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Chapter Text

The air in Dumbledore's office was always thick with something unspoken. Dust, yes—settled in crevices of the bookshelves and beneath the gleam of strange little instruments—but heavier still was the sense that every conversation here was just the surface of some deeper current. And today, Harry had had enough of being dragged under.

"I'm not doing it," Harry said flatly.

Dumbledore looked up from behind his desk, hands steepled, eyes as unreadable as they were ancient. "Harry, I assure you, this is not a request."

"Well, I'm not a soldier," Harry snapped. "You don't get to order me into battle every time something weird shows up. I'm not your bloody—"

"Tom."

The name slipped out like a curse. Quiet, accidental, but sharp as shattered glass.

Harry froze.

So did Dumbledore.

It hung in the air for a second. Two. An eternity, maybe. Harry's hands, clenched at his sides, loosened just enough to tremble.

"What did you just call me?" he said, voice low. Controlled.

Dumbledore's expression didn't change much—but it changed enough. His posture remained the same, but his eyes widened, only a fraction. Concern, maybe. Regret. Definitely fear.

"I apologize," Dumbledore said carefully. "That was—unintentional."

Harry laughed, once, cold and sharp. "Unintentional," he repeated. "Sure. Right. Just a little Freudian slip, huh, Headmaster?"

"Harry—"

"No. Don't 'Harry' me. If you're going to sit there and look at me like I'm a ticking time bomb, if every time I push back, you flinch like I've grown horns and hissed Parseltongue at you—then maybe you're right."

Dumbledore straightened. "I never said you were like him."

"But you think it." Harry's voice was rising now, heat spilling into his cheeks. "I've seen the way you look at me. Every time I lose my temper. Every time I question you. You're not worried about me, you're worried about what I might become."

"That is not true."

"Then why did you call me Tom?"

Silence.

Harry stepped forward, a bitter little smile curling on his lips. "Fine," he said. "If that's all you're ever going to see—then maybe I'll make it easier for you. Maybe I will be him. I'll stop being your perfect little 'Boy Who Lived.'"

Dumbledore's jaw tightened, but his voice remained calm. "You are not him, Harry. You are more than what you've suffered."

"Tell that to yourself," Harry shot back. "Because it's not me who's acting like a ghost is sitting in this room. It's you. And if I'm already judged for something I haven't done, then maybe I'll stop wasting energy trying to be what you want."

Dumbledore stood. Slowly. "You don't mean that."

"I do." Harry's voice was steady now. Too steady. "And you're going to find some excuse—some noble reason to reshuffle all the Houses this year. Maybe you'll say we've all grown. That we've changed. That maybe resorting us will bring new unity to Hogwarts. Something inspiring and impossible to argue with. And conveniently, you won't bother with the first or second years. They're too new. But the rest of us? We're fair game."

Harry took another step forward. "And when I sit on that stool again, when the Sorting Hat's brim touches my head, it's going to scream Slytherin. Loud and clear. And you'll have your Tom Riddle. Your self-fulfilling prophecy."

"You presume much," Dumbledore said, and there was a new edge to his voice. "To think I would manipulate the Sorting Hat for—"

"For what?" Harry cut in. "The Greater Good? Sound familiar?"

Dumbledore's silence this time was louder than any shout.

Harry turned for the door. "I'm done being your weapon. I'm not going to start murdering people—but I'm not going to keep sacrificing myself for everyone else, either."

He stopped, hand on the brass handle.

"And next time," he said without turning around, "call me by my name."

Then he left, the door clicking shut behind him, and for the first time in a long time, Dumbledore stood completely still—looking very old, and very, very unsure.

Two days later, Harry sat with Ron in the library, flipping idly through a textbook he wasn't really reading.

Ron leaned closer over the table. "So, the re-Sorting's officially happening at dinner tonight," he said, clearly unimpressed. "McGonagall put the notice up this morning. I don't get it, though. Doesn't seem like anyone's actually going to change Houses. What's the point?"

Harry shrugged without looking up. "You never know," he said evenly. "Some people... grow a lot over the years. Maybe it'll do some good."

Ron frowned, but before he could say anything else, Hermione returned with an armful of books.

"Ugh, I swear, someone keeps moving the Arithmancy section," she huffed, sliding into her seat. "Did you see the re-Sorting announcement?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "Yeah, we were just talking about it. Waste of time, if you ask me."

"I think it's kind of fascinating," Hermione said brightly. "Can you imagine someone like Ernie Macmillan getting sorted into Ravenclaw? Or Lavender into Hufflepuff? Actually, that might be an improvement."

Ron snorted. "What about Seamus? Think he's going to end up in Slytherin?"

"Not unless they've suddenly started letting people in for blowing things up," Hermione said, grinning. "But I could see Dean in Hufflepuff, honestly."

They went on like that for a while, throwing out names and House predictions, their chatter light and easy. Harry played along, but he wasn't really listening.

Across the room, Pansy Parkinson was spreading out her books on an empty table.

Harry stood up.

"I'll be back in a minute," he mumbled, already halfway across the library.

He reached her table and leaned in slightly, voice low. "Hey... what's Slytherin like?"

Pansy looked up, startled—then her eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating. She blinked once.

"You think it's going to say Slytherin," she said quietly. Not a question.

Harry didn't respond.

She closed her book and tilted her head. "Well... We study together in the common room most nights. We look out for the younger ones—help them with homework, make sure no one messes with them. There's a kind of... structure, you know?"

Harry nodded once. Still silent.

"And we wear matching pyjama sets," she added, smirking. "Green silk. Monogrammed. Very posh."

Harry huffed a laugh under his breath.

Draco appeared beside her just then, slinging his bag onto the table. He glanced across the room toward Harry's table, then back at them.

"Are Granger and Weasley going to burn holes through your back, Potter, or are they just trying to telepathically summon you?"

Harry rolled his eyes but smiled slightly. "Thanks, Pansy," he said, stepping away.

"Anytime," she replied, voice light but eyes serious.

He returned to Ron and Hermione, who were both staring at him.

"What was that about?" Ron asked, brows raised.

Harry sat back down. "Nothing. Just... talking."

Hermione squinted. "With Pansy?"

"Yeah," Harry said simply, flipping his book open again. "She's not so bad."

Dinner came quickly.

The Great Hall buzzed with nervous energy. The Sorting Hat sat atop its stool at the front like it was ready to make history all over again, and murmurs rolled through the tables as names were being called.

A third-year Hufflepuff became a Ravenclaw. A fourth-year Slytherin was placed into Gryffindor, to the loudest round of applause yet. There were gasps, laughter, awkward cheers. Some students looked relieved. Some were outright panicking.

Hermione was called.

She walked up with the calm, determined stride she always had, sat, and barely had the hat touch her head before it called: "GRYFFINDOR!"

No one was surprised.

Ron followed shortly after. Same result. "GRYFFINDOR!" He looked incredibly smug walking back to the table.

Then: "Malfoy, Draco."

He sauntered to the stool like he was on a catwalk, sat with an elegant toss of his hair, and the Hat gave a pause—but not a long one. "SLYTHERIN!" it called again.

Draco stood, smirked, and returned to the Slytherin table as if he hadn't just had his identity questioned for five seconds.

And then—"Potter, Harry."

The room went silent.

Utterly, chillingly silent.

Harry stepped up slowly, but with his chin high. As he passed the staff table, he caught Dumbledore's eyes—and this time, the fear was not subtle. Dumbledore looked pale, even in the golden candlelight.

Harry just smirked.

Pansy, still seated at the Slytherin table, was watching him like a cat about to be proven right. She was already smirking.

He sat. The Sorting Hat was lowered onto his head.

"Well, well," the Hat murmured in his mind. "We meet again, Mr. Potter. I was right the first time, wasn't I?"

Harry didn't answer. He didn't need to.

"Very well, then," the Hat said, almost with satisfaction. "SLYTHERIN!"

The room exploded.

Gasps, murmurs, whispers so intense they might as well have been shouts. Ron looked like he'd been hexed. Hermione's jaw dropped—she looked like her brain had hit a wall mid-thought and was scrambling to recalculate everything she knew. Seamus just yelled "What?!" loud enough to echo.

Draco's eyebrows went straight up. Snape blinked—actually blinked—his face caught between amusement and deep, deep suspicion. McGonagall's lips had disappeared entirely. Dumbledore... looked like someone had pulled the floor out from beneath him. There was fear there, yes—but something else, too. Disappointment.

Harry's smirk faltered for the briefest moment.

But only briefly.

He stood, walked to the Slytherin table with measured steps, and sat down in the empty spot next to Pansy.

Draco was on his other side.

"Well, that was unexpected," Draco said, voice low and dry. "Though I suppose that's why you were whispering with Pansy in the library like it was some sort of underground interview process."

Harry didn't respond to that directly. He glanced back toward the staff table—Dumbledore hadn't looked away. That same unsettling combination of fear and disappointment still sat heavy in his eyes.

Harry turned back to his plate, jaw tight.

Before the silence could stretch, Theo leaned over the table, eyes wide and gleaming with mischief. "Did you see everyone's faces when the Hat said it? I mean—Granger looked like someone just rewrote all her notes in Troll. Her eye twitched. Like, actually twitched."

"Weasley looked like he was about to leap up and object—like, actually shout 'OBJECTION!' like it's a courtroom," Daphne said from further down the table, resting her chin on her hand.

"Seamus nearly fell off the bench," Blaise added, not even looking up from his plate. "Had to grab onto Dean like a baby Mandrake. Looked like he saw a ghost—no, worse, like he saw you doing Arithmancy for fun."

"McGonagall looked like she swallowed a lemon whole, stem and all," Theo said, grinning now. "Her hand actually jerked toward her wand like she had to physically stop herself from intervening."

"And Snape," Pansy added, snorting, "looked like someone had told him Christmas was canceled and we were having a Muggle Studies field trip. His mouth twitched. It twitched. That man hasn't smiled in twenty years, but I swear it was a twitch."

Luna, nearby at the Ravenclaw table, had tilted her head so far to the side she looked like she might tip over. "It makes sense," she murmured dreamily. "Snakes shed their skin when they outgrow it."

But it was Lupin—seated between Professors Sprout and Flitwick—who had Harry's attention for just a second. He didn't look shocked. Not exactly. Just... tired. As if he'd seen it coming, but hoped he'd be wrong. His eyes met Harry's briefly, and though his face didn't change, he offered a small nod. Something between be careful and I see you.

"And Dumbledore," Theo finished, practically vibrating with energy, "looked like someone reached into his chest and squeezed his heart just for fun. But slowly. Like, dramatically. I'm talking theatre-level tragedy. I wouldn't be surprised if he faints by dessert."

Draco leaned back in his seat with an exaggerated sigh, swirling his goblet like he was tasting wine. "So, Potter... how's it feel, not sleeping in the lion's den anymore? Missing the smell of burning bravery and poorly hidden insecurities yet?"

Harry didn't blink. "Honestly? Expected this. Wanted it, even."

That made Draco pause.

"I'm tired of pretending to be something I'm not," Harry continued, calm and collected. "Slytherin makes more sense than Gryffindor ever did. I don't want to play hero for people who just want me to break first. At least here, it feels like everyone knows exactly who they are—and they don't apologize for it."

Pansy grinned. "Now that sounds like a Slytherin."

Theo raised his goblet. "To our newest snake, then."

There was a chorus of murmured toasts, clinks of glass against glass.

"Bet the Gryffindor dorms are having a collective crisis," Daphne added. "Half of them probably think you're cursed now."

"Oh, they definitely think he's evil," Blaise said. "And honestly? I support the narrative. Keep them guessing."

"Gives us more dramatic flair," Pansy said with a wink.

Draco smirked, but there was a flicker of something more thoughtful in his eyes. "Well, welcome to the dungeons, Potter. Just don't mess up the aesthetic."

Harry smirked back. "I think I'll fit in just fine."

That night, the new Slytherin dorms felt warmer than Harry expected. Not literally—it was still a dungeon, after all—but something about the dim lighting, the emerald hangings, and the cozy hum of activity made it feel less like exile and more like a fresh start.

Harry entered the room he was now sharing with Draco, Blaise, Theo, and Vincent. Gregory had been re-Sorted into Hufflepuff—something about his unwavering loyalty, apparently.

Draco was lounging on his bed, flipping through a magazine when he glanced up and tossed something at Harry.

"Catch."

Harry caught the soft bundle—green silk pyjamas, monogrammed with silver thread. Neatly folded on top were a pair of green slippers shaped like miniature coiled snakes, their eyes little glass beads that glittered in the low light.

"Seriously?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

"They're standard issue," Draco said, smirking. "Though I never used those. I've got dragon ones. Much more intimidating."

Blaise leaned on his four-poster, arms crossed. "Most of us just have boring green slippers. Draco here has a thing for dramatic footwear."

"They're practical and fabulous," Draco replied, completely unbothered.

Theo flopped onto his bed and looked over at Harry. "So... why'd you want to be Slytherin, really? You never answered that in the Great Hall."

Harry sat on his new bed, pulling the slippers on. They were oddly comfortable.

"There was a fight," he said. "With Dumbledore. He—he called me Tom. By accident."

Harry paused, the words clawing their way up. "It wasn't just the name slip. It was everything behind it. The way he looked at me. Like he expected me to become him. Like I was one bad day away from turning into Voldemort. And honestly? It's not new. That's how it's always been with him. Since first year."

The others were quiet, watching him.

Harry went on, voice steadier now, like it was a relief to say it out loud. "I've spent years trying to be what he wanted. What everyone wanted. The perfect Golden Boy. Savior of the Wizarding World. Selfless. Brave. Forgiving. But it never mattered. I was always treated like a weapon first. Like a symbol. Not a person."

He looked up at them, eyes hard. "And I'm done with that. Slytherin... it makes sense. I'm not perfect. I don't want to be. I want to be somewhere I can breathe. Somewhere I'm allowed to be angry or ambitious or complicated without someone immediately thinking I'm going to turn into a Dark Lord."

His voice dropped a bit. "The only reason I wasn't sorted here in the first place was because I begged the Hat not to put me in the same House as Draco."

Draco blinked. "Well, ouch."

Harry snorted. "No offense. I was eleven. You insulted Ron's entire family in the first ten seconds we met."

Draco nodded slowly. "Yeah, fair enough."

Theo tossed a pillow at Draco. "Character growth. We love to see it."

Laughter rippled through the room, easy and unforced.

"All right, snakes," Blaise said, standing and stretching. "Shall we make a dramatic, silk-clad entrance into the common room?"

The boys all pulled on their pyjama sets, an unspoken unity in the matching green and silver.

They walked out of the dorms, shoulders brushing, laughing about slippers and past detentions.

The Slytherin common room had a low murmur of voices, a greenish hue from the lake filtering through enchanted windows, and the faint scent of parchment, firewood, and potion residue lingering in the air. Harry hadn't even sat down properly before a group of first- and second-years approached, wide-eyed.

"Is it true?" a second-year girl asked, her voice hushed with awe. "You got re-Sorted into Slytherin?"

Harry smiled gently. "Yeah. Guess the hat just changed its mind."

A third-year boy leaned in, hopeful. "Does this mean we can ask you to teach us dueling spells?"

Harry chuckled. "Ask nicely, and maybe I'll teach you the shield charm first."

Satisfied and grinning, they scattered back to their corner, whispering excitedly.

Harry, Draco, Theo, Blaise, and Vincent claimed the big study table in the corner, their green silk pyjamas almost uniform under the low golden lamps. Draco set down a thick Potions book with a dramatic thud.

"Right, Potter," he said, already flipping to a marked page. "Polyjuice Potion. You're hopeless at slicing boomslang skin, so let's fix that before you blow up the cauldron."

Harry raised a brow, pulling out his notebook. "How do you even get your cuts that thin? Mine always end up like strips of beef jerky."

"Because I have hands blessed by Merlin and the patience of a saint," Draco said dryly. "Also, you're holding your knife like it's a bloody club."

Theo snorted. "He's not wrong."

Draco pushed a scrap of dried boomslang toward Harry. "Here. Try it with my knife. It's weighted properly."

As Harry sliced, Draco pointed to the list in the book. "Start from the top. Ingredients include: stewed lacewing flies—21 days minimum. Leeches. Powdered bicorn horn. Knotgrass. Fluxweed—picked at the full moon. Shredded boomslang skin. And, of course, a bit of the person you want to turn into."

"Hair, right?" Harry asked, still concentrating on the slicing.

"Or toenails, if you're disgusting," Blaise muttered, flipping a page in his own book.

Vincent looked up. "Didn't that one Ravenclaw turn into a half-cat once?"

"Millicent Bulstrode's cat hair," Pansy said as she joined them, dropping onto the seat beside Blaise. "She ended up in the Hospital Wing for a week. Amateur mistake."

Draco leaned closer to check Harry's slices. "Not bad. Still a bit thick, but it won't kill anyone."

Harry grinned. "High praise from you."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Shut up and keep stirring. Once it's thick and mud-like, it needs to bubble slowly—too fast and the entire batch's ruined."

"Also tastes different depending on who you're becoming," Theo added. "Mine apparently tastes like mint and regret."

"Regret?" Harry laughed.

"Yeah. I tried turning into Snape once. Do not recommend."

"Why would you—?"

"Detention experiment. It was a dare."

As the night went on, they kept brewing, the cauldron bubbling at just the right pace. Books stacked high, parchment scattered everywhere, and someone had conjured mugs of hot chocolate. More Slytherins trickled over to help or observe, and it felt... oddly natural.

Harry looked around at the laughter, the sarcasm, the focus. It was a different kind of support than Gryffindor's roaring energy—it was quieter, slyer, more precise. But it was still real.

And it felt like home.

The Slytherin common room was dim and rich with green lamplight, pools of shadow and flickering reflections dancing along the walls. The boys took their usual table—long, wide, and tucked into a corner. The moment they sat, Draco pulled out his Potions kit and slapped a hefty textbook onto the table.

"Polyjuice Potion," he said, flipping the book to the dog-eared page. "McGonagall said we'll be quizzed on it by the end of the week."

Harry groaned. "That one takes a month to brew."

"Yes, but understanding it is half the battle," Draco said, already uncorking several vials. "Come on, what's the first step?"

Harry furrowed his brow, trying to remember. "Uh... lacewing flies? Stewed for twenty-one days?"

Draco nodded approvingly. "Correct. They make up the base and provide the consistency. After that, leeches."

"Which are disgusting," Theo mumbled, flipping through his own notes.

"Powdered bicorn horn," Blaise added. "That one's volatile, if added too fast."

"Then knotgrass, fluxweed—picked at the full moon," Draco continued. "Shredded boomslang skin. And finally, a bit of the person you want to become. Hair, toenail, whatever. Not recommended for half-creatures or animals."

"Because the transformation might not reverse," Harry said, now leaning over the book. "Right. I remember that."

Draco glanced sideways at him. "So you have brewed it before?"

Harry grinned. "Second year. With Hermione. She accidentally turned into a cat."

Theo snorted. "Of course she did."

They fell into companionable silence as they scribbled notes, the bubbling diagrams and potion charts stretching across the table. Draco passed Harry a spare quill when his snapped, and didn't even make a comment about it.

It was easy, strange as that was. Easy and comfortable.

Draco leaned in again, tapping Harry's notes. "This should be clockwise stirring after the fluxweed, not counter. Otherwise it turns tar-like."

"Right," Harry muttered, fixing the scribble. "Thanks."

Draco shrugged like it was nothing, then reached over and adjusted the drawing Harry had attempted of the potion's consistency before the final ingredient.

"Looks like soup," Draco said dryly.

Harry chuckled. "Sorry I'm not a Rembrandt of bubbling sludge."

"You're lucky I'm here," Draco replied, lips twitching.

The lamp above them glowed warm, casting golden light on their faces as they worked—green silk, silver trim, half-finished homework, and laughter tucked quietly into the corners of the room.

Chapter Text

Harry and Theo strolled down the corridor toward the dungeons, their matching green ties loose, robes unbuttoned, and both of them looking far too relaxed for students about to suffer a double period of Potions.

"You do realize Snape is going to hex us into next week if we walk in even a second late," Theo said, grinning.

"Oh, absolutely," Harry replied. "But that's why I brought him this." He pulled a chocolate frog from his robe pocket. "Bribery works best when you pretend it's thoughtful."

Theo snorted. "Look at you. A true Slytherin already."

They turned the corner—and froze.

Ron Weasley was storming up the corridor toward them, red-faced and visibly furious. Hermione trailed behind, her brow furrowed, clearly trying to convince him not to do exactly what he was about to do.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," Theo muttered.

"Harry!" Ron barked, ignoring Theo completely. "You knew, didn't you? You knew you were going to switch houses?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Nice to see you too, Ron."

"Don't deflect!" Ron snapped. "You didn't even say anything! You just—what, strutted over to the snake pit like it's where you belonged all along?"

"Maybe because it is," Harry said calmly.

Hermione finally caught up, placing a hand lightly on Ron's arm. "Ron, maybe this isn't—"

"Oh, come on, Hermione! He's practically turning dark, can't you see it?"

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Dark? Because I switched Houses?"

"Because you've been different for months! Moody, secretive—snapping at everyone. Now you're suddenly best friends with Malfoy?"

Theo folded his arms. "He's not best friends with—"

Harry held up a hand, silencing Theo. "You think I'm evil because I'm not doing exactly what you want anymore."

Ron scoffed. "No, I think you're evil because you're acting like him! Like You-Know-Who!"

Hermione winced.

"Right," Harry said flatly. "Because being a Slytherin automatically makes me Voldemort's heir."

Theo raised a hand, deadpan. "Technically, you kind of are. You are Slytherin's heir—literally. Voldemort was one too, and you're from the same magical bloodline. Everyone knows that, it's not even a secret anymore. Parseltongue, magical legacy, all that creepy chamber stuff—check, check, check, check."

"Mr. Weasley!" Snape's voice cracked through the corridor like a whip.

Ron spun, startled.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor," Snape said, his robes billowing behind him as he stalked closer. "For being loud, disruptive, and—let's be honest—staggeringly dull. You should be seated in class. Not standing in the hallway shouting slander at your classmates like a tabloid columnist."

Ron opened his mouth, then shut it.

"Inside. Now," Snape added. "Before I decide to make it forty."

Ron stomped past them, grumbling under his breath. Hermione gave Harry an apologetic look before following.

Theo waited until they were out of earshot before saying, "What a bloody—"

"Mr. Nott," Snape cut in smoothly, not even looking at him, "Slytherin is fortunate I haven't taken points from them. Do try not to ruin our streak."

Theo threw his hands up in surrender. "Understood, sir."

"Inside. Take your seat."

Theo disappeared into the classroom. Snape paused and turned slightly toward Harry.

"Did you know?" he asked, voice unreadable.

Harry nodded. "Yeah."

"Planned it?"

Harry paused. "Yeah. I did."

Snape's gaze sharpened. "Explain."

Harry looked him in the eye. "It wasn't about revenge or theatrics. It was about finally being somewhere I felt like I belonged. I asked Dumbledore to consider a re-Sorting. Told him people had changed. That it could help bring unity. He liked the idea. But he didn't know where I'd end up."

Snape studied him. "And you knew it would be Slytherin."

Harry nodded once. "I've always known. The Hat wanted to put me here in first year. I talked it out of it. But I'm not that kid anymore."

Snape said nothing for a long beat, but the flicker of something—respect, maybe—crossed his face.

"Welcome to Slytherin, Potter," he said at last. "Get to class."

"Thanks," Harry said. Then after a pause, added, "For stopping Ron."

Snape didn't respond. But something in his expression softened just a hair before he turned and swept into the classroom.

Inside the Potions classroom, cauldrons bubbled and the room smelled like crushed knotgrass and scorched wormwood. On the board in Snape's elegant scrawl: Polyjuice Potion — Brewing: Day 1 of 31.

"Today," Snape said from the front, "we begin what may be the most complicated potion you will ever attempt to brew in this class. Polyjuice. If you fail, you will not only waste my time, but risk severe consequences. Disfigurement. Hospitalization. Mild personality dissolution."

The class stared.

"I see I have your attention."

Harry and Theo were paired at one workstation. Draco and Blaise at another. Across the room, Ron grimaced at Harry, while Neville just looked confused, looking over their shared ingredients.

"Lacewing flies, stewed for twenty-one days," Theo muttered, measuring carefully. "Already pre-prepped by Snape. Thank Merlin."

Harry added powdered bicorn horn. "Hey, this is actually going well."

"Don't jinx it."

Across the room, a loud pop and an explosion of green smoke filled the air.

Neville coughed, face covered in soot. Ron was blinking rapidly, his fringe singed.

Draco snickered. "Classic."

Theo let out an unfiltered laugh.

"Oi!" Harry nudged him. "Be nice."

Still, he couldn't keep the grin off his face.

Ron glared across the room. "Oh, of course yours is working. Just because you're in Slytherin now doesn't mean you get some magic potions upgrade!"

That earned chuckles from the Slytherin side of the room.

Snape swept past, examining cauldrons. "Draco and Mr. Zabini—acceptable. Five points to Slytherin."

He paused at Harry and Theo's cauldron. The potion bubbled thickly, its texture perfectly mud-like, steam rising slow and even.

Snape's lip twitched. "Unexpectedly competent." He glanced at Harry. "Mr. Potter. Mr. Nott. Five points."

Harry blinked. "Thanks, sir."

From the Gryffindor table, Ron let out a low, furious grumble.

Snape raised a brow. "Something to add, Mr. Weasley?"

"No, sir," Ron mumbled.

"Good. Then do try not to kill your partner with whatever it is you're brewing."

As the lesson went on, the Slytherin boys whispered and joked between steps. Theo occasionally leaned over to correct Harry's stirring technique, tapping his ladle and muttering about clockwise versus counterclockwise motion like it was sacred law.

"Are you stirring like you're mixing cake batter or trying to brew something that won't explode?" Theo teased.

"Bit of both," Harry muttered, grinning.

Draco, ever the perfectionist, hovered over the thermometer strip like a hawk, adjusting the flame beneath the cauldron by a hair's width, grumbling every time it ticked even a degree too high.

"If you breathe too hard on this flame, Potter, I will hex you," he said without looking up.

"Such faith," Harry deadpanned.

Blaise casually tossed a bit of knotgrass into his cauldron and quipped, "Honestly, I think Draco would marry that thermometer if it said 'yes.'"

"Don't be ridiculous," Draco replied coolly. "It would need to be enchanted first."

The table erupted into muffled laughter. Between steps, they scribbled notes in their books, checking the bubbling pace and recording color and viscosity just like Snape had instructed. Occasionally, one of them would lean over to help another—Harry had to stop Theo from dropping the shredded boomslang skin in too early, and Draco nudged Blaise when he caught him miscounting his stirs.

Halfway through the period, Snape snapped his fingers and summoned their attention. "You will also be writing a two-foot essay on the theory, history, and composition of the Polyjuice Potion, due by the end of the week. If you're incapable of decent handwriting, I suggest you begin immediately."

Theo groaned. "I'd rather drink a batch that hasn't finished brewing."

"You'd end up with six arms and no eyebrows," Draco said, flipping his quill dramatically. "Do it properly or don't bother."

"Easy for you to say," Blaise said, pointing his quill at him. "You write like a calligraphy professor possessed you."

Harry shook his head as he jotted down notes. "What did I get myself into?"

"Excellence, Potter," Draco replied, smirking. "You signed up for excellence."

Theo made a noise in his throat. "You know, you can probably stop calling him 'Potter' now. You lot sleep in the same room. He's in the snake family now. It's Harry."

Blaise leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, it's starting to sound like you're clinging to some kind of dramatic rivalry trope. Let it go, Draco. Call him by his first name."

Draco rolled his eyes, but his smirk didn't budge. "Fine. Harry, welcome to the cauldron of mediocrity. I'll raise your standards eventually."

"Ok, Draco." Harry made a face. "Yeah, no, that felt wrong."

"What did?" Draco asked, confused.

"Saying your actual name. It's too... formal. Weird. I don't like it."

Theo perked up. "What, you need a nickname for him now?"

Harry nodded solemnly. "Yup. From now on, you're Doody-Dookums."

There was a beat of silence—then Blaise choked on air and Theo laughed so hard he nearly knocked over their ink bottle.

Draco gave a horrified laugh. "Absolutely not."

Harry grinned. "Too late. Doody-Dookums it is."

"I will spike your potion," Draco threatened, pointing his quill at him.

Harry winked. "Only if you can spell it right in your essay, Dookums."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "You want to play this game, Potter—I mean, Harry—fine. I'll come up with a nickname for you."

Theo leaned in, already grinning. "You're not creative enough to think of one. Want help?"

"Absolutely," Draco said.

Theo pretended to think hard. "What about... Tommo Pot?"

Harry deadpanned. "No."

Blaise snorted. "Okay, yeah, that's terrible. Draco, just skip the clever ones and go for full saccharine horror. You know, call him darling or sweetheart or something. It'll drive Weasley up the wall."

Draco looked at Harry, eyes twinkling. "Darling it is, then."

Harry gave a slow, sarcastic nod. "Perfect. Doody-Dookums and Darling. Hogwarts' worst couple."

Just then, Snape drifted over like a particularly well-groomed storm cloud.

"Are we working, or writing the next tragic romantic comedy?" he said, eyeing the group.

Draco immediately pointed to their cauldron. "Perfectly consistent bubbling, sir."

Theo held up their parchment. "Detailed notes. Everything labeled."

Snape gave a subtle nod and moved on. When he reached Ron and Neville's workstation, his lip curled.

Neville was poking at their cauldron with the wrong end of the stirrer, and Ron had clearly given up, slouched halfway off his stool.

"Ten points from Gryffindor," Snape said with relish. "For complete lack of effort and aesthetic offense."

Harry chuckled under his breath.

Blaise raised an eyebrow. "Not even a flicker of guilt?"

Harry shrugged, still smiling. "I would, but Snape's finally not breathing down my neck anymore, so no. Also, Hermione definitely tried to make Ron study last night. I'd bet ten galleons she gave him a study schedule. If he didn't listen, that's on him."

The Slytherins chuckled, a few smirks and exchanged looks bouncing around the table.

But then—

"This is ridiculous!" Ron suddenly shouted, rising from his seat, face redder than a Howler. "Snape is favoriting him now! Just because he's in Slytherin!"

Snape turned on his heel, raising a warning finger. "Mr. Weasley—"

But Ron kept going, voice rising with every word. "I bet Harry and Malfoy are planning a bloody Death Eater meeting in the common room! I bet all the Slytherins are in on it—cursing him into joining them! And now no one's going to be saved, because he's laughing with them instead of doing anything to stop what's coming!"

Theo leaned into the chaos, smirking. "Imagine if he'd heard Draco call Harry 'darling.' He'd have exploded on the spot."

Blaise nodded solemnly. "Ron is falling for the rage bait so hard, I almost feel bad. Almost."

The Slytherin table burst into stifled laughter.

Ron turned, fuming, and jabbed a finger at Harry. "You don't even see a problem with this, do you? Sitting there, laughing with them! With the enemy!"

Harry stood up slowly. "Ron. I'm laughing. Not plotting to destroy the wizarding world. Calm down."

"Twenty-five points from Gryffindor," Snape cut in, voice cool and sharp. "And Mr. Weasley—you are to report to Headmaster Dumbledore's office. Immediately."

Ron stomped out, practically sparking with rage, and Hermione gave Harry a helpless look before hurrying after him.

Harry leaned in, whispering under his breath, "I kind of want to get a Dark Mark now. Just for the rage bait."

Theo snorted.

Blaise and Draco both turned toward them, eyebrows raised. "What did you just say?" Draco asked.

Theo grinned. "Nothing."

Harry smirked. "Absolutely nothing."

Chapter Text

The library was unusually quiet that afternoon—quieter than usual, even for Hogwarts. Most students had either fled outside to enjoy the rare patch of sun or buried themselves in private dorm corners pretending to revise. But the Slytherins had claimed a corner table by the tall windows, the perfect spot to soak in the light while pretending they weren't collectively panicking about their upcoming Divination exam.

Harry sat with his chin propped on one hand, flipping lazily through a thick book titled Mystic Texts and the Art of Bibliomancy. Next to him, Theo was making sharp notes with an expensive-looking green quill, while Draco leaned dramatically back in his chair like he'd just fought off death itself in the form of academic pressure.

Blaise, Vincent, and Gregory were squished on the bench opposite, whispering to each other and passing around a copy of The Diviner's Dictionary, and Pansy had just arrived, setting down her bag with an exaggerated sigh.

"You lot look like someone predicted your doom," she said, sliding into the spot next to Theo.

"No, that's next week's unit," Theo replied smoothly.

Pansy gave him a look, but she was already smiling. "We're doing Bibliomancy today, right?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Basically, you flip open a book at random and interpret a passage as a prediction."

Vincent frowned. "What kind of book?"

Theo grinned. "That's the best part. It can be any book. Some say it works better with magical texts, but technically, you could use Hogwarts: A History and still predict your inevitable descent into dark wizardry."

Gregory blinked. "...Even if the page just says something about plumbing?"

"That's the magic of interpretation," Blaise said dryly.

"Speaking of descent into chaos," Pansy said, turning to Theo. "What happened with Weasley during Potions? I heard him shouting through three stone walls."

Theo perked up immediately, glancing toward the rest of the library like he was about to spill top-tier gossip. He even cleared his throat dramatically and adjusted his posture like he was preparing for a one-man theatrical performance.

"Oh, it was glorious," he began, voice low and conspiratorial. "Weasley erupts—and I mean volcanic fury levels of screaming—right in the middle of class. Starts bellowing about how Snape's suddenly favoring Harry now, practically accusing him of slipping Felix Felicis into his pumpkin juice."

Vincent snorted. "No way."

Theo raised a finger. "I haven't even gotten to the best part. He whirls around—robes flaring—and points right at Harry, going, 'I bet you and Malfoy are planning a Death Eater meeting in the dungeons!' Like it's some sort of after-school club. Called us all evil. Said we cursed Harry. Then, and I quote, 'Now no one is going to be saved!'"

Pansy leaned forward, eyes wide, then burst into laughter. "Please tell me someone wrote that down for the Hogwarts gossip archive."

"I'm considering commissioning a dramatic retelling," Theo said, hand on his chest. "Stage production. Black box theatre. Spotlight on Ron's emotional breakdown. Working title: The Ginger Unravels."

"Did he actually say Death Eater meeting?" Gregory asked, clearly baffled.

Theo gasped. "Word. For. Word. He might as well have handed out flyers and demanded Snape investigate us for dark rituals involving cauldrons and eyeliner."

Harry chimed in, grinning. "I was apparently corrupted by snake pajamas and sarcastic friends."

Draco gave a grand shrug. "I mean... he's not entirely wrong."

The table burst into laughter again.

"Alright," Blaise said once the giggles died down. "Back to Bibliomancy. Who wants to go first?"

Vincent raised his hand like they were in class. "I'll do it." He grabbed a random book off the pile, flipped it open dramatically, and pointed. "It says: 'Beware the toad who offers tea, for betrayal hides in bitterness.'"

They all stared.

"Okay," Pansy said slowly. "One, that's terrifying. Two, who wrote this book?"

"Tea and Prophecy," Blaise read off the spine. "Apparently it's banned in three countries."

Theo jotted the quote down with interest. "That's going in my notes. For science."

Harry tilted his head, eyes flicking back to the quote. "Betrayal hides in bitterness," he repeated under his breath, almost thoughtfully. Then, with a sudden grin, he grabbed his own notebook and wrote it down.

"Seriously?" Blaise asked, raising an eyebrow.

Harry shrugged. "Might be useful one day."

Draco side-eyed him. "What, planning a betrayal, Darling?"

Harry smirked. "Just keeping track of warning signs. You never know when you'll need to predict who's going to stab you in the back—or how to beat them to it."

There was a pause.

Then Pansy clapped once. "Okay, that was unnecessarily cryptic. Love it."

The library bell chimed, signaling the end of their spare period. Books were snapped shut, parchments rolled, and bags thrown over shoulders as the Slytherins filed out of their cozy corner and into the corridor. They were mid-discussion about who would absolutely fail the palm-reading portion of Divination when they spotted Hermione standing near the door.

She stepped forward, eyes trained on Harry. "Can I talk to you?"

Pansy stiffened immediately, one hand twitching like she might lunge. Theo instinctively moved his bag out of the line of fire.

"I'll meet you in class," Harry said quickly, laying a hand on Pansy's arm to keep her from starting a verbal duel.

Pansy gave Hermione a long, slow once-over before flouncing past, muttering under her breath. The rest of the group followed her into the corridor, Blaise already whispering commentary about the potential hex rating of Hermione's posture.

Hermione waited until the hall was mostly quiet. Then she looked at Harry—not angry, not even frustrated. Just tired.

"I don't think you're evil," she said simply. "Or that you've gone to the dark side, or whatever Ron's spinning in his head right now."

Harry raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"But if you had," Hermione continued, "I'd get it. I've read enough books to know it would be valid. Your parents were murdered. You were handed off to relatives who hated you and hated magic. You grew up in a cupboard, Harry. A cupboard. You were basically a house-elf, and even when you got out, you were still stuck—still not free."

Harry's throat tightened.

"Your godfather was locked in Azkaban for something he didn't do. And then he died. And your dad..." She hesitated. "Your dad wasn't perfect either. He bullied a half-blood who was already abused and malnourished. And you're also a half-blood. You're also abused and malnourished. But somehow, everyone expects you to be perfect."

She looked up at him, eyes bright. "You're not. No one can be. Especially not someone who's never had any peace."

Harry stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her.

Hermione blinked, then hugged him back tightly.

When they pulled apart, she smiled softly. "You were great in Potions today, by the way. I could tell you were actually happy. The Slytherins are clearly good for your study habits."

Harry laughed. "Don't let Mal-Doody-Dookums hear you say that. He'll be insufferable."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "He's already insufferable."

She paused, then gave him a look. "Wait—Doody-Dookums?"

Harry snorted. "Oh. Yeah. That's my new affectionate term for Malfoy. I tried calling him by his actual name, but it felt weird. So naturally, I landed on Doody-Dookums."

Hermione covered her mouth, trying—and failing—not to laugh. "You're ridiculous."

"I know. But it makes him flinch every time I say it, so obviously I'm going to keep doing it."

Still grinning, they walked to Divination together. When they reached the trapdoor, Hermione veered off to join Seamus, Dean, and Neville.

Harry joined the Slytherin group already gathered near their usual cluster of beanbags and mismatched armchairs. Pansy immediately narrowed her eyes and leaned in. "So? Did she hex you or hug you?"

"Bit of both, emotionally," Harry said, flopping into a seat next to Theo.

He recounted the conversation in brief—how Hermione said she didn't think he was evil, how she actually understood why he might go dark if he did, how she brought up the cupboard, his parents, Sirius, even James' bullying.

By the time he finished, the others had gone quiet.

"That's... a lot of awareness for a Gryffindor," Theo muttered.

Pansy looked contemplative. "Alright, I'll tolerate her."

Blaise raised an eyebrow. "High praise from Parkinson. Truly historic."

Draco, seated a little off to the side, was flipping through his Divination notes. "And you told her about Doody-Dookums?"

Harry smirked. "Yup."

Draco snapped his notebook shut with theatrical offense. "You called me Doody-Dookums in front of a Gryffindor. Worse. In front of Granger."

Harry leaned back, clearly enjoying himself. "Yeah, and she laughed. Which makes it canon."

Theo burst out laughing. "It's official now. It's in the Hogwarts archives."

Draco rolled his eyes but the corners of his mouth betrayed a smile. "Unbelievable. I finally let you call me by my first name, and this is how I'm repaid."

Professor Trelawney floated into the classroom at that moment, her shawls trailing behind her like ghosts of past homework assignments.

"Today," she said dramatically, "we delve into the mysterious world of Bibliomancy. You will each be given a random book, blessed by starlight and moon dust—"

Blaise leaned over to Theo and whispered, "Translation: books she grabbed from the storage cupboard this morning."

"—and you will open them to a page of your choosing," Trelawney continued. "From that, you must divine a passage and craft a one-parchment essay interpreting the vision granted to you by fate."

Books were passed out randomly. Harry received a dusty red tome titled The Wanderings of Wyrm-Eaters. Draco raised a brow at his copy of Ancient Wisdom from the Cauldron's Edge.

"I swear if this thing tells me to follow the stars, I'm hexing it," Pansy muttered, flipping open her own book.

They all opened to random pages and began reading.

Harry's page read: "The shadows follow most closely when you believe you've outrun them."

He blinked.

Draco leaned over. "Dramatic. You gonna write about inner turmoil, Darling?"

Harry grinned. "Thinking about it."

Theo was already scribbling furiously. "Mine says, 'A cup unguarded is a truth unspoken.' I'm going full conspiracy."

Vincent flipped his book upside down. "I think mine's in Latin."

"Just write about betrayal," Gregory suggested. "Seems to be the theme of the day."

Pansy snorted. "Mine literally just says, 'Not all maps lead to treasure.' What am I supposed to do with that?"

"Talk about misleading expectations," Blaise offered. "Or just lie. Trelawney won't know."

Everyone chuckled as quills scratched and ink splattered across parchment. The class settled into a surprisingly productive silence.

Halfway through, Trelawney drifted by and peered over Draco's shoulder. "Ah, yes... you have the gift."

Draco didn't even look up. "Obviously."

When she moved to Harry's desk, she paused. "Yours... speaks of hidden truths. You have many shadows, dear boy. Be careful where they lead."

Harry offered a polite nod, choosing not to reply.

He returned to his parchment, writing more than he expected—more than he thought he even had to say.

And all the while, the Slytherins around him joked and teased and scribbled wildly, the room filled with laughter, scribbles, and something close to peace.

Harry, though, found himself pausing mid-sentence, quill hovering over parchment. That line—the shadows follow most closely when you believe you've outrun them—echoed in his head louder than the chatter around him.

He tapped the tip of his quill against the desk, thinking. Was that what he'd been doing all these years? Outrunning things? Outrunning himself?

He scribbled a few lines: Sometimes it's not about being chased—it's about running before anyone can see the cracks.

The cupboard, Sirius, Dumbledore's quiet expectations... it all flooded to the surface. Maybe the darkness wasn't something external. Maybe it was the silence. The pretending. The pressure to be the hero when no one ever asked if he wanted to be.

He wrote faster now, his words raw but focused. For once, he didn't care if it sounded polished. It was honest. It was his.

When he glanced up again, Theo was trying to draw connections between his cryptic quote and a prophecy involving enchanted goblets, and Draco was attempting to convince Blaise that his book's vague warning was definitely about Pansy's caffeine addiction.

And Harry smiled, finally feeling like his voice—his real voice—was being heard, even if only on parchment.

As the bell chimed to signal the end of class, the students stood and began handing in their essays. Harry walked up to Trelawney, parchment in hand.

"It might not be the best written," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "But I put a lot of thought into it."

Trelawney took the parchment gently, her cloudy eyes unusually focused. "When you connect your words to your own life, dear boy, structure becomes less important. Feeling is the true language of divination—and perhaps of understanding, too."

Harry nodded, a little stunned, and turned to leave.

As they headed toward the Divination staircase, Draco gave Harry a sly look. "You know what? You are officially the gay son and the thought daughter of Slytherin."

Harry blinked. "Wait, how did you know I was gay?"

Pansy leaned in with a knowing smirk. "As a lesbian, I can confirm: it's been obvious. Even when you and Draco were arguing in second year, you had that look in your eyes—like you were mad, but also impressed. It was like watching a slow-burn enemies-to-lovers novel in real time. And don't get me started on the way you used to look at Fred and George. Total heart eyes. Like, full-on, 'I wrote a ballad in my diary' energy."

Harry flushed slightly, but he laughed. "Okay, maybe I was a little obvious... but come on, I wasn't that bad."

"You were," Theo said, grinning.

Hermione suddenly appeared behind them, smirking. "If you think that's obvious, you should've seen him when he first met Bill. He was in love at first sight. Absolutely starstruck. And don't even get me started on Viktor Krum—it was worse than a celebrity crush."

Blaise let out a low whistle. "Damn, Potter. Got a type, huh?"

Theo leaned in. "Wait, wait—so every time you've been around Bill, are you like, lowkey flirting?"

Harry looked horrified. "No!"

Hermione held up a finger. "He doesn't flirt. But he's also not not flirting."

Draco tilted his head. "And what exactly do you see in Krum?"

Harry blinked, then shrugged. "He's got that whole brooding, talented, quiet genius thing going on. And have you seen him fly? It's like poetry with broomsticks."

The Slytherins erupted into cackles again, Blaise practically wheezing.

"I take it back," Draco said, shaking his head. "You're not the gay son, thought daughter. You're the gay son, thot daughter."

Chapter Text

Saturday morning crept in with golden light slipping through the heavy emerald curtains of the Slytherin dormitory. The sound of shifting blankets, half-mumbled curses, and the rustle of parchment being tossed off beds filled the room. Theo was already up, perched on the edge of his mattress and scribbling something into a notebook. Blaise was sprawled dramatically across his bed with one leg dangling off, and Vincent was lazily flipping through a Quidditch magazine, clearly waiting for someone else to make the first move.

"Alright," Draco declared, clapping his hands once and standing at the foot of his bed like he was leading a strategy meeting. "It’s Hogsmeade weekend, which means we need a plan. I refuse to aimlessly wander past Zonko’s with no intention."

Theo looked up. “Madam Puddifoot’s, obviously. Romantic vibes, overpriced tea, and creepy cherubs watching your every move. Sounds like your aesthetic.”

“Funny,” Draco deadpanned. “No. Honeydukes, Three Broomsticks, and maybe a stop by the new apothecary. I need more rosewater oil.”

Vincent looked up. “Can we get those exploding fudge cubes again?”

“I’ll allow it,” Draco said with a regal nod.

Harry stirred in his bed but didn’t move beyond curling further into his blanket cocoon. “I wasn’t really planning on going with anyone,” he muttered. “Figured I’d just hang out with Luna and Neville. Maybe Hermione if she’s not off pretending Ron doesn’t need a babysitter.”

Theo raised a brow. “Or, and hear me out, you could hang out with us—your loving, slightly evil snake family.”

Blaise made a dramatic swooning gesture. “Join us, Potter. Embrace the dark side. We have hair product and emotionally repressed banter.”

Vincent nodded. “And snacks.”

“Exactly,” Draco said, tossing a cushion at Harry’s head. “You're coming with us. Non-negotiable.”

With a groan and a grumble, Harry rolled out of bed and started shuffling toward his trunk. “Fine. But I’m not dressing up or anything.”

He pulled out a worn black t-shirt that hung a little too loose on his shoulders—Bill’s old shirt, passed down through the Weasley network until it landed in Harry’s pile of hand-me-downs. He grabbed a pair of faded, slightly too-long jeans that bunched around his ankles, completing the picture of zero effort.

The room went silent.

Draco blinked once. “Absolutely not.”

Harry looked up. “What?”

“That outfit is not Slytherin-condoned,” Draco said, horrified. “You look like a sad band tee came to life.”

Blaise snorted into his pillow. “He’s not wrong.”

Draco marched over to his own perfectly organized wardrobe and pulled out a few items, scrutinizing each before tossing two pieces onto Harry’s bed. “You’re wearing this.”

Harry looked down at the clothes. The t-shirt was clearly Draco’s old Quidditch tee, soft and slightly faded from wear, with Malfoy 07 – Seeker emblazoned across the back in white lettering. The jeans were black, straight-legged, and actually looked like they’d been bought in the last decade.

“I’m not wearing a shirt with your name on it,” Harry said flatly.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Why not? It’ll distract people from your usual ‘I fell through my laundry pile and gave up’ vibe.”

“I look fine,” Harry protested.

“You look like you lost a bet with a clothesline. Try again.”

Harry sighed dramatically, but grabbed the clothes anyway. “If I get hexed for this, I’m blaming you.”

Draco smirked, already victorious. “If you get hexed for looking hot, that’s your cross to bear.”

Harry held the shirt up and gave it a long look. “If Ron sees me in this, he’s going to have an aneurysm.”

Theo grinned. “Oh, absolutely. I can see it now—he spots you across the street, his face turns that weird blotchy red, and he shouts, ‘Harry’s turned into Malfoy’s little bitch!’”

Blaise burst out laughing. “Ten galleons says he tries to hex you with something he can’t even pronounce.”

Harry muttered curses under his breath, grabbed his towel and the clothes, and disappeared into the showers. But even as the door shut behind him, his faint chuckling could still be heard echoing down the hallway.

By the time Harry returned, showered and dressed, the rest of the boys were already ready and waiting, looking far too smug for a Saturday morning.

Vincent gave Harry a once-over and immediately smirked. “How are you always the last one ready, even when someone else has to save you from yourself?”

Blaise held up a hand. “Now, now. It’s not his fault. He’s been trapped with Gryffindors his whole life. Fashion trauma runs deep.”

That earned a round of laughter, even from Harry as he ran a hand through his damp curls, attempting to flatten them. Eventually, he sighed and grabbed a straightener off his trunk.

Draco gasped in horror. “You’re not straightening those.”

Harry looked over, blinking. “It’s easier. Trying to make these curls look decent is like taming a Hippogriff with a toothbrush.”

Draco placed a hand over his heart. “You’re burning off your looks every time you do that. It’s a crime against hair.”

Theo rolled his eyes. “And now Draco’s being dramatic about curls. Again.”

“Justice for ringlets,” Draco muttered.

Theo threw a rolled-up sock at him, and Draco lobbed it back with flair. They descended into mock battle, sock missiles flying, while Harry rolled his eyes and continued getting ready.

Despite the chaos, there was a lightness in the air, the kind that promised a very memorable day ahead.

Soon enough, they were aboard the train to Hogsmeade, the gentle chugging of the engine and the rhythmic clatter of tracks beneath them adding to the weekend buzz. Their compartment was a blur of laughter, elbows nudging for window space, and debates over where to go first once they arrived. Blaise was already handing out a homemade list of 'must-stop' shops, while Vincent and Theo argued over the best pastries at Honeydukes.

But then the door to their compartment slid open with a bang.

Ron Weasley stood in the doorway, eyes zeroing in on Harry like he’d just witnessed a crime. His gaze dropped to the 'Malfoy 07 – Seeker' printed across Harry’s back, and his entire face turned a blotchy, furious red.

“Oh, brilliant!” Ron shouted. “First, you betray your house. Now you’re walking around like Malfoy’s groupie? What’s next, Potter? Gonna polish his broom before practice?”

The Slytherins fell silent. Theo was visibly trying not to burst out laughing.

Ron pointed a shaking hand at Harry. “You look like every girl in school who dates a Quidditch player and starts wearing his clothes like a bloody badge of honor. What’s next? Writing ‘Mrs. Malfoy’ in your planner? Practicing your signature with hearts?”

Harry blinked. “Ron—”

But Ron wasn’t done.

“And don’t think I didn’t notice how chummy you’ve gotten with them. Blaise. Theo. Even Crabbe and Goyle! It’s like you’ve been cursed into loving snakes. They probably cast a bloody love spell or something!”

Theo leaned into Harry, whispering, “He’s giving me deranged courtroom witness energy.”

Harry nearly snorted but covered his mouth with his sleeve.

Ron raged on, pacing now. “What happened to you, mate? You used to hate Malfoy! And now you’re dressing like him. Laughing with him. Sitting next to him! What is this, some kind of dark makeover? Is this your villain origin story?!”

The compartment stayed dead silent. Then Blaise, eyes wide and amused, whispered, “This is better than a soap opera.”

Ron threw his hands in the air. “And the shirt! That shirt! You’re wearing his name! You’re his little trophy wife now, yeah? Next thing you’ll be doing is joining him in the bloody bath!”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Tempting, but no.”

Theo was biting his knuckle to keep from laughing. “I can’t. I physically can’t.”

“And look at all of you!” Ron gestured wildly at the others. “Sitting there like it’s normal for Harry to be part of your snake cult! Laughing like you didn’t steal our best mate!”

Harry finally spoke up, his voice calm. “Ron, I’m not plotting anything. I’m not cursed. I’m just—studying. Hanging out. Living my life.”

Ron snorted. “With them.”

Theo stage-whispered, “Careful, Harry. If he heard Draco call you ‘darling’ yesterday, he’d combust on the spot.”

Blaise nodded solemnly. “He’s falling for the rage bait. Glorious.”

That was it. The compartment broke into stifled laughter, even Vincent chuckling under his breath.

“Unbelievable,” Ron muttered, looking genuinely wounded. “You don’t even see the problem. You’re laughing with the enemy.”

Harry sighed. “I’m laughing because this is ridiculous. I’m not planning to attack the wizarding world. I’m just trying to pass Potions and eat a bloody butterbeer cupcake in peace.”

Just then, a sharp voice echoed down the corridor.

“Twenty-five points from Gryffindor,” Snape said coolly, appearing behind Ron. “For public outbursts, dramatics, and quite frankly, being a nuisance.”

Ron looked horrified. “You’re taking points for this?!”

Snape raised a brow, his voice smooth and biting. “Would you prefer detention? Or perhaps a written apology for disrupting the peace with your—frankly—embarrassing emotional spiral?”

Ron opened his mouth again, but Snape cut him off with a single sharp look.

“Return to your own compartment, Weasley. Before I find more points to deduct for continuing this... tantrum.”

With a furious glare, Ron stomped off down the corridor, muttering under his breath.

Snape turned his gaze to the compartment full of wide-eyed Slytherins, most of whom were trying very hard not to laugh.

“Five points to Slytherin,” he said smoothly, “for not instigating—and perhaps also out of pity.”

Draco raised his hand dramatically. “Professor Snape, on behalf of all emotionally stable passengers, thank you for your service.”

Snape’s lips twitched. “You’re lucky you’re my godson.”

Then he turned and swept off down the corridor.

The door slid shut behind him, and the entire compartment exploded into muffled snorts and cackling.

Theo, still gasping for air, slapped the seat. “I told you I was going to call Harry Draco’s bitch!”

More laughter followed, the kind that left their cheeks sore and their sides aching. And through it all, Harry just leaned back in his seat, shaking his head with a smile, wondering how the hell he went from the Boy Who Lived to the Boy Who Got Adopted by a Den of Snakes—and why it felt so much like home.

By the time the train pulled into Hogsmeade station, the group was buzzing with energy. Outside, they were met by Pansy—who was flanked by Luna and Neville—and Gregory, who was chatting with a group of his Hufflepuff friends.

“About time,” Pansy teased as they approached. “Luna almost started reading our fortunes with a tea bag.”

“I still think it would’ve worked,” Luna said dreamily.

“Where to first?” Neville asked.

“Honeydukes,” Theo and Blaise said in unison, already walking.

The group flowed together as they entered the sweet shop, which was alive with color and the scent of sugar and cinnamon. Jars of fizzing whizzbees, piles of chocolate frogs, and walls lined with colorful boxes surrounded them.

Vincent immediately made a beeline for the acid pops, while Gregory was already cradling a box of Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum. Pansy gravitated toward the sugar quills, holding one up to her lips with dramatic flair.

Draco picked out a box of licorice wands and turned to Harry. “You have to try these. They’re criminally underrated.”

Harry raised a brow but tossed a box into his basket anyway.

Theo walked by holding up a bag of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans. “You think I’ll get lucky and pull a decent one?”

“Statistically, no,” Blaise said, dropping two boxes into his own basket.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

The laughter and chaos continued as everyone grabbed their favorites, traded recommendations, and mocked Theo for nearly buying something called a Spindleweed Nougat.

Harry had just drifted over to the chocolate cauldrons section when a familiar voice called softly behind him.

“Harry?”

He turned to find Ron standing there, Hermione hovering just a few steps back.

Ron’s expression was conflicted—less angry, more tired, almost desperate. “Are you… alright? I mean, really. Are they threatening you? Forcing you to say stuff?”

Harry blinked, stunned by the shift in tone. “No. I’m fine. Actually…” He glanced toward the others. “I like being around them. Especially Theo. He’s weird, but funny.”

Ron looked like he’d been slapped with a cold fish. “Harry, come on. You’re not thinking straight. You’ve been surrounded by them too long. You don’t see what’s happening.”

“I do, Ron.”

Before Ron could reply, Draco appeared at Harry’s side, frowning slightly. “Everything alright, love?”

Harry gave a small nod, but Ron’s eyes narrowed.

“Love?” Ron echoed, jaw tightening. “You’re calling him love now? Merlin’s knickers, you’re dating Malfoy?!”

Draco smirked. “I wouldn’t say dating. Yet.”

Ron pressed a hand to his forehead. “Harry, listen to me. This is not normal. This is Draco Malfoy. The git who’s been calling you names since first year! And now he’s got you wearing his shirts and calling him ‘Lobve’ or some shite—what happened to you?”

Harry sighed. “Ron—”

“No, really. Are you under a spell? Do we need to get Flitwick? Should I be hexing Malfoy right now, because I will. This isn’t just a house switch, this is full possession.”

“I’m not possessed.”

“You look possessed. You’re smiling like one of them. You’re laughing at their jokes. What’s next, a tattoo of a snake across your chest? Matching rings?!”

Draco looked far too interested in the tattoo idea.

Ron kept going. “And Theo Nott? You trust Theo Nott? He once transfigured a quill into a snake during class just to make Seamus cry!”

Harry shrugged. “He’s mellowed.”

Ron threw his hands in the air. “This is insanity. Absolute insanity. You’re being brainwashed into sarcastic friendship!”

Draco leaned toward Harry. “That’s our band name now.”

Ron groaned. “Stop humoring him!”

Hermione walked up beside him, frowning slightly. “Ron. That’s enough.”

She turned toward Draco and Harry. “Sorry about him.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Are you apologizing? That’s new.”

Draco smirked. “She’s smarter than she looks.”

Ron spun toward her. “Hermione—what?! Are you seriously taking their side? What is going on?”

Hermione crossed her arms. “I’m not taking anyone’s side. I’m just not going to stand here while you have a meltdown because Harry wore a shirt.”

“That’s not just a shirt!” Ron exclaimed, gesturing like it was offensive. “It’s Malfoy’s shirt! It’s like… like emotional surrender!”

Hermione sighed. “Ron, you’re being ridiculous.”

Ron opened his mouth again, clearly ready to double down, but Harry had already turned back to the group.

“Can we go back to buying chocolate now?”

Draco nodded. “Please. Before Weasley starts foaming at the mouth.”

Theo leaned toward Blaise. “I think I saw his eye twitch.”

The group burst into laughter again, leaving Ron sputtering and Hermione rubbing her temples as they made their way toward the counter.

Once they were out of earshot, Draco turned toward Harry, his teasing smirk falling into something more serious. “Hey… are you alright?”

Harry looked at him, eyebrows raised. “I mean, yeah. I’m fine.”

Draco gave him a look that said he wasn’t buying it.

Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It just… frustrates me. The way Ron acted. Like, I know he’s a bit thick sometimes, but it’s like the second I stop doing what he expects, I’m suddenly under a spell or evil or some shit.”

Draco stayed quiet, his arm slipping around Harry’s shoulders, thumb brushing soft circles against Harry’s arm.

Harry continued, voice quieter now. “It’s not just Ron either. Dumbledore does it too. Anytime I step even a toe out of line, it’s ‘Harry must be struggling,’ or ‘something’s wrong.’ Like I can’t just make my own choices without people assuming I’m broken or dangerous.”

Draco’s expression darkened.

“I’ve spent my whole life pretending to be what they wanted. Being a good little Gryffindor. Smiling and saving the world. And now that I’m finally doing what I want, just being me, suddenly I’m a threat?”

Draco’s grip tightened, just a little, grounding.

Harry’s voice cracked slightly. “I never got to just… exist. Without expectations or prophecy crap hanging over me. And now I do, and Ron’s mad, and Dumbledore’s probably planning an intervention.”

Draco didn’t say anything. Just let Harry lean into his side as they walked toward the door.

And in that quiet moment, that simple gesture of solidarity, Harry felt more understood than he had in years.

Theo broke the tension with a grin, handing Harry and Draco each a zebra hoof-shaped candy. “Lighten up. These things are addictive.”

Harry took a bite. “Tastes like sugar and chaos.”

Draco chuckled, his arm slung casually around Harry’s shoulders as they walked. “Which is also your aesthetic.”

Pansy and Theo started playfully bickering about whether Honeydukes or Zonko’s was the superior first stop. Luna floated next to them, humming, while Neville remained quiet—until he finally sidled up next to Harry.

“Hey, um… are you and Draco… dating?” Neville asked softly.

Before Harry could answer, Draco smirked. “We’re not. But I wish.”

Harry laughed. “No, we’re not.”

Neville relaxed a little, then rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry about Ron. During Potions. He was way out of line.”

Harry shrugged. “It’s fine. Really.”

Theo, walking backwards ahead of them, grinned. “It was hilarious, though.”

By the time the group arrived at J. Pippin’s Potions, laughter still clung to them like static. The bell above the door chimed as they stepped inside, greeted by the familiar scent of herbs, dried petals, and bubbling brews.

Shelves lined the walls, packed with vials, pouches, and mysterious items labeled with near-illegible cursive. Draco’s arm remained casually draped around Harry’s shoulders as they wandered deeper into the shop.

“Still got your arm around me,” Harry murmured.

Draco, without missing a beat, replied, “I know.”

Then he reached for a jar of crushed starflower petals, inspecting the label like he hadn’t just made Harry short-circuit a little.

Blaise was already off in another aisle, scanning the hair tonics with practiced ease. “Ooh, Theo! This one promises ‘mysterious allure.’ Should I get it or am I already too powerful?”

Theo, two aisles away and squinting at an assortment of skin elixirs, called back, “It’s too late for you. You peaked last Hogsmeade trip.”

Vincent and Gregory were huddled around a rack of novelty potions that promised everything from enhanced burping to temporary invisibility.

“Do you think this actually works?” Vincent held up a pink bottle labeled ‘Unicorn Snort.’

Gregory read the fine print. “Side effects may include sparkling ears and spontaneous karaoke.”

Vincent grinned. “I’m buying it.”

Luna wandered over to a shelf labeled ‘Astral Enhancers’ and poked a shimmering bottle with her wand. “This one hums. That’s promising.”

Pansy, dramatically sniffing every rosewater vial in the front corner, spotted Draco and Harry and smirked. “Oh, so we’re just claiming each other in public now?”

Draco didn’t even glance her way. “What can I say? He’s part of the aesthetic.”

Harry snorted, leaning into the touch a little more than he meant to. “Glad I meet your standards.”

Draco shot him a sideways glance. “We’re working on it.”

Theo appeared beside them holding a tiny bottle of glittering green serum. “This either makes your skin glow or gives you scales. Wanna test it, Potter?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t I scaly enough hanging out with you lot?”

“Touché.” Theo tucked the bottle into his basket anyway.

Draco nudged Harry toward the back. “Come help me find the powdered pearl vials. And if you touch anything with mold, I’m disowning you.”

Harry grinned. “What if I lick it?”

“Then I push you into a vat of Armadillo bile.”

Harry wiggled his eyebrows. “Kinky.”

Draco bumped his shoulder with a laugh. “You’re insufferable.”

Still grinning, they found the powdered pearl and gathered the last of their items. Pansy snagged one more vial of rosewater—“For aesthetic purposes, obviously”—and Luna cradled a small satchel labeled Dreamseed Dust like it was a kitten. Vincent insisted on getting the Unicorn Snort potion, promising he’d try it at lunch, and Theo managed to talk Gregory out of buying three different "mood enhancers" on account of Gregory not having more than two moods to enhance.

They queued up at the counter, placing their chaotic haul on the polished wooden surface. The elderly witch behind the till raised an eyebrow at the collection, but said nothing beyond a clipped, “That’ll be twelve galleons, five sickles.”

Everyone pooled their money like over caffeinated gremlins. Once the mountain of sweets, potions, and sparkly nonsense was safely tucked away in bags, Draco slung an arm around Harry again.

“Three Broomsticks?” Theo asked, already halfway to the door.

“Absolutely,” Pansy said, “if only to watch Luna try and charm a Butterbeer into telling her the secrets of the universe.”

Luna blinked. “They don’t usually talk, but they do hum sometimes.”

Vincent looked alarmed. “They hum?”

“Only if you’re listening closely.”

Neville smiled, trailing along beside Luna like she’d just recited gospel.

The Three Broomsticks was already bustling when they arrived, warm light and the scent of butterbeer wafting out the doors. Inside, the buzz of conversation wrapped around them like a blanket. The group snagged a large table in the back, near the fire.

Madam Rosmerta came by, and they placed their orders: Harry got a steak with butterbeer, while Draco ordered a warm chicken-and-thyme pasty and pumpkin juice. Blaise insisted on the lamb stew, Vincent and Gregory went for meatball subs with extra mustard, Pansy got roasted vegetable tartlets with elderflower fizz, and Theo chose the shepherd’s pie—claiming he needed comfort food after all the emotional labor of being fabulous.

Luna ordered a bowl of leek soup “to keep her soul grounded,” and Neville got a plain grilled cheese with a hopeful look.

By the time the food arrived, the table was a riot of smells and color. Steam curled off the plates, and forks dove in before anyone had the chance to say anything remotely polite.

“I swear,” Theo said between bites, “Gregory tried to buy a mood enhancer potion labeled ‘Mild to Feral’ and thought it was a seasoning.”

“I did not!” Gregory protested with a mouthful of bread.

“Did too,” Vincent said. “You thought it was going to make your roast beef ‘angrier.’”

Draco nearly snorted pumpkin juice. “Honestly, I’d buy angry roast beef. Sounds like an experience.”

Harry grinned, savoring his butterbeer. “I’m still recovering from the ‘unicorn snort’ label.”

Vincent pulled the bottle out of his coat. “It sparkled in the light, what was I supposed to do? Not buy it?”

“Have you even opened it?” Pansy asked, sipping her elderflower fizz.

“Only if you want spontaneous karaoke in here,” Blaise added.

Luna leaned in. “Oh, do try it. I’d love to see what song it chooses for you.”

Theo cackled. “Watch it be Celestina Warbeck. Full glam.”

“Don’t tempt fate,” Vincent muttered.

Neville pointed at Harry with a grin. “So, if you're not dating Draco, what are you two?”

Harry choked slightly on his pie.

Draco answered coolly, “In denial, mostly.”

“Oi,” Harry said, coughing.

“You said it, not me,” Draco said with a smirk.

“Actually you said it—”

“Semantics.”

Blaise was barely holding it together. “I want this on a t-shirt: ‘In denial, mostly.’”

Theo tapped his fork against his plate. “It’s giving ‘will-they-won’t-they,’ but Hogwarts edition.”

“You’re all awful,” Harry mumbled, cheeks pink.

Draco shrugged and passed him a napkin. “You love us.”

Harry didn’t argue.

Pansy was watching Luna dip her spoon into the soup like it held ancient secrets. “Do you think if I drink that, I’ll stop getting nosebleeds every time Snape yells at me?”

Luna blinked. “No. But it might teach your blood to dance through your veins more elegantly.”

There was a beat of silence.

Theo pointed at her. “That. That right there is why we keep you.”

As they ate and laughed, the group settled into that special kind of comfort that only came with full stomachs, good company, and the distinct lack of professors breathing down their necks.

Harry leaned over toward Draco, nudging his arm lightly. "Would you—uh, would you want to share a dessert with me?"

Draco glanced over at him, lips quirking. "Are you asking me on a date, Potter?"

"I’m asking if you’ll split a bloody treacle tart," Harry muttered.

"That’s a yes then," Draco said, signaling Madam Rosmerta. “One treacle tart. Two spoons.”

Pansy and Luna had already ordered their own slice of frosted blackberry pie to share, and Luna was enthusiastically explaining the metaphysical symbolism of berries.

Once the dessert arrived, Draco dramatically sliced it down the middle. “Fair is fair,” he said. “Though I did do most of the emotional labor at the apothecary, so maybe I deserve the bigger half.”

“You picked out a bottle and complained about shelf height,” Harry deadpanned.

“Emotional labor,” Draco said again, eyes twinkling.

“Please get married already,” Theo muttered around a bite of apple tart.

“Will it come with pie?” Harry asked, taking a bite.

“If it’s this good, I’d say yes,” Draco replied.

Across the table, Pansy and Luna were whispering about flavor auras and the importance of shared sweetness in soul bonding.

“I don’t even want to know what that means,” Blaise said, grinning.

Gregory leaned across the table. “Are we going to act like Potter doesn’t make heart eyes every time Draco chews?”

“I do not!” Harry said, a bit too quickly.

“You kind of do,” Vincent chimed in.

Draco looked smug as he took a deliberately slow bite. “Not my fault I chew charmingly.”

“Merlin, hex me now,” Harry muttered.

“Only if we get to share another dessert,” Draco said, passing Harry the last bite.

Draco raised a brow. “Go on, Potter. Open up.”

Harry looked at the spoon like it was cursed. “I’m not five.”

“No,” Draco agreed, voice amused. “but, you deserve the royal treatment.”

“I hate you,” Harry said, even as he leaned in.

“I know,” Draco replied smugly and fed him the bite.

Pansy clapped. “That was adorable. Do it again but slower.”

“You’re all insane,” Harry mumbled through the bite of tart.

Theo sipped his drink. “And yet, you love us.”

Draco smirked. “See? I told you I could pull off the boyfriend experience.”

Harry pointed his fork at him. “You’re one flirt away from being hexed.”

Draco leaned in slightly. “Worth it.”

Blaise groaned. “Okay, that’s it. I’m filing a report with the Ministry. Excessive cuteness in a public space.”

Vincent nodded. “Backed.”

Neville whispered something to Luna, who just nodded like she'd known it all along.

And Harry, who should’ve been embarrassed, just shook his head and smiled. Because if this was what chaos looked like, he didn’t mind being part of it.

Chapter Text

Their next stop was Gladrags Wizardwear, naturally. Theo had declared it a moral emergency, "Absolutely not," Theo said, scandalized. "You’re wearing Draco’s hand-me-down and tried to wear Bill Weasley’s sad-boy tee from the early 2000s. You’re a Slytherin now, Potter. You can’t dress like a Muggle boy band dropout."

Blaise nodded solemnly. "He’s right. If we’re going to be seen in public with you, your wardrobe has to reflect the house aesthetic."

Draco raised a brow, clearly amused. "Not that I mind you wearing my name, of course."

Harry groaned as they dragged him through the door, the enchanted bell overhead ringing out a disapproving tsk.

Inside, Gladrags was an explosion of texture and charm, bolts of fabric rolling and unrolling themselves midair, measuring tapes slithering across robes, and enchanted mannequins turning to pose dramatically as customers walked by. The shopkeeper barely blinked as the Slytherins stormed in like it was a fashion intervention.

"We need green," Theo declared, already pulling out hangers. "And silver. And black. And maybe one statement color for confidence."

"No red," Draco added firmly. "It clashes with your redemption arc."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I liked my baggy jeans. They were comfortable."

"So is a burlap sack," Blaise said. "But you don’t see me wearing one to class."

Pansy smirked from where she and Luna were browsing a rack of enchanted cloaks that changed color based on mood. "Let’s get him something with subtle embroidery. Like snakes. Or betrayal."

"What does betrayal look like in stitch work?" Harry asked.

"Like a laced-up back that pretends it’s decorative but is really about to unravel your entire outfit," Luna said dreamily.

Gregory and Vincent had wandered off to the sock section, where an enchanted display was playing jazz every time someone touched the neon-colored toe warmers.

"What about this?" Theo held up a deep green sweater. "Stylish. Simple. And it says ‘I belong in the common room’ without screaming it."

Harry took it, holding it up to his chest. "It’s soft."

Draco stepped behind him, adjusting the fit slightly. "That color does suit you. Makes your eyes pop."

"Doesn’t everything make his eyes pop?" Blaise asked.

"Yes, but this does it on purpose," Draco shot back.

Theo dropped a pair of trousers into Harry’s arms. "Try those too. Tailored fit. Accentuates the assets."

Harry gave them all a long-suffering look and headed for the changing rooms. "If I walk out looking like a Ministry intern, I’m hexing all of you."

When he returned a few minutes later, the room went quiet for a beat. The deep green sweater clung perfectly, the black trousers hugged just right, the silver buckle at his belt gleaming.

"Bloody hell," Vincent muttered.

Pansy whistled. "Slytherin’s golden boy."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Is this acceptable, then?"

Draco looked him up and down slowly. "It’ll do." His eyes lingered a second too long on Harry’s hips, and his hand casually reached out to adjust the hem of the sweater—though it suspiciously settled on Harry’s waist for a moment longer than necessary. His fingers tightened ever so slightly, thumbs grazing Harry’s hip bones like he was mapping out uncharted territory.

Theo snorted. "I mean, those trousers are basically doing all the work. Potter’s arse is its own character arc."

"Subtlety, Nott," Draco drawled, though he didn’t move his hand.

"It’s not even an arse," Pansy said brightly. "It’s a gift. A national treasure. We should write it its own Hogwarts hymn."

"We’re going to have to escort him to Hogsmeade in pairs," Blaise said. "Or someone’s going to follow that thing home."

"I’m not writing a protection charm for his arse," Theo added. "Even I have limits."

Harry groaned. "Alright, alright, enough about my bum."

"Never," Pansy said cheerfully.

Blaise pretended to bow. "May your jeans always be that tight, and your arse forever be legendary."

"I do have one complaint," Harry added, tugging at the silver belt. "I look better in gold than silver."

Blaise, without missing a beat, plucked a gold-buckled belt from a nearby shelf and handed it to him. "Then fix it."

Harry didn’t hesitate. He ducked back into the changing room and emerged a moment later, gold belt in place.

"Much better," he said with satisfaction. "Suits me more."

Draco hummed, arms crossed. "It’s the drama. Gold’s a bit flashier—fitting, honestly."

"Are you saying I’m dramatic?" Harry asked.

Draco smiled. "I’m saying you’re dramatic enough."

"Right then," Theo said, grabbing another hanger. "Time for round two. This one’s a little more… your speed, Potter."

He held up a dark green hoodie—thick and cozy, and a pair of medium-wash blue straight-leg jeans.

"It’s like if your sad-boy wardrobe got a Slytherin-approved makeover," Theo added. "Comfort meets intimidation."

"You’ll love it," Blaise said. "And if those jeans don’t make your arse illegal, I don’t know what will."

"They should come with a warning label," Pansy quipped. "Like ‘Caution: May cause traffic jams in corridors.’"

Harry rolled his eyes, laughing. "Fine. But if you make another hymn about my butt, I’m leaving."

He returned to the changing room. When he walked back out, all conversation stopped.

Theo let out a low whistle. "Mate. That hoodie is criminally soft, and the jeans—"

"—defy gravity," Vincent finished.

Draco’s eyes narrowed slightly, like he was trying to memorize every seam. His hand casually found its way to Harry’s waist again.

"I—wow," Luna said serenely. "You look like a cozy stormcloud."

"Your arse should be studied," Blaise added. "By a committee. Possibly with grant funding."

Pansy nodded. "Can confirm. I’m filing paperwork to declare it a protected magical creature."

Gregory clapped slowly. "It’s not even fair."

Harry buried his face in his hands. "I hate all of you."

"That’s not what your jeans say," Theo said cheerfully.

Draco smirked. "How do they feel?"

Harry tugged on the hoodie sleeves, then looked at himself in the mirror. "Honestly? Kinda perfect."

"You look like yourself," Luna said.

"But polished," Pansy added.

"Stylish without trying," Blaise agreed. "Ugh, it’s disgusting how well you clean up."

Draco nodded. "This might be your signature look. Cozy menace."

Harry laughed, bumping Draco’s shoulder. "Cozy menace it is."

"Now buy it before I get emotional," Theo sniffled.

Harry rolled his eyes but handed the clothes to the nearest clerk. "You lot are insufferable."

"But we’re right," Pansy sang.

"Unfortunately," Harry muttered, still smiling.

Draco casually held out another outfit: a pair of dark blue wash jeans, a dark chocolate brown belt, and a slightly cropped white t-shirt. "Since it's been ridiculously warm lately, you might need a few more breathable options."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Cropped, Draco? Really?"

"Subtle crop," Blaise defended. "It’s tasteful."

"Also, if you thought your arse was famous before—" Theo started.

"This’ll make it historic," Pansy finished.

Harry groaned and walked back into the changing room.

The moment he emerged, all hell broke loose.

"OH COME ON," Theo barked.

"Illegal," Pansy said flatly. "That's just illegal."

Draco’s eyes darkened, and his hand was immediately on Harry’s hip again, adjusting nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Blaise snapped his fingers. "That’s not an outfit, that’s temptation wrapped in denim."

"He’s not even trying," Vincent muttered.

"I wasn’t aware Muggle jeans had the power of seduction," Gregory added.

Luna nodded thoughtfully. "They look like honesty and danger."

"Can we focus on anything other than my butt?" Harry said weakly.

"Absolutely not," Pansy chirped.

Draco grinned. "You’re the one wearing those jeans, Potter. We’re just the audience."

"Thoughts on the shirt?" Harry tried to redirect.

"Looks great," Theo said, finally giving in. "Honestly? This outfit’s got range. It’s effortless, like you just rolled out of bed fabulous."

"It gives ‘charming rebel with a heart of gold,’" Blaise added.

"You could fight a duel in that or kiss someone behind Honeydukes," Pansy said. "Versatility!"

Draco nodded. "This one’s definitely coming home with us."

Harry gave in, laughing. "Fine. But no more commentary about my arse."

Pansy smirked. "Oh please. If Bill Weasley had said it, you wouldn’t be complaining."

Harry straightened, affronted. "I would too! I don’t care who it is."

Theo raised an eyebrow. "Really? Because I feel like if Bill said your jeans were doing charity work for mankind, you'd be blushing for an hour."

Blaise pretended to swoon. "‘Oh, Harry, your arse belongs in a museum’—Bill, probably."

Gregory fanned himself. "Don’t forget Viktor Krum. Bet he’d write a sonnet."

Harry buried his face in his hands. "I am never bringing any of you anywhere again."

Draco chuckled, stepping closer. "Well for the record, I love the view."

Harry looked up and promptly short-circuited. "You—what—Draco!"

Theo grinned wickedly. "He’s gone. RIP Potter."

Pansy clapped once. "We broke him."

Draco gave Harry a once-over and winked. "What? I’m just appreciating quality tailoring."

Harry sputtered. "I hate all of you. Again."

Blaise raised his hands. "You’re the one who wore the jeans, love. We’re just here for the performance."

Draco smiled sweetly. "Encore, perhaps?"

Harry groaned, face still pink, but smiling anyway.

They all grabbed their chosen outfits—Harry with a modest stack, the others with smirks and smug glances at each other. Draco carried the final outfit up to the till, adding a few more pieces “for later” while Blaise convinced the clerk into wrapping everything with emerald ribbon. As they stepped out into the brisk Hogsmeade air, arms laden with glossy bags, the group paused on the cobbled street.

"Alright, regroup in a bit?" Pansy said. "Luna and I want to look at the crystal shop."

"Zonko's?" Theo suggested to Blaise, Vincent, and Gregory.

"Obviously," Blaise replied. "It's tradition."

Neville gave a sheepish smile. "I'm going to find Hermione. And Ron, I guess."

They all nodded, splitting off in different directions with casual waves and promises to meet up later. That left Draco and Harry standing in the snow-dusted street, alone.

"Where to, then?" Harry asked, adjusting the Gladrags bags in his arms.

Draco tilted his head thoughtfully. "Madam Puddifoot's."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "The frilly place with pink doilies and floating hearts?"

"That's the one."

"Romantic."

"Terrifying, isn't it?" Draco smirked.

As they walked, the mood lightened. Harry nudged Draco’s shoulder. "You just want a place to dramatically sip tea and judge everyone."

"That, and I’ve heard the scones are decent," Draco said. "Besides, I need somewhere to stare wistfully out a window."

"Naturally. Do you want me to sigh dramatically, too? Really complete the tableau?"

"Yes. Preferably while clutching a single rose."

They both laughed as they turned the corner, shoes scuffing lightly against the sun-warmed cobblestones.

But then, up ahead, Harry caught sight of Hermione and Ron standing beside Neville.

Ron’s eyes locked on Harry’s—and immediately narrowed.

Harry sighed, shoulders tightening. "Oh, great."

Draco noticed instantly. "Ignore him. He’s a walking freckled temper tantrum."

"I’m trying," Harry muttered. "But he’s glaring at me like I stole his wand and hexed his mum."

Draco reached out and plucked the Gladrags bags from Harry’s hands without a word.

"Hey—"

"You were struggling. Keep ranting."

Harry huffed. "He’s just—so infuriating. Like, it’s not enough that I’ve switched Houses. Now it’s like I’ve betrayed the whole damn world. And the way he looks at me, like I’m not thinking clearly or something’s wrong with me—like I need to be saved."

Draco stayed quiet, letting Harry vent.

"And it’s not just him," Harry continued, voice rising slightly. "It’s Dumbledore, too. The moment I do anything they don’t like, they both treat it like I’m sick or cursed or slipping into darkness. I can’t just be me—I have to be their perfect idea of who I’m supposed to be. The Golden Boy. Their symbol. But I’m not. I’ve never been."

He paused, chest heaving a little from the effort of speaking it all out loud.

Draco looked at him seriously. "Would you like me to say nothing, give you advice, hate on Ron, or just give you a hug?"

Harry blinked, then gave a tired laugh. "A hug. Please."

Draco wrapped one arm around him tightly, the other still gripping Harry’s shopping bags. The hug was brief but solid—grounding.

"Thanks," Harry murmured.

Draco nodded once. "Anytime. Now come on. I’m in desperate need of tea and aesthetic overstimulation."

They kept walking toward Madam Puddifoot’s, the weight in Harry’s chest a little lighter, his steps just a bit easier.

The bell above the door jingled delicately as they stepped inside. Madam Puddifoot’s was just as saccharine as Harry remembered—lace curtains, tiny round tables, twinkling floating candles shaped like hearts—but somehow less offensive with Draco rolling his eyes at it all.

They slid into a cozy booth near the window. A squat teapot floated over immediately with two menus.

"Try not to get heart glitter on your sleeve," Draco said, inspecting the table with exaggerated caution.

Harry snorted. "You’d think you’d combust the second something frilly touched you."

"I might," Draco replied, scanning the tea list like it was a classified file.

A server in heart-printed robes appeared. "Ready to order?"

"English breakfast tea for me," Harry said, then glanced at the cake menu. "And a slice of butterbeer cake, please."

"Jasmine tea," Draco added. "And the Madeira cake. Lightly toasted, if you would."

The server nodded, floating off again.

"Lightly toasted?" Harry teased. "Going full diva, are we?"

Draco smirked. "Standards, Harry. You should try them sometime."

Their tea arrived quickly, aromatic steam curling into the cozy air. The cakes followed moments later, buttery and rich.

Harry took a bite and groaned. "Okay, fine. This place is worth the frill."

Draco lifted his teacup like a toast. "To unlikely alliances and scandalous desserts."

Harry clinked his cup against Draco’s. "And to escaping Ron-induced migraines."

They sipped and snacked, the tension from earlier slowly melting into warm, sugary calm. Occasionally, their knees brushed beneath the table, but neither moved away.

Draco leaned forward, licking a bit of frosting from his thumb. "You know, I never imagined spending a Saturday here—with you."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Regret it already?"

"Not in the slightest," Draco said simply.

Harry looked out the window, hiding a small smile. "Good. Me neither."

For once, there were no expectations, no looming battles—just clinking teacups, the scent of cake, and a bubble of peace in the most unexpected place.

Chapter Text

The sound of running water echoed off the marble tiles as steam curled around the Hogwarts shower room. Harry stood beneath the stream, eyes closed, trying to soak away the Monday morning grogginess. His fingers were working shampoo through his curls when a loud knock startled him.

"Harry!"

Harry blinked against the water. "Yeah?"

Draco's voice came muffled through the door. "Dumbledore wants to see you. Urgently. You know, in his usual cryptic, 'it’s definitely not ominous but actually very ominous' way."

"I’ve got soap in my hair," Harry called back, fingers still scrubbing. "Tell him I’ll be out in a minute."

"I did," Draco replied, dry as ever. "He said, and I quote, 'When Harry is ready. This conversation cannot be rushed.' Then he smiled in that weird grandfatherly way like he already knows what you’re going to say. Honestly, it’s unsettling."

Harry snorted, tilting his head back to rinse. "Sounds about right."

"Also," Draco added through the door, "you better hurry unless you want to miss breakfast."

"Are you rushing me or not?"

"Just relaying the existential dread."

Draco’s footsteps receded, and Harry finished rinsing, stepping out of the shower with a towel slung low on his hips. The dorms were quiet. Most students had already left for breakfast, and Harry enjoyed the rare moment of silence.

He padded into the dorm room, drying off quickly and rifling through his trunk for clean robes. Draco, still in his pajama trousers and a half-buttoned shirt, looked bleary-eyed and cranky.

Harry blinked. "You? Still getting ready? This is a historical event."

"Don’t start," Draco mumbled, combing through his hair with a bit more aggression than necessary. "Slept through my alarm. First time in six years. I feel like a bloody Hufflepuff."

Harry chuckled as he buttoned his shirt. "I didn’t know you had an alarm. I just assumed the guilt of not being perfect woke you up."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Normally it does."

Harry glanced at the clock. "Damn. If I want to eat, I’ll have to straighten my hair in record time."

He eyed his reflection and sighed.

"Don’t bother," Draco said. "You’ll end up burning your fringe again. Just defuse it and let fate decide."

"Easy for you to say. Your hair dries like you’ve got a personal wind charm."

"It’s called genes, Potter. Look into it."

With a final muttered curse, Harry ran his wand through his hair, using a quick defusing charm. His curls sprang into a soft halo—messy, but not terrible. He shoved on his robes, grabbing his satchel.

Draco was still fussing with his tie. "Does this look crooked to you?"

Harry stared. "It’s always crooked. It’s your thing."

Draco made a face. "My 'thing' is sartorial excellence."

"Your thing is waking up late and yelling about tea temperatures."

"Don’t speak blasphemy before breakfast."

Harry laughed, pulling his shoes on. As they walked out of the dorm, he turned to Draco. "If I’m not back in time for breakfast, save me a scone or something?"

"Fine. But only if you promise to survive whatever nonsense Dumbledore throws at you."

"Deal."

They strolled down the hallway, their footsteps soft against the stone. A few early students bustled past, heads down, robes billowing.

"You think he’s going to give me a cryptic prophecy or just a passive-aggressive lecture?" Harry asked.

Draco shrugged. "Could be both. Maybe he’ll give you a sock and tell you you’re free."

"Honestly, I wouldn’t say no."

"If he offers a contract to join a secret shadow organization, ask for a raise."

Harry grinned. "If I get offered a sword, I’m taking it."

"Obviously."

They reached the corridor that branched off to Dumbledore’s office. Draco stopped, glancing over.

"Alright. Good luck in the Tower of Mystical Guilt."

"Save me a scone."

Draco mock saluted and turned down the hall.

Harry took a deep breath and approached the stone gargoyle. "Lemon drop."

The statue slid aside, revealing the winding staircase. Harry stepped onto the moving stair, ascending into the still silence of the headmaster’s office.

He reached the top, heart thudding with the uncertainty of what exactly awaited him.

The door creaked open.

Dumbledore sat behind his desk, bathed in morning light filtering through stained glass. Fawkes sat on his perch, preening.

"Ah, Harry," Dumbledore said, smiling warmly. "Come in. We have much to discuss."

Harry stepped inside, bracing himself for whatever came next.

"It’s about the war," Dumbledore said softly. "There are things only you can do."

Harry's expression hardened. "We’ve talked about this before."

"Yes," Dumbledore said gently. "But the time is drawing near. Voldemort must be stopped. And it must be you."

"Why me?" Harry snapped. "Because I survived when I was a baby? Because I happened to be there when he returned? Because you need a symbol to rally people behind?"

"Because you are the only one who can."

"You don’t know that. You’ve never known that. You just decided it."

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, maddeningly calm. "Prophecy aside—"

"There it is again. The prophecy. The damn prophecy. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask to be your chosen one. I just wanted to go to school and maybe survive long enough to grow up."

"You have been chosen by fate—"

"No, I’ve been used by everyone. You, the Ministry, Voldemort—hell, even the media. I’m not a weapon."

"You’re not a weapon, Harry. You’re a hero."

"No. I’m a teenager. A teenager who’s tired of everyone expecting him to sacrifice everything."

Dumbledore sighed. "If you do not face him, many will die."

"If I do face him, I might die."

"And if you don't, more certainly will."

"So it’s my responsibility now?"

"I do not ask this lightly."

"But you are asking. Again. Always."

"You have the strength."

"And what if I don’t want to use it for your war?"

"It’s not my war, Harry. It’s everyone’s."

"Then let everyone fight it. I’ve done my part. I’m done being your weapon."

Dumbledore looked disappointed. "Harry—"

"I’m going to breakfast."

Harry turned toward the door.

"Wait," Dumbledore said, voice firmer. "Tell me about the Slytherins. Are you certain they haven’t... influenced you?"

Harry froze. "You mean corrupted me?"

Dumbledore didn’t reply.

Harry turned slowly. "They’ve been more welcoming than anyone else this year. They actually listen to me. Help me. I'm passing Potions because of them. And they’re loyal. Not to power, not to titles—to each other. They don’t judge me for not being your perfect little soldier."

Dumbledore’s expression was unreadable.

"Gryffindor was a lion’s den. Constant judgment, endless pressure to perform. I don’t owe them anything—especially not Ron. He’s been nothing but rude and condescending since I left."

"He’s hurt."

"He’s petty. And if that’s who he is underneath all that Gryffindor pride, I don’t want it."

Dumbledore folded his hands. "You feel at home in Slytherin, then?"

"For the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I’m pretending to be something I’m not."

Dumbledore looked at him quietly. Harry could feel the weight of expectation hanging in the air like smoke.

But he didn’t flinch.

"Is that all?" Harry asked, voice low.

"Yes," Dumbledore finally said.

Harry turned and walked out, leaving behind the pedestal he never wanted to stand on.

Outside the office, the corridor was unusually quiet. Waiting just beyond the gargoyle were Pansy, Theo, Blaise, and Draco—who held up a scone like a prize.

"Thought you might need this," Draco said.

Harry accepted it gratefully. "You’re a lifesaver."

"What was that about?" Theo asked, tilting his head. "Did he finally hand you your secret spy badge?"

Harry took a deep bite of the scone, chewed, swallowed, and sighed. "He wants me to fight in the war. Again."

"Figures," Blaise muttered.

Harry shook his head. "I told him I’m not a bloody symbol. I just want to dance at the ballet."

Pansy blinked. "What."

"It’s a joke," Harry deadpanned. "I just want to live. Be normal. Go to school. Maybe actually pass Potions without it being a national headline."

Draco patted his shoulder. "You’re very dramatic for someone who just wants peace."

"Comes with the trauma," Harry said around another bite.

Theo nodded. "You said it best. Just let the boy dance."

They walked together toward the Great Hall, the usual noise of morning growing louder.

"If you ever do want to join a ballet," Pansy said, nudging him, "please tell me. I’ll sponsor your tights."

"Absolutely not," Harry laughed. "But I appreciate the support."

They continued walking through the castle, their steps echoing off the stone. The group made their way out toward the greenhouses for Herbology, the morning sun warming the air just enough to make the grounds feel alive.

Pansy nudged Harry with a smirk. "So when are you debuting at the Royal Wizarding Ballet?"

"He needs a stage name," Theo added. "How about Pirouette Potter?"

Harry groaned. "I hate all of you."

"You love us," Blaise corrected.

"Only when you're not assigning me pirouettes."

Draco grinned and stepped ahead, spinning dramatically on one foot with a flourish. "Like this, Potter. Fluid. Elegant. Deadly."

"You’re insufferable," Harry said, but he was laughing.

Pansy, never one to be left out, took a few twirls of her own. "I could get used to this."

Draco held out his arms. "Allow me."

He lifted Pansy in a straight vertical waist lift like she weighed nothing, spinning her once before setting her down.

"Oh," Pansy breathed. "I’m going to demand that at every meal now."

Harry crossed his arms. "Okay, that was actually impressive."

Draco turned to him, brow arched. "Want a go?"

"Absolutely not."

"Too bad."

Before Harry could protest, Draco bent slightly, hands finding Harry’s waist. With a startled yelp, Harry was up—his legs straight, back arched slightly, suspended effortlessly in Draco’s grip.

"Put me down!"

"You're ruining the art!" Draco said, voice mockingly stern.

Theo doubled over laughing. "Someone sketch this. I need it framed."

Draco finally lowered Harry back to the ground, and Harry stumbled slightly, flushed but laughing. "That was undignified."

"That was iconic," Pansy corrected. "You two were majestic."

"I swear to Merlin," Harry muttered, brushing off his robes.

Luna, who had appeared beside them out of nowhere, nodded serenely. "You moved like a swan trying to remember if it has legs."

"What does that even mean?"

"Compliment," she said brightly.

By the time they reached the greenhouse doors, the group was breathless with laughter, the tension of the morning washed away in teasing and movement. Herbology was about to start, but Harry felt lighter than he had in days.

And when Draco leaned close, whispering, "Not bad, Pirouette Potter," Harry couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face.

"Shut up."

"Never."

Chapter Text

The greenhouse doors swung open with their usual creak and groan, letting in a rush of morning warmth and the mingling scents of damp earth, blooming puffpods, and something that vaguely smelled like cat pee (Harry sincerely hoped that was just fertilizer). The Slytherins were already laughing as they filed in, still buzzing from Draco's impromptu ballet lift outside, and Harry could still feel the imprint of Draco’s hands at his waist, which was... not distracting at all.

"If I drop you next time," Draco said behind him, adjusting his gloves, "you’re suing the wrong Malfoy. I blame my mother for making me do ballet in the first place."

"I thought you said you only went once," Harry said, grinning as he reached for his Herbology apron.

Draco sniffed. "Once. For six years. Once a week."

Pansy snorted. "You were brilliant at it and you know it."

Professor Sprout was already arranging pots at the front, her wide-brimmed hat bouncing with each motion. "Morning, class! Pair up, put your gloves on, and come grab a growth tray. Today we’re working on Splitroot Simplants."

Theo leaned toward Harry. "Sounds made up."

"Definitely real," Blaise whispered. "I saw one scream once."

Neville was already standing near the front, eyes glowing with excitement. Hermione was beside him, flipping through her annotated copy of Magical Herbs and Fungi: Volume IV. Ron trailed behind them like a grumpy stormcloud.

As soon as he spotted Harry laughing beside Draco, Ron's face twisted like he’d just smelled a dungbomb. Hermione noticed and immediately nudged him.

"Don't start," she muttered under her breath.

"I'm not starting," Ron hissed. "He's the one gallivanting around like he’s in a bloody romance novel."

Neville, ever the peacekeeper, gently patted Ron's arm. "Just let him be happy, mate. It’s not like he joined Voldemort."

Ron crossed his arms. "Not yet."

Back at the Slytherin bench, Harry and Draco were already elbow-deep in soil. The Splitroot Simplants were squirming like worms, their tangled roots resisting separation with squeaky little shrieks.

"Honestly, they're just dramatic little weeds," Draco muttered.

"Pot meets kettle," Harry replied, smirking.

Theo dropped his spade. "Did that one just bite me?"

"Yes," Pansy said sweetly. "And I think it likes you."

Sprout made her way down the aisle. "Be gentle with them, Nott. They’re sensitive to sarcasm."

"We have that in common," Draco muttered.

Blaise and Vincent were working on theirs like it was a wrestling match. Vincent’s plant had already yeeted itself out of the pot twice.

"Control it, Crabbe!" Sprout barked.

Vincent looked affronted. "It started it."

Hermione, two rows over, was keeping half an eye on her textbook and the other half on Ron, who kept glaring daggers in Draco's general direction.

"Ron, stop it," she whispered.

"He’s wearing Harry’s dirt like it’s cologne," Ron hissed. "They’re flirting in compost."

"Honestly, that sounds kind of poetic," Luna said dreamily from behind them.

Neville smiled. "Compost romance."

Hermione gave up. "Boys."

Draco flicked dirt at Harry, who retaliated by flicking water back. Their tray was somehow still neater than anyone else's.

"If you two are done reenacting a romcom," Pansy called, "we have actual work to do."

"We’re bonding with the plants," Harry said solemnly.

"You're flirting with a fern."

"Technically it's a simplant," Draco corrected.

Theo nodded. "And you're both emotionally unavailable enough to relate to them."

"Hey!" Harry and Draco said at once.

Blaise grinned. "Touché."

Professor Sprout made another round. "Lovely progress, Slytherins. Gryffindors, catch up!"

Ron let out a strangled sound. "She likes them."

Hermione patted his shoulder. "Sprout likes anyone who doesn’t murder her plants. Maybe take notes."

Ron sulked into his leaves.

Draco, completely unbothered, leaned toward Harry. "You’ve got dirt on your nose. Right there."

Harry blinked as Draco wiped it off with his thumb, ridiculously gentle.

Pansy dropped her trowel. "Okay, what is this? Herbology: The Forbidden Romance?"

"It’s a working title," Theo said.

Neville leaned to Hermione. "Do you think we should say something to Ron? He’s vibrating."

"Like a mandrake at a punk concert," Luna added.

Hermione sighed. "Let him vibrate. It’s better than shouting."

Draco, ever the dramatist, leaned closer to Harry, brushing imaginary dirt off his collar and murmuring, "You know, if you keep being this distracting, I might have to repot you."

Harry choked on a laugh. "Was that a flirt or a threat?"

"Both."

Ron, finally snapping, slammed down his trowel. "OH, FOR MERLIN’S SAKE!"

The greenhouse went silent.

And Ron exploded.

“You’ve changed, Harry!” Ron shouted, red-faced, spit flying. “You’re ditching your real friends—your actual friends—for a bunch of snakes! They’ve brainwashed you! All of them! Especially him.” He jabbed a finger toward Draco, who looked vaguely amused. “This whole wardrobe change? The hair? The jokes? The Slytherin-themed personality transplant? What the hell is going on?!”

“Ron—” Hermione tried.

“No!” he shouted, rounding on her. “Don’t ‘Ron’ me, Hermione! You know I’m right! He’s acting like he’s got some sort of curse on him. Or like he’s joined a bloody cult! A snake cult!”

Neville muttered, “That’s not a thing—”

“And you!” Ron spun back to Harry. “You’re not even pretending anymore! You’re laughing, you’re smiling, and you’re letting Malfoy—Draco bloody Malfoy—touch your face like it’s some tragic romance novel! Are you kidding me?! You used to hate him! Remember that? We hated him!”

Harry opened his mouth, but Ron was in full performance mode.

“And now you’re twirling around outside greenhouses, giggling in the dirt, wearing his shirt—like some fangirl who just got kissed on the Quidditch pitch! What’s next? Matching bracelets? Snake tattoos? Are you going to dye your hair platinum blonde so you can really match?!”

Theo let out a soft “oh no” and silently began miming along with Ron’s gestures like a theatre performance.

“Oh, and don’t think I didn’t notice that you’ve started talking like them, too! All ‘darling’ this and ‘honestly’ that. What, did you start drinking tea with your pinky up now? Do you levitate into bed at night while Malfoy tucks you in with a spell? Merlin, you probably rehearse your comebacks together!”

“Ron,” Hermione warned.

“AND ANOTHER THING,” Ron bellowed. “That stupid perfect hair of his—don’t even pretend it’s not part of the brainwashing! It’s like a trap! Like a Veela cursed his shampoo! One second you’re normal Harry, and the next you’re making googly eyes over bloody compost!”

Draco leaned toward Harry and whispered, “Honestly, I’m flattered.”

“And these PLANTS!” Ron jabbed his wand at the Splitroot Simplants. “They’re probably cursed too! Look at them, wriggling like they know what’s happening. Bet they’re Slytherin plants. Bet they’re evil.”

“Mr. Weasley,” Sprout finally cut in, voice sharp as she stormed forward.

Ron rounded on her. “And YOU! You’re just letting this happen! Praising them for being good at Herbology while Harry’s being turned into some kind of—Slytherin groupie!”

“Enough,” Sprout said, tone firm. “Ten points from Gryffindor for repeated disruptions and lack of productivity. And go to Headmaster Dumbledore’s office. Now.”

Ron’s jaw dropped. “You’re taking their side?”

“I’m taking the side of sanity and potted safety,” she snapped. “And if you don’t want to lose more points, I suggest you go. Now.”

Ron turned on his heel and stormed out, muttering under his breath.

The greenhouse was silent.

Then Theo slow-clapped. “Best. Monologue. Ever.”

Everyone burst into laughter.

Draco turned to Harry. "How do you feel?"

"Like I survived a howler."

"Let’s celebrate by finishing this pot and pretending none of that happened."

"Best plan I’ve heard all morning."

They returned to work, still giggling, the rest of the class shooting them curious glances—but no one dared say a word. Not after that.

Pansy smirked. "Well. That was dramatic."

"And I wasn’t even the cause," Draco added, sounding proud.

Harry just shook his head, grinning. "Merlin, I love Mondays."

"Honestly," Blaise said, tossing a clump of soil into his tray, "I hate to admit it, but Weasley kind of nailed it. You two do act like you’re in a steamy romance serial."

"A trashy one," Pansy agreed brightly. "With dramatic chapter endings and suspiciously convenient wardrobe changes."

Vincent snorted. "Bet the next scene involves rain and Harry tripping so Draco can catch him."

"He has been falling for me for months now," Draco said smugly, brushing nonexistent dirt from Harry’s sleeve.

Theo held up a simplant root like it was a microphone. "'He touched my collar and I melted'—Chapter Seven, Slytherin Seduction."

"Chapter Eight is just Harry internally screaming for 40 pages," Blaise added.

Harry groaned. "Can we not turn this into a novel?"

Pansy leaned over. "Too late. I’m outlining the chapters in my mind."

Theo pretended to write in midair. "Chapter Nine: Malfoy’s Hands and the Mystery of the Waist Touch."

Draco tilted his head innocently. "It was supportive."

"It was borderline indecent," Blaise countered.

"And I regret nothing," Draco said.

"Can we talk about how you wiped dirt off his nose?" Vincent added. "You’re practically engaged."

"I felt emotionally involved," Pansy said, pretending to dab at her eyes.

Theo raised an eyebrow. "I’m just waiting for one of them to say ‘we were just practicing herbology techniques’ when they inevitably snog."

"I will hex someone," Harry muttered, cheeks pink.

"That’s what makes it fun," Blaise said cheerfully.

Luna, who had wandered over at some point, looked thoughtful. "They’re very harmonious. Like two bees in the same bonnet."

Everyone stared.

"Thanks, Luna," Harry said slowly.

Draco gave her a polite nod. "I’ll take it."

"I’ve never seen two people flirt this aggressively with soil under their fingernails," Theo said. "It’s powerful."

Pansy looked at Harry. "Just admit it—you like the attention."

"I like plants," Harry said. "That’s all."

Draco snorted. "Is that what they’re calling it now?"

"We should really bottle this energy," Blaise said. "Sell it to romance writers."

"You know what’s wild?" Vincent added. "This is all before lunch."

Draco leaned closer to Harry. "What do you say, Potter? Want to repot some feelings later?"

Harry gave him a look. "You’ve used that joke twice now."

"And it’s still gold."

Pansy put a hand on her heart. "I’m not saying I ship it—but I ship it."

Theo held up a hand. "I would like to be invited to the wedding."

"Noted," Draco said.

"I’ll write the vows," Luna offered. "They’ll involve moonbeams, parsley, and icecream."

"Sounds mystical, maybe even magical," Blaise said.

Harry groaned into his gloves. "I regret making friends with all of you."

"Too late," Theo grinned. "You’re stuck with us."

"Like splitroot to loam," Pansy added.

They all burst out laughing again.

Even Professor Sprout looked up from her own pot and shook her head with a smile. "As long as the simplants don’t start dating next."

Draco leaned into Harry and whispered, "Well, they are sharing a pot."

Harry buried his face in his elbow. "You’re impossible."

Draco smirked. "And yet, you adore me."

Theo coughed. "Chapter Ten: Realization."

Vincent held up his plant. "This one’s shriveled up in secondhand embarrassment."

"Same," Harry muttered.

Draco looked at him fondly. "Don’t worry, love. I’ll nurse us both back to health."

Harry sighed, flushed and grinning. "You’re the worst."

Pansy nudged Blaise. "They’re going to kiss by the end of the semester."

"I give it three more Herbology classes," Blaise replied.

"Bet?"

"Absolutely."

Harry just laughed, trying to focus on untangling a particularly stubborn root, but the grin on his face wouldn't go anywhere for the rest of the class.

Harry just laughed, trying to focus on untangling a particularly stubborn root, but the grin on his face wouldn't go anywhere for the rest of the class.

Later that day, Harry and Draco found themselves tucked into their usual corner of the library, parchment spread across the table, inkpots and books stacked high like a miniature fortress around them. It was quiet, save for the soft rustling of pages and the scratch of quills.

Harry frowned at his Potions notes, tapping the end of his quill against the desk. “I don’t understand how Snape expects us to identify nine different properties of powdered Moonstone by smell alone.”

“You don’t,” Draco said, not looking up from his textbook. “You just memorize them and pray he’s distracted enough by your attempt to brownnose that he doesn’t notice when you guess.”

Harry snorted. “Sounds like someone’s done that before.”

Draco looked up, deadpan. “I’m insulted by the implication.”

“You should be.”

They shared a grin before returning to their work.

After a few minutes of scribbling, Draco spoke up again, quieter this time. “My parents are pulling me out of school this weekend.”

Harry blinked. “What? Why?”

Draco shrugged, eyes on the parchment in front of him. “Family thing. That’s all I was told.”

Harry tilted his head. “Is everything alright?”

Draco nodded a little too quickly. “Fine. It’s just... inconvenient.”

Harry didn’t push. Instead, he nodded and went back to pretending to study, though his eyes lingered on Draco for a second longer.

The silence returned, comfortable this time, only broken by the occasional flip of a page or the scratch of ink.

Nearly half an hour later, Hermione and Neville approached the table cautiously.

“Hey,” Hermione said, eyes flicking between Harry and Draco.

“Hey,” Harry replied, blinking up at her. “What’s up?”

“We, um...” Neville rubbed the back of his neck. “We just wanted to say sorry. Again. For Ron’s outburst.”

Hermione nodded. “It’s not fair to you, Harry. Or to you, M-Draco. He’s... struggling. But that doesn’t excuse his behavior.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Apology accepted. As long as I don’t have to duel him in a greenhouse again.”

Harry laughed softly. “You were very composed.”

Hermione gave a small smile. “Honestly, we just wanted to say... if you two do end up dating or whatever, we’re not going to freak out. Besides Ron, things have actually been... calmer. You’re not arguing all the time. You’re smiling more.”

Neville nodded. “You look happier. Like, really happy. I haven’t seen that in a while.”

Harry felt his face flush a little. “Thanks. I... yeah. I am.”

Hermione added, “When you got resorted, I was scared the Slytherins might treat you badly. But seeing how they’ve welcomed you, how they’ve supported you... I’m glad. Really glad.”

Harry looked at Draco, who was pretending not to listen, eyes still on his book but lips twitching in a hidden smile.

“Me too,” Harry said. “They’ve made it feel like I finally belong.”

Hermione reached over and squeezed his shoulder. “Then that’s all that matters.”

They lingered for a few more moments, chatting quietly, the library wrapping them in its peaceful silence. And for once, everything felt like it was exactly where it should be.