his every step like a predator with far too much time on its hands. His chin was resting on one hand, his elbow on the table, expression neutral but with just enough curve to the mouth to set Harry’s internal alarms ringing.

And here’s the thing: Harry should have been suspicious. Should have recalled the farting broom and sensed the trap. But all he felt was a strange warmth in his chest. He’s looking at me again, he thought giddily.

Which is exactly when the robe leapt off the rack and began hobbling away on its own.

“What the—?” Harry lunged for it.

The robe gave a theatrical little shimmy and ducked under a table. Harry followed. By now, the rest of the class had begun to notice. A few snickers echoed across the stone walls.

The robe darted around a bench, and Harry scrambled after it, arms outstretched, muttering curses that were definitely not taught at Hogwarts. He made another grab—it slipped out from under him, did what could only be described as a mocking pirouette, and skittered away again.

Laughter broke out properly now.

Harry finally caught the damn thing near the front of the classroom, panting and triumphant. “Got you, you little—” He shoved his arms into the sleeves and yanked it on.

Which was, in hindsight, an error.

Because the moment the robe settled on his shoulders, it came to life. His arms flew upward, dragged by the sleeves. His legs began doing a grotesque sort of jig entirely without his consent. He was thrown sideways, then spun around, and then slammed—gently but firmly—into the dungeon wall.

“Oh my god,” he wheezed.

The robe had turned him into a puppet, flailing and staggering like a malfunctioning scarecrow.

Ron’s voice rang out above the chaos. “Mate! I think you got what you asked for!”

Harry barely managed to turn his head. Malfoy was still seated, wand lazily swishing in his hand like a conductor guiding an orchestra of idiocy. His face was the picture of innocent amusement.

Harry flailed in his direction. “You absolute menace—”

The robe twirled him again.

Draco leaned forward just slightly, chin still resting on his hand, eyes glinting like polished steel. He lifted one brow, lips quirking. “Oh, don’t mind me,” he called. “Just keeping to the terms of our rival agreement.”

And then, with a quick flick of his wand—far too casual for the absolute violation about to occur—the robe cinched itself tight.

Harry had barely recovered from being flung across the classroom when the sleeves snapped together, pinning his arms across his chest like he’d been shoved into a magical straitjacket. The bottom of the robe wrapped tightly around his knees, tripping him forward with all the grace of a startled penguin.

He stumbled once, twice, and then careened with a thump right into the desk directly in front of Draco Malfoy. The blond looked down at him with thinly veiled triumph, wand still at the ready, expression infuriatingly smug.

Harry squinted up at him, panting and a bit dazed. “Okay,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “Okay. That’s actually a good one.”

He had no choice but to admit it. The farting broom had been childish inconvenience. The animated robe with a dream to dance? Petty perfection. Prankmanship of the highest order. Harry would have saluted him if he weren’t currently tied up like a mental ward escapee.

Unfortunately, Aleksandr chose that moment to strut over, laughing like he’d just witnessed a stand-up routine tailored to his exact tastes. He clapped Draco on the back, his hand's lingering longer than Harry would have liked.

“That was excellent, Malfoy,” he said between wheezes. “You must teach me that one.”

Harry glared daggers at him.

Draco barely reacted, didn’t even look at Alexander properly, though he did mutter a vague, “Thanks,” under his breath, eyes still fixed on Harry like he hadn’t decided whether to gloat or help him out of the magical straightjacket.

Harry, however, was firmly decided on one thing: he didn’t mind the humiliation. He did mind the way Alexander was laughing like it was his prank to enjoy.

Which is when the classroom door creaked open, and the silence that followed was near-instantaneous.

Snape stepped in, cloak billowing dramatically behind him—clearly, he’d heard the ruckus before arriving and decided not to hurry in the slightest.

He paused. Took in the scene.

Harry, jittering about in the middle of the classroom like a malfunctioning puppet, arms strapped across his chest in an unholy knot of protective robes. Malfoy, wand still raised, and Aleksandr, hunched over, still laughing helplessly.

A chair flung somewhere near the ingredients cupboard, legs sticking up like a dead beetle.

Snape blinked once. Slowly. “I will be seeing all three of you in detention tonight,” he said, voice bone-dry. “No arguments.”

Chapter Text

Snape didn’t even bother with a speech.

With a casual flick of his wand, he summoned an avalanche of cauldrons and vials—some looking ancient enough to have been used during the Dark Ages. They came clattering down onto the stone floor in a cacophony of metallic crashes and splashes. A heavy, sickly-sweet stench hit Harry immediately, threatening to claw its way into his sinuses and stay there. One vial oozed a thick, green goo that bubbled ominously, right next to Harry’s shoe.

“No magic,” Snape announced, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “These have been spelled against it. Your task is simple: scrub every single one until it’s spotless and sort these vials. You won’t leave until they’re all clean and organised. I hope I've made it quite clear.”

Without waiting for a response, Snape swept out of the room, his robes trailing behind him like some sort of melodramatic octopus. The door slammed shut, leaving only the stench of mildew, sulphur, and the unmistakable scent of impending doom.

Harry eyed the mess with the kind of expression usually reserved for the mess under Ron's bed. Aleksandr let out a low whistle, and eyed Draco, who had made a face like he’d rather be hexed. “It’s not that I mind cleaning,” Draco muttered defensively, already pulling on a pair of gloves with visible distaste. “It’s just that I object to touching things that might crawl back at me.”

Harry, who had just bent to pick up a vial with something resembling a dehydrated ear in it, looked up, grinning. “You scared of a bit of grime, Malfoy?”

“I’m not scared,” Draco snapped, affronted. “I’m selective.”

Aleksandr, standing behind a stack of cauldrons, grinned. "A priss, that’s what you are."

Draco shot him a dark look.

"I’ve cleaned blood off my robes more times than I can count," Aleksandr said, his voice warm and teasing, his confidence practically oozing from him. "This?" He gestured at the bubbling mess on the floor. "This is child’s play."

Harry paused mid-scrub, eyes widening slightly. "Sorry, blood?"

Aleksandr glanced over, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You think Durmstrang is as cosy as this place?"

Draco raised an eyebrow, eyeing Aleksandr with scepticism. "What, are you a murderer or something?"

"If I were," Aleksandr said smoothly, "I wouldn’t tell you, would I?" Curse him for making suspected murder charges sound sexy and flirtatious.

“Right,” Draco muttered, turning back to his cauldron and scrubbing at it with even more aggression.

Harry, for his part, was still staring at the side of Draco’s face, which was red, but not in the flushed-with-rage sort of way. More in the... gorgeously annoyed sort of way. Even with a scowl on, Malfoy managed to look annoyingly put together, all sharp cheekbones and sneering elegance, like someone had painted aristocracy onto a war crime.

Which, if Harry was honest, wasn’t really how enemies were supposed to look. He was supposed to hate that face, wasn’t he?

“You look like you’re trying to sketch him with only your eyeballs,” Aleksandr muttered, appearing beside him with a smirk, picking up a few rags from the bucket.

Harry jumped. “I wasn’t.”

“You were,” Aleksandr said cheerfully. “It's normal. He is nice to look at. When he's not speaking, of course.”

Harry scowled and went back to scrubbing. Malfoy's sharp tongue was one of his best assets, so obviously, Aleksandr doesn't know what the fuck he's on about.

Aleksandr leaned over the bench and said, “Look, Malfoy. If you sort these vials for me—I can’t read your professor’s horrible handwriting—I’ll clean some of the cauldrons for you.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “I don’t need help.” His lips were pressed together in a thin, irritated line. "Especially not yours."

Aleksandr raised both brows. “It doesn't look that way to me. We could-”

“I said,” Draco repeated, voice clipped, “I can handle it myself.”

“Suit yourself,” Aleksandr said, and walked off with a lazy shrug.

Draco lasted approximately five minutes before he declared war on his cauldron.

And lost.

It had started innocently enough. Just him and a crusty iron monstrosity that looked like it had been used to store body parts. He’d scrubbed with determination, dignity, and one specific corner of a sponge for far longer than was advisable. But the filth was relentless. It clung to the metal like it had a grudge.

Frustration bubbled up in Draco like a cauldron of his own, and with an exasperated growl, he threw the sponge into the nearest bucket. He stared down at the cauldron, as if daring it to say something.

Aleksandr—who was alarmingly chipper for someone elbow-deep in ancient potion residue—glanced over. He looked, for just a moment, like he was going to offer again, but then wisely decided to try a different tactic.

“Look,” he said, casually rolling up his sleeves as he walked over. “If you don’t want me to do it for you, I can just show you how to do it easier.”

Harry looked up from his own cauldron, instantly suspicious. His scrubbing slowed to a halt.

Draco eyed Aleksandr with a mixture of disdain and painful internal conflict. His pride was clearly hurting, but so was this cleaning-induced rage. He said nothing—just glowered.

Aleksandr took that as a yes. “See,” he said, stepping in beside Draco and grabbing one of the thicker-bristled brushes from the tray, “your sponge is too soft. You need something with a bit more grit. And don’t bother soaking it first, you’re just smearing the muck around. Use this—a bit of dragon soap, a little splash of vinegar, and a bit of- how do you say? Elbow oiling.” Harry snorted under his breath.

He demonstrated, placing one hand lightly over Draco’s to angle the tool correctly, as Draco told him that the saying was elbow grease. It wasn’t anything dramatic, just a quick repositioning, but Harry’s grip on his cauldron visibly tightened. Aleksandr carried on, oblivious. “You need to apply pressure near the rim, like this. The water shouldn’t be too hot, just warm enough to loosen the residue. If it’s boiled on, scrape—don’t scrub. The metal’s scarred; you’re wasting effort otherwise.”

And then, the bloody hand again. Aleksandr adjusted Draco’s grip slightly, and Draco allowed it, eyebrows drawn together in concentration as he mimicked the movement.

Harry’s cauldron slipped, clanging off the table and landing on the stone floor with a horrific metallic BONG, followed by an ominous slosh. Everyone jumped.

Draco and Aleksandr turned in unison to look at him, and Harry straightened like nothing had happened.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Clumsy as ever, Potter.”

"Yes, well. Just goes to show how hard you've got to scrub it to get all the muck out." Harry’s voice was strained. “And- I can help you better than that.”

There was a short silence, and Aleksandr tilted his head, a smile just playing on the corner of his mouth. “You couldn’t even hold your own cauldron.”

Harry’s jaw twitched. “I grew up in a cupboard, okay? I was my family’s kitchen maid. I know how to clean some old, disgusting shit.” This was technically true, though possibly not the most emotionally well-timed flex. Or a flex at all.

Draco just stared between them. His eyes tracked Aleksandr’s smirk, then Harry’s tense shoulders, and then he exhaled like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world, up to and including Azkaban. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” he snapped. “What is this, a testosterone competition over sponge technique?”

He turned away from both of them and pointed a gloved finger. “Back to your tables, both of you. I can handle it. I don’t need a cleaning coach, and I don’t need a tragic backstory. Piss off.”

Aleksandr shrugged and gave Harry a look that said charming, isn’t he? before heading back to his cauldrons. Harry remained exactly where he was, lips pressed tight. He didn’t know what was worse—watching Malfoy be touched by someone else, or being out-cleaned in the middle of a hormonal crisis.

They didn’t speak, but the tension crackled between them.

Harry thought it was hatred. A new rivalry had clearly been born between him and Aleksandr. He could feel it, hot and bitter. They were no longer just two students scrubbing cauldrons in silence—they were rivals in the grand competition of who got to properly hate Draco Malfoy.

He gave Aleksandr a side glance.

Aleksandr gave him one back.

Yes. Rivals.

Except the Durmstrang git wasn’t scowling or stiffening or glaring. He was smiling. Not a smug smirk, not even a particularly mean one—just an amused, slightly pitying sort of look, like Harry had turned up to a sword fight with a breadstick and declared himself a fierce opponent.

Because from Aleksandr’s point of view, it was all hilariously transparent. Potter had a massive, fuck-off crush on Malfoy, and absolutely no idea. Watching him flail around in denial while Draco alternated between oblivious disdain and reluctant fondness was, frankly, the best entertainment Aleksandr had had since arriving.

It wasn’t long before Aleksandr finished cleaning his assigned pile of cauldrons. Efficient, smug, and annoyingly competent, he stacked the last one neatly on the drying rack and wiped his hands on a cloth like someone finishing a job interview they knew they’d nailed.

He turned back to the other two with a flourish. “Well,” he said happily. “I will be taking my leave.” Draco, still mid-scrub and looking personally betrayed by the existence of residue, didn’t even look up. “I did offer to help,” Aleksandr added, to Draco’s annoyance. “But you turned me down, so… good luck, the pair of you. Enjoy your romantic evening of disgusting cauldrons.”

“Yeah,” Harry said stiffly, straightening up with a sponge in hand and waving it around like it was a weapon. “We will have a good night of scrubbing.”

Aleksandr’s grin widened. “I’m sure you will.” He gave a little wave, pushed open the door, and vanished, humming the same bloody tune under his breath.

Draco rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle he didn’t get his eyeball lodged in the back of his socket.

They scrubbed in silence for a while, and he tried not to look at Draco again. He really did.

But it was hard, what with Draco being all annoyed and shiny under the flickering candlelight, soap bubbles clinging to his sleeves, hair curling at the temples from the steam, and his mouth doing that thing where it twitched whenever he concentrated too hard.

Harry was halfway through attacking a particularly crusty spot when he said, without quite meaning to, “Sorry, by the way.”

Draco paused. “For what, Potter? Existing?”

Harry huffed. “No. Well—possibly. But mostly for being weird the past few weeks.”

Draco blinked at him. “You’re always weird.”

“Yeah, but like…” Harry pursed his lips, suddenly unsure of how to explain it. “Extra weird. I know I’ve been off. I just... I don’t know, it’s been a strange couple of weeks. With everything.” He gestured vaguely, as though all the chaos could somehow be explained by the cluttered shelves around them. “And detention.”

He trailed off, now suddenly aware of how stupid it sounded to be blaming detention for his deeply unsettling Malfoy-focused spiral.

Draco didn’t speak immediately; he just watched Harry as if he were waiting for the boy to either cry or combust. His expression was unreadable. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice flat. “Not that I don't enjoy being let off easy for things, Potter. But you know I’m the one who got us into detention, right?"

Harry gave a small laugh. “That is true.”

He huffed. “Wouldn’t even have done it if you hadn’t…well- whatever.”

Harry looked up. “If I hadn’t what?”

Draco scoffed with a force that could register on the Richter scale. “You know.”

“I don’t, actually.”

“All the antagonising? The pranks?” Draco replied, his voice tinged with exasperation.

Harry shrugged. “You got your revenge, though.”

Draco gave him a long-suffering look, scrubbing harder at the cauldron in front of him. His cheeks were faintly pink, and Harry couldn’t help but notice how the flush seemed to make Draco look… almost nervous. "Believe it or not, Potter, I don’t have a burning desire to see you humiliate yourself."

Harry blinked at that, a flicker of something warm and confusing stirring inside him. “Really?”

Draco shrugged, though his eyes were now averted, and there was something almost shy in his posture as he turned away to adjust his robes. “It’s funny. In a sadistic, juvenile sort of way. But it’s pointless.”

Harry stared at him for a beat longer than necessary, lips twitching into a half-smile. “So you’re saying you don’t want to torment me anymore?”

The clatter of Draco dropping his scrub brush echoed through the dungeon. He turned on Harry with narrowed eyes, chest rising with a quick breath, as if Harry had just asked a question that hit too close to something neither of them was ready to confront. “Do you want to torment me?”

Harry froze. “What? No—I didn’t mean it like that—I meant, y’know, like... what we’ve always done. The back and forth, the bickering. It’s just... feels right, doesn't it?”

Draco took a step forward, his proximity suddenly more intense, the space between them charging with an unspoken tension. “It feels right to annoy the living shit out of each other? To always be looking over your shoulder, thinking I’ve hexed your books or your robes? That feels right to you?”

Under the weight of his gaze, Harry felt about three feet tall. “Not—okay, not that part.”

Draco’s arms folded, his jaw set, eyes searching Harry like he was trying to read something Harry hadn’t said aloud. Waiting for him to admit the truth. Harry cleared his throat. “I meant… it’s just what we do, right? It’s how we’ve always been. Without it, we don’t really…” He trailed off, heart thudding. “We don’t have anything.”

Something shifted in Draco’s expression—like something clicking into place, or cracking open slightly. “So, you want to have something with me?” Draco asked, the words coming out quieter now, but carrying a weight that had clearly been pressing against him for some time. Harry could feel it—the way the question hung between them, suspended and fragile.

Harry’s mouth went dry. “I mean, maybe? I just—I want—” he paused.

“Merlin,” Draco groaned, tipping his head back. “Will you ever learn how to finish a bloody sentence?”

Harry, feeling like he was on the verge of a mental breakdown, threw his hands up in exasperation. “I don’t know! This is... I wasn’t exactly expecting a deep and meaningful chat in the middle of Detention!”

“Well, we’re having one,” Draco snapped, “so fucking deal with it, Potter.”

They both stared at each other.

The air felt dense with something unspeakable. Or at least something Harry had absolutely no vocabulary for.

Finally, Harry shifted uncomfortably, breaking the tension, his voice barely above a whisper. “So… are you going to say something, or...?”

Draco’s only response was to grab a dripping, murky rag and toss it at Harry’s head with surprising precision. The rag landed with a wet slap against the stone behind him. Harry ducked, startled into laughter, the sound bubbling up before he could even stop it.

When he looked back up, Draco had crossed the space between them. He leaned a hip against Harry’s table, folding his arms again, watching him with a strange sort of calm.

Then, after a pause, he said, low and serious, “I don’t want to be your sodding enemy, Potter.”

Harry stilled.“Oh,” he said, looking away. The smile slipped off his face. “Right. Okay.” Then he forced a laugh. “So, end of contract, yeah? I’ll… cancel the lifelong blood feud subscription.”

Draco didn’t laugh, steamrolling over Harry's words. “And I don’t think you want to be my enemy, either,” he said, voice quieter now. “Not with the way you’ve been acting.”

Harry’s heart beat louder in his chest. He tried to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come. Draco took another step, invading Harry’s space completely now, his presence impossibly close. Harry could smell him now—soap, warmth, something faintly sharp—and the sensation of it, so unexpected, made his head spin. "I don't- uh." he said, eloquently.

Draco narrowed his eyes, but the corners of his mouth were twitching, like he knew something Harry didn’t. Then, slowly, deliberately, he hummed. “I can help you out.”

Harry blinked. “Help me? Help me how?"

Draco leaned in, almost conspiratorial. “You’ve been running your little experiments, haven’t you? Playing pranks on me all week. The broken chair, my hair, that ridiculous broom stunt.”

Harry flushed but gave a reluctant nod. Draco nodded. “Right. Well, I’ve got one last experiment for you.”

Another step forward. Harry could feel his heart trip over itself. His palms were sweating, his face was burning, and it was suddenly very difficult to remember how lungs worked. Draco tilted his head. “Let me know if this clears anything up for you. Okay?”

Harry—who, frankly, would have said yes to Draco asking him to walk barefoot into the Black Lake—nodded, mute.

“Good,” Draco said, his voice a perfect blend of calm and tension. And then, without another word, he reached for one of the clean rags, drying his hands with deliberate care before he hooked two fingers into the collar of Harry’s robes, tugging him down and kissing him, square on the mouth.

It was a rough pull, but the kiss was anything but.

Soft. That was the only word for it. It was tentative around the edges, like Draco’s certainty had brought him right to the edge of something vulnerable and terrifying and real—and he wasn’t quite sure how deep the water was.

For Harry, it felt like someone had turned the lights on. Every unfinished sentence, every weird impulse, every reason he’d felt off-kilter and wound up for weeks—it all made sense now, slotting into place with ridiculous, terrifying clarity.

He wanted this.

He wanted Draco.

Without thinking, Harry wrapped his arms- still wet and disgusting and probably trailing bits of cauldron slime- around Draco’s waist, pulling him closer. But the blond immediately broke the kiss, recoiling a fraction with an audible noise of disgust. “Potter,” he muttered, his voice laced with exasperation, “you’re filthy. Wipe your bloody hands.”

Harry, dazed but grinning, obeyed without a second thought, grabbing the nearest rag and scrubbing his hands clean. When he looked up again, Draco was still standing there, lips swollen, eyes slightly unfocused.

He couldn’t help himself. He looked at Draco’s mouth—at those lips he could still feel against his own—and it was impossible to look away.

“So?” Draco murmured, eyes flicking down to Harry’s mouth before darting back up. “You figured it out? Experiment successful?”

Harry’s brain had long since abandoned language. He nodded slowly, gaze dropping again to that mouth, hungry and dazed. “Think we need a round two,” he said, voice gravelly. “Just to be sure.”

Draco groaned, exasperated, but the flush crawling up his neck told a different story. “Fucking hell, Potter. Come here.”

And Harry did. He kissed Draco again. This time, properly.

Without even realising that he was moving, Harry pressed forward, guiding Draco back until his shoulders met the cold stone wall behind them. The chill of it must’ve made him shiver, but if it bothered him, he didn’t show it- he kissed back with a quiet sort of intent, like he’d decided, finally, irrevocably, that this was happening. His hands slid up into Harry’s hair, fingers curling just behind his ears, and Harry’s heart tripped and stumbled and then gave up entirely on any sort of rhythm.

He licked into Draco’s mouth, tentative but hungry, and Draco made a sound- God, he could listen to that forever- and Harry felt like the air between them had cracked and split and turned into something he could drown in forever.

Draco broke the kiss just long enough to drag in a shaky breath, but his eyes were bright, glassy with want. That smug, breathless little smile curved pulled against his lips enticingly. Draco tugged him closer, mouth ghosting along Harry’s jaw, his breath hot and teasing at the shell of his ear.

It made Harry want to-

SLAM.

The door banged open with a crash and a wave of cold dungeon air.

There was a voice, muttering angrily. “I swear to bloody Merlin, if someone’s moved my—ah.”

Draco went entirely still beneath him, hands still tangled in his hair. Aleksandr stood in the doorway, scarf half-draped over one shoulder, eyes landing squarely on the two of them—Harry very much pressed against Draco, Draco very much not protesting.

He arched one impossibly judgmental eyebrow, before spotting what he came back for—his obnoxious fur-lined jacket, slung over the back of a stool. He walked over, picked it up with a sigh, and said, entirely unimpressed, “About time, yes?”

Harry, who could barely remember his own name, blinked, but Aleksandr didn’t elaborate. He just tugged the jacket on, smoothed it like he didn't claim to frequently have stained it with blood earlier, and sauntered out with a shake of his head, knowing.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Silence.

Absolute, ringing silence. Harry was still close enough to feel Draco breathing, still close enough to kiss him again if he moved half an inch. “Did that just happen?” He asked eventually, voice very small.

Draco stared at the door, lips a little swollen, cheeks very pink. “Apparently.”

There was another pause. 'Well," Harry cleared his throat, hands tightening around Draco's hips. "I'd say that was a largely successful experiment."

"I'm inclined to agree, for once," he murmured, tilting his head and looking at Harry in a way that made his chest throb happily. 

"Pigs must be flying." Harry snorted, tipping his head down to capture Draco's lips once more. The cauldrons could wait.