Archive of Our Own ^beta

“He isn’t plotting anything, Harry,” Hermione whispered for the seventh or perhaps eighth time in the last three days.

Harry snorted, tired of hearing the same sentence over and over.

No matter how many times his friend assured him, he knew something strange was happening. He looked again at the Marauder’s Map: the dot marked “Draco Malfoy” remained motionless in the Slytherin Common Room, sunken in the cold, dark dungeons. His fingers clenched the parchment tightly, as if squeezing it could force out the answers.

Hermione, sitting across from him, watched him with a furrowed brow, pressed lips, and hands folded on her knees in a gesture of forced patience. There was no reproach in her voice, but there was exhaustion. She had repeated the same phrase hoping to calm him, but Harry was not about to be convinced.

He ignored his friend’s words once again.

Hermione Granger—the brightest witch of her age—but Harry knew even she could be wrong sometimes. Of course, he would never dare say it aloud. Not where she could hear him.

He valued his hearing too much to risk losing it under one of Hermione’s damnedly long lectures.

Yet, deep inside, certainty throbbed: she was wrong.

Something was happening.

Something strange.

Something was terribly wrong, and he knew it, he could sense it.

The silence that stretched between the three of them was only broken by the crackling of the fire in the fireplace. Most students were already in their rooms; the Gryffindor Common Room seemed deserted, except for them and a nervous, weary Neville sitting in a corner, his head bent over an endless Potions scroll. His eyelids drooped heavily, but the boy fought to stay awake, biting his lower lip every few minutes.

The warm, flickering firelight cast shadows that seemed to have a life of their own as they moved over the stone walls. Harry’s eyes burned from staring at the map, but he couldn’t look away. He felt that if he did, he would miss the exact detail he needed to prove he was right.

“Mate, I know you’re a bit… paranoid after everything that happened at the Ministry,” Ron said suddenly, breaking the silence. He shifted on the couch with obvious discomfort as Harry’s green eyes—intense and impatient—fixed on him.

Harry let out a dry, bitter laugh. Paranoid. Of course he was. The ‘only’ thing that had happened in the Department of Mysteries was an almost deadly duel between his close friends in the D.A and Voldemort’s most loyal Death Eaters. Not to mention the little detail of seeing his godfather, the last family he had left, go through an arch he would never return from. And now he had to endure being treated as if he were seeing ghosts where there were none.

“I think, Ron, that none of this is a coincidence,” Harry hissed, raising an eyebrow in a brief but tense gesture before returning his attention to the dot moving slowly on the map.

Ron swallowed and placed a hand on his shoulder, as if that gesture could stop the avalanche of obsessions consuming him.

“Listen, Harry. I believe you when you say something isn’t right, I really do, but… do you really think Malfoy is marked?”

The question hung in the air like a dangerous spark. Harry didn’t answer, and the silence stretched until it became uncomfortable. Finally, Ron continued in a softer voice:

“Dad and Mum told us a few things when we were at Grimmauld…”

Hermione immediately interrupted him, frowning:

“By ‘told,’ do you mean you eavesdropped with Fred and George?”

Ron snorted and rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it.

“Listen…” he continued, ignoring his girlfriend’s reproach. “Even He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named hasn’t stooped so low as to mark a minor.”

Harry jerked his head up, his eyes shining with a mix of anger and determination.

“So I’m supposed to trust Voldemort’s so-called ethics and morals?” he said sarcastically, his words cutting like knives as he slammed the map shut and stood.

Hermione pressed her lips together, following his every movement as if she could restrain him with her gaze.

“Harry, I’m not saying Malfoy’s behaviour this year has been normal, but I think you’re attributing it to the wrong reasons.”

“Oh, really? Like what?” he replied, crossing his arms.

Hermione hesitated, raising a finger, then said:

“First, his father is a registered Death Eater; he can’t excuse himself by saying he was under the Imperius Curse, so he was sent to Azkaban.”

Harry stifled an eye roll.

“It’s not like many people believed the Imperius story in the first place.”

“Well, the Wizengamot did,” Hermione replied.

“Are you defending him?” Ron asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Of course not! But not everything is black or white, Ronald. Draco Malfoy is egocentric, irritable, narcissistic, and a pure-blood supremacist…”

“But…?” Harry interrupted, crossing his arms.

“But I think a child never wants to see his father as the villain. Besides, he’s still a child, like us,” Hermione said, crossing one leg over the other. “I’m not defending or justifying him, but you have to understand. A child absorbs what he sees and hears, repeats what his inner circle does or says. Do you think Draco had any chance to question his father? If he grew up believing what his parents think is right, then…”

Harry looked at the fire, understanding but unconvinced. After six years at Hogwarts, a child could—or should—reason for himself.

“The problem, Hermione, is that we’re no longer children. Neither he nor us. Besides, I grew up with my aunt and uncle, and I’m not like them.”

“Harry, that’s different,” Hermione denied. “You never had a trusted inner circle until you were eleven. Draco Malfoy, only child, pure-blood, spoiled…”

“They probably gave him ten Galleons every time he saisathe M-word,” Ron murmured.

“Suppose Malfoy only acts weird because his father is in Azkaban,” Harry continued. “Then why does he always show up when something happens?”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked.

“At the Three Broomsticks, when Katie Bell was cursed—” Harry raised a finger, but Ron interrupted.

“Mate, almost the entire fifth and sixth year was spent at the Three Broomsticks that day.”

Harry sighed in frustration and raised another finger.

“Also, he was the last person Madam Rosmerta remembers before handing the tampered mead to Professor Slughorn.”

Hermione rubbed the bridge of her nose.

“Harry, just remember, it could be anyone with blond hair! You don’t even know if it was a boy or girl.”

Harry ignored her comment and raised a third finger.

“There’s also what we saw in Diagon Alley—” he raised a fourth—“he snuck into Slughorn’s winter party and—” a fifth finger—“he doesn’t bother anyone anymore, he’s not glued to Parkinson, he’s not the top of the class.”

“Harry, listen to what you’re saying for a second. According to your logic, then we’d also be plotting something; we’d also be there whenever something weird happens.”

“Whatever, Hermione. He’s thin, pale, with dark circles, he quit Quidditch… even his school robe is too big now!”

“That could be precisely because his father is in Azkaban…”

Harry felt his chest tighten with a bitter, burning feeling. Why didn’t his friends believe him? How many times did something have to happen before his lifelong friends gave his hunch any credit?

“Do what you want,” he muttered, not looking at them. “I know I’m not wrong.”

Without saying goodbye, he climbed the stairs with hard steps.

That night, lying in bed with rumpled pyjamas and the canopy curtains closed, he couldn’t fall asleep. He kept his wand lit with a faint Lumos and the Marauder’s Map open before him. He watched the tiny letters marking “Draco Malfoy” moving slowly through the dungeons, feeling as if each step the blond took echoed inside his own chest.

Fatigue gradually overtook him, but his fingers still gripped the parchment even as his eyelids became too heavy to stay open. The last image he saw before sleeping was that tiny dot, walking tirelessly through the darkness of Hogwarts.

Curiously, Harry never noticed—for one reason or another—that at a certain hour in the early morning, the dot marking “Draco Malfoy” disappeared into a room that didn’t appear on the map, hiding everything inside it.

                                    .oOo.

The days began to drag, but Harry no longer measured time in lessons, meals or practices. Each day ended the same way: him hunched over the table in the Common Room, the Marauder’s Map spread out and his wand glowing faintly with a Lumos so as not to wake anyone else.

He searched for that particular dot. Draco Malfoy.

“Again with that, Harry?” Ron asked one of those nights, poking his sleepy head up from the armchair. “You’ll drive yourself mad if you keep staring at it.”

Harry didn’t look up. His finger kept tracing Draco’s route, moving slowly through the dungeons.

“I just want to be sure. He’s up to something, Ron. It’s no coincidence he’s always on his own, at these hours, in places he shouldn’t be.”

Ron grunted, scratching his head.

“And what if the only thing he’s up to is sneaking out for a few dates?”

There it was again, that small sting running down his spine, and he wondered why he was feeling it once more after months of silence.

“Come on, Malfoy’s always been odd.”

“It’s not the same,” Harry insisted, with a sharpness that surprised even himself. “Before, he flaunted everything he did. Now… now he hides.”

Hermione, who had been pretending to read but had been watching them for a while, closed her book with a snap.

“What you should do is sleep. You can’t spend every night like this.”

“She’s right, mate. When you’re not buried in that weird Potions book, you’re staring at the map,” Ron added.

“You don’t understand…” Harry muttered, his voice low, almost a whisper. “There’s something different about him. I see it. I know it.”

Hermione sighed with patience, though her furrowed brows betrayed a flicker of worry.

“Harry, if you really think he’s up to something… talk to Dumbledore. Watching him until dawn won’t give you answers.”

He didn’t reply. How could he explain that it wasn’t just suspicion? That there was something in Draco’s gestures, in the way he moved through the castle, that pushed him to keep watching. Every little change seemed meaningful: the way he spent more time alone, the brief encounters with Parkinson where he barely spoke, the moments when he vanished without a trace.

Ron eventually gave in to sleep, and Hermione followed soon after. Harry was left alone, the silence of the Common Room broken only by the crackle of the fireplace. The map glowed before him, the tiny ink footprints shifting back and forth as though alive. And there was Draco, his name shining among the shadows of the dungeons.

Harry leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand. Weariness weighed on his eyelids, but he couldn’t look away.

“What are you doing, Malfoy?” he whispered, not expecting an answer.

The clock in the tower struck two in the morning. Then three. Draco moved again, then stopped suddenly, as if hesitating. Harry felt his pulse quicken. He could have sworn that if he just watched long enough, he would uncover the secrets hidden behind that single dot of ink.

Finally, when his eyes burned and his wand trembled between his weary fingers, he clumsily folded up the map. He climbed the stairs to his dormitory without lighting the way, careful not to wake anyone. But even as he collapsed into bed, body exhausted, the last image that lingered with him was that name written in magical ink. Draco Malfoy.

                                   .oOo.

Harry couldn’t describe it well, but every detail, no matter how small, became crucial.

During the day, in the corridors of Hogwarts, the obsession didn’t fade. Every time he heard rumours about Malfoy, every time someone mentioned his name, Harry felt an almost physical urge to check the map. He even began to ignore certain conversations, focusing instead on what a simple shift in Draco’s position might reveal.

In shared classes he couldn’t help but pay attention: the way he sat, how he avoided his classmates, how his gestures seemed carefully measured.

One day, Harry caught himself staring at him during a Charms lesson. Draco was seated by the windows, a couple of rows away. A thin ray of sunlight fell softly over his pale blond hair and face. His hair shone faintly, though it looked dull; his cheekbones stood out more sharply from the weight loss, and the shadows under his eyes were almost purple. Even his lips, usually a pale pink, looked dry and cracked. The skin that once seemed smooth now looked lifeless.

The dark-haired boy’s attention was fixed entirely on the blond: on how he breathed slowly and steadily, almost as if asleep; on how his pale lashes moved in a gentle, subtle, hypnotic dance every time he blinked; on that single freckle —at least as far as Harry knew— that marked the pale skin just beneath his ear.

It wasn’t until Malfoy shot him a glance, eyes narrowing and one eyebrow arching, that Harry wrenched his own away and bent back over his half-written parchment.

He wondered how it was possible for one person to take up so much space in his thoughts.

He felt pathetic.

Before, his worries had been the Ministry, Umbridge, the Death Eaters, the loss of Sirius… Now, Malfoy was a riddle that moved faster than any news, slipperier than any suspicion.

Each night, Harry forced himself to rationalise his fears: *“It’s not a coincidence. Something is happening. I just have to watch, wait and… understand.”*

He began noticing patterns: the times Draco appeared in certain rooms, fleeting encounters with other students, moments of distraction or absence. Harry mentally recorded each detail, anticipating his movements before they happened. The line between vigilance and obsession blurred, but he didn’t see it that way: he called it precaution.

As the days passed, Draco’s figure stopped being just a dot on the map. He became a riddle full of contradictions: arrogance laced with vulnerability, coldness alternating with gestures that were almost human, almost innocent. Harry couldn’t explain why those gestures affected him so much. Why his attention lingered even when he didn’t want to think about it.

And then that day came.

The day Katie Bell returned from St Mungo’s.

Harry had heard the news in his first lesson of the day and couldn’t focus on anything else for the hours that followed.

He had to talk to Katie, he knew it. But why did he feel this way?

His stomach was twisted, bile rose in his throat, his mouth watered excessively though his lips were too dry. His hands trembled and his eyes shifted from focusing on one thing for minutes at a time to not being able to rest on anything or anyone for more than two seconds. His heart beat erratically, and he couldn’t stop clenching his jaw until his molars ached.

Katie Bell wasn’t at lunch or in the common room, so his torturous anxiety stretched until dinner. Needless to say, Harry hadn’t been able to swallow a single bite since breakfast, and the smell of what on any other day might have been the most delicious meal now only made him nauseous.

Then he saw her walking slowly down the aisle of the Great Hall, carefully escorted by two other girls whose names Harry couldn’t even recall at that moment.

“I know what you want to ask me, Harry…” Katie murmured just after he tried to greet her with a smile that was really only an anxious grimace.

Katie’s friends had stepped back a few metres to give them some privacy. “I don’t know who cursed me, I just remember going to the loo, I saw the box with the necklace on the sink and…”

Her voice trailed off bit by bit, fading into a whisper lost among the hum of hundreds of simultaneous conversations, as was normal during dinner.

Yet her gaze was fixed on something happening behind Harry. It took him only two seconds to notice, and when he turned, his stomach lurched.

Katie Bell was staring straight at Draco Malfoy, and what followed happened too quickly for Harry to remember clearly.

Malfoy turned, began to walk; as soon as he left the Great Hall, he started to run.

When Harry caught up with him, the blond was in Myrtle’s bathroom. He was gasping heavily, clinging to the sink, his grey eyes full of tears, red and bloodshot.

Myrtle floated softly around him, whispering words Harry couldn’t understand; he thought it was the first time he’d heard her not shrieking.

“Malfoy…” Harry whispered, so low, astonished to see someone like Draco break down in tears so vulnerably.

But for Draco, that whisper was louder and more deafening than any shout magnified with a Sonorus.

The whisper was swallowed by the murmur of running water from the many sinks in the bathroom.

Draco turned after looking at Harry through the mirror for a second. For an instant, they stared at one another in silence, storm-grey and piercing green colliding as if that moment, suspended between breaths, were the only thing that existed in the castle —or rather, in the world.

But the shame of being discovered, the fury and fear accumulated over weeks, took hold of Malfoy.

“What are you plotting, Potter?” he spat the surname with a voice broken yet dripping with venom.

Harry didn’t answer at once. He could see the wet trails on the blond’s cheeks, the way his lips trembled slightly as they formed that typical sneer, the tension in his shoulders, the way he breathed as if he’d just run for miles without stopping. He didn’t look like the arrogant Draco he always had, and yet, in that moment, the hostility between them ignited like a malignant fire.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Harry shot back, letting out a humourless huff at Malfoy’s choice of words, stepping forward.

Draco stepped back, both drew their wands at the same time, each thinking the other would strike first.

“Expelliarmus!” Harry shouted, and the spell shot towards Draco.

The blond barely had time to raise his wand. The clash of light bounced off the mirrors of the bathroom, bursting into sparks that lit up the cracked walls. Myrtle screamed and darted aside as though the spells could harm her.

“Protego!” Draco countered, deflecting the attack. Harry’s spell hit a far-off sink that exploded in a loud spray of water and porcelain.

The tiled floor began to flood, and their shoes splashed as they ran with ragged breaths, dodging each other’s hexes.

Harry felt as though his heart wanted to smash through his ribs, his stomach wanted to escape through his mouth, not only from the adrenaline of the fight but from the strange blend of emotions churning in his mind, in his chest. Draco, on the other hand, seemed to fight with every fibre of his body, as though this duel wasn’t only against Harry, but against something darker devouring him from the inside.

And then it happened. In a moment of pure desperation, Harry raised his wand and shouted the first spell that came to mind, the one he had read scribbled in the margins of a book, the one that said it was for enemies.

“Sectumsempra!”

The air tore with a sharp scream.

Draco bent backwards as if lashed by an invisible whip. His eyes widened in shock, his wand slipped from his hand and clattered on the floor in a way that made Harry’s blood freeze.

Slowly, blood began to gush from his chest, arms and even neck in deep lines, staining his white shirt and running into the water spreading across the floor, dyeing it red.

Myrtle let out a wailing shriek. Harry stood frozen in horror, his wand still raised, unable to process what he had just done.

Had he really done that? Did he truly consider Draco Malfoy an enemy?

Draco’s breathing became a broken gasp, his body trembling, his hands desperately trying and failing to stem the bleeding. The arrogance was gone completely, leaving only a sixteen-year-old boy doubled over in pain, vulnerable, mortally human. He collapsed onto his back, crimson water soaking his hair and clothes.

The whole bathroom seemed to throb with the sound of blood spilling into the water.

Harry’s heart pounded in his ears so loudly he couldn’t bear it. His wand shook in his hand. Draco Malfoy lay sprawled on the floor, blood pouring in red streams that mingled with the water. The surface gleamed under the torchlight, as though the entire bathroom had become a shattered mirror of pain.

“No… I…” Harry stammered, stumbling back, horrified at what he had just done.

Draco tried to speak, but only a strangled groan came out, broken by coughs and the metallic taste of blood. His wide eyes locked onto Harry’s with a mixture of feelings Harry couldn’t decipher. He wasn’t an enemy in that moment —had he ever truly been one?

Myrtle wailed in desperation, her shrill cries echoing off the walls, but Harry couldn’t seem to hear anything except Draco’s gasping pain.

Harry leaned towards him, the urge to help overwhelming him. He dropped his wand and pressed his hands against the wounds on Draco’s chest, the other boy’s blood burning against his skin. Panic clawed at him like something invisible; nausea rose from the metallic stench.

He swallowed hard when grey eyes met green once more. His hands moved to cup the blond’s cheeks gently, leaving bloody fingerprints there. A crystal drop fell onto Draco’s pale lips; Harry was crying.

The seconds stretched into eternity until the bathroom door burst open. Snape swept in, his robes billowing like a dark shadow chasing him. His eyes took in the scene in an instant: Malfoy collapsed, bleeding uncontrollably; Potter trembling as he held him; the water beneath them dyed scarlet.

“Get away, Potter!” Snape roared, with a controlled fury that pierced through him.

Harry obeyed without thinking, stumbling backwards. Snape knelt by Draco and moved his wand with a precision only experience could give.

Snape muttered something Harry couldn’t understand, and silver threads flowed from the tip of his wand. The deep gashes began to close slowly, the blood to stop, as though time itself were reversing. The torn skin knit back together.

Draco shuddered, letting out a low moan as the magic did its work, his face pale as marble, sweat plastering his blond hair to his forehead. Snape continued the incantation until the wounds stopped bleeding and sealed into fresh pink scars.

At last, the professor raised his gaze to Harry. Snape’s eyes were sharper than any curse.

“Get out,” he said in a low, venomous voice that left no room for argument.

Harry didn’t move. His body was paralysed, guilt rooting him to the spot; he didn’t want to leave Draco’s side.

“Now!”

Jolted from his daze, Harry stumbled out of the bathroom, still hearing Myrtle’s distant sobs and Draco’s faint breathing behind him. He shut the door and pressed his forehead against the cold wood. His stomach churned. It didn’t matter that Draco had always been his rival, it didn’t matter how many years of enmity there had been: he wasn’t his enemy.

And though he tried to convince himself it had been an accident, that the spell had slipped out in a moment of rage, he couldn’t shake the guilt and the fear of having thought, even for an instant, that he might lose Draco.

                                   .oOo.

The light bothered him even with his eyes closed, breathing hurt, and when he opened them he couldn’t focus his sight for several minutes.

A sleeping draught? Surely, he would recognise that effect anywhere and at any time, being so familiar with it—since only with its help had he managed to sleep a little during the summer holidays.

After blinking a few times, he was able to recognise that he was in the hospital wing. A sudden gasp escaped his lips as he remembered what had happened.

Potter had cursed him.

He frowned faintly when he felt a tickling in his nose. No, he wasn’t going to cry—he had to keep whatever dignity and pride he still had, if he had any left at all.

Draco felt an unusual weight on his abdomen when he tried to sit up on the cot, but there was nothing there apart from himself—or so he thought, until he stretched his hand through the air and felt a soft fabric under his touch. He slowly grasped it with slightly trembling fingers and pulled it aside, only to see a mop of dark hair, black as night and messy as a raven’s nest.

Potter was sitting on a stool with the upper part of his body lying across the blond’s abdomen, his head resting on his folded arms, his breathing slow and steady; he was asleep.

Draco cleared his throat, and when Potter didn’t react, he relaxed his shoulders and let out a slow sigh.

At least fifteen minutes had passed when Harry woke with a small start, his green eyes darting rapidly about before settling on the boy lying on the cot, who was watching him with a perfectly arched blond eyebrow raised.

“Malfoy…” Harry whispered, his voice hoarse. “You’re awake.”

“So are you.”

Harry looked around again, confused.

“You can see me? What…?”

Draco lifted the cloak he was holding in his hand.

“I knew I wasn’t mad when I saw your head floating in Hogsmeade,” he murmured, setting the fabric aside. “What are you doing here, Potter?”

“I…” Harry’s face twisted with a mix of regret and guilt. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what that spell did, I didn’t mean to hurt you. Not like that, I swear. I… I never wanted to, it’s just that stupid book. That book said ‘for enemies’ and… and I don’t think you’re my enemy, not really. I don’t believe that, but at that moment I don’t know what I was thinking, I swear I could’ve sworn you were going to curse me first and, instead of using a defensive spell, I went for the offensive and… and I’m an idiot, I truly am. I-I don’t deserve your forgiveness. Merlin, I nearly killed you! And, and seeing you there bleeding… I swear I’ve never in my life felt so afraid, I froze and didn’t know what to do—thank Merlin Snape was nearby. God, Draco… I mean, Malfoy, forgive me, please. I never–”

“Are you stupid, Potter?” Draco interrupted suddenly.

“I… what?”

Draco arched his brow and crossed his arms over his chest.

“I said: are you stupid?”

“Y-yes… I suppose I am?” Harry answered, more like a question than an affirmation.

Draco snorted, amused.

“You must be. You’ve been facing death since you can remember and even fought against the Dark Lord himself, and you say you’ve never felt as afraid as when you saw me hurt? You must be stupid.”

“I… yes, perhaps I am. But I’m not lying. When I realised what I’d done… I’m really sorry, Malfoy.”

“Draco.”

“Huh?”

“You nearly killed me, Potter. I think we’re close enough now for you to call me by my name.”

“Draco… call me Harry.”

A heavy silence settled between them, until Draco lifted his hand and carefully wiped away the tears running down the Gryffindor’s cheek, who was watching him with those intensely green eyes.

“Do you really feel that guilty?”

Harry lowered his gaze, fiddling with the sheet between his fingers.

“Well, yes. But it’s not just that… I…” he inhaled deeply before blurting it out in one breath.

“Ican’tstopcryingbecauseeverytimeIclosemyeyesIseeyoubleedingonthefloorandIfeelbloodyidioticforhavingtohavesufferedthatjusttorealisethatIcan’tstandtheideaoflosingyoubecauseIlikeyou.”

Draco blinked. Once. Twice.

“What?”

Harry took another shaky breath.

“I said I can’t stop crying because every time I close my eyes I see you on the floor, bleeding, and… and I can’t believe we had to go through that for me to realise I don’t want to lose you, but… but not just because I obviously didn’t mean to hurt you and I don’t want to kill anyone, except Voldemort and Bellatrix. Sorry, I know she’s your aunt, but she killed my godfather and they were cousins. Does that make us family? I hope not, because otherwise that’d be weird, because I’ve realised I couldn’t bear the idea of seeing you hurt because I like you… I like you a lot, and I don’t know when it happened, I think I started liking you in third year but I’m not really sure, I only know I realised it when I saw you bleeding because of me and I wanted to cry and I did cry and now I’m crying again because I’m an idiot and this is bloody strange because now I understand why I was so obsessed with following you on the map. I simply couldn’t stop looking at you and I thought you were plotting something, but I think it was just that this year you’ve been so distant and I missed you, even if it was as the spoiled prat who never stopped annoying me. Sorry, I just insulted you, I know, and that’s not very good because I’m literally confessing my feelings to you and I know it’s weird, it’s very weird. Are we family? I really hope not, though of course it wouldn’t matter because clearly you won’t return my feelings and I think I should leave because I was only waiting for you to wake up so I could apologise and tell you that if you want to report me to the Aurors you’re entirely within your rights and I won’t oppose it, so… so… are we related, yes or no?”

Draco stared at him, dumbfounded, and the next second burst out laughing. The laughter shook his body so much he had to clutch his abdomen, still sore from the curse.

Harry watched him in silence, surprised but captivated. That laugh didn’t sound like the mocking ones he usually heard from him; this one was genuine, free, melodious. And, upon seeing it, he couldn’t help but smile tenderly. For a moment, he thought Draco Malfoy had been born to laugh like that.

“No… no. We’re not related, Potter. For Salazar’s sake,” he said, still between chuckles. “Our family trees haven’t crossed for centuries. Your godfather being my mother’s cousin doesn’t make us family in any way.”

Harry let out a sigh of relief, though heat rushed up to his ears. He scratched his neck, awkward.

“So, about the other thing…”

“Pott… Harry, I knew you were oblivious, but fuck, you really are on another level,” Draco said with a crooked smile.

“I don’t understa–”

He couldn’t finish. Draco grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him close, pressing their lips together in a hard, clumsy kiss, teeth knocking. Harry muffled a startled gasp, his glasses askew, and immediately felt a cold, delicate hand tangle into his hair, sending a shiver down his spine.

Their lips moved with brusque slowness, while Harry’s hand settled on the other’s thigh, caressing over the sheets.

In the end, it was Draco who pulled away, leaving Harry trembling and wanting more.

“I…”

“Shut up, Harry.”

Harry obeyed. Draco smiled, his cheeks tinged with a soft pink that made him dangerously adorable.

“I was plotting something, actually…” he confessed.

Harry swallowed and cleared his throat.

“What…?”

Draco didn’t let him finish. He pushed up the sleeve of his gown and revealed his arm: the Dark Mark loomed dark against his pale skin.

“He said he’d kill my parents if I didn’t do it… I saw him torturing my mother before the year began. A-and… I couldn’t refuse,” his voice faltered. “He wants me to kill Dumbledore.”

Harry clenched his jaw until it hurt, but his hand settled gently on the marked arm, caressing it as if he could erase the dark ink.

“We’ll find a way,” he said firmly.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Both of them smiled shyly. Harry tilted his head and pressed a delicate kiss against the marked skin.

“So… you were spying on me with a map?”

Harry laughed, embarrassed.

“Do we have to talk about that?” he whispered, pouting as he sat back.

“Of course we do! And you also have to explain how you happen to have an invisibility cloak.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time.”