Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

She’d got another letter from the Ministry that morning. It was from the Muggle Liaison Office this time.

Dear Miss Granger,

We were honoured to receive your thoughts on our Muggle-born outreach programme.

However, given the events of the last year, we are still in the process of returning to our previous systems. We are not currently looking to make any alterations.

In addition, as we have heard that you are aware, it is against Ministry policy to work with consultants who do not have a minimum of four NEWTs, grades A or above.

We encourage you to contact us again after you have completed your final year at Hogwarts. We would be delighted to talk with you further at that time.

(PS—Enclosed is a clipping from last June’s Daily Prophet. Could you sign it and send it back? My daughter is a big fan.)

Hermione scoffed and shoved the letter back into her bag. It was just as useless on the fourth reread.

It had been over six months since the end of the war. Six months and, as of this morning, Hermione had received forty-nine letters from Ministry officials telling her, in slightly wordier terms, to stop trying to stick her nose in.

Oh, the Ministry had been very effusive at first. Various departments had reached out with offers of discussions and meetings (and, of course, press photographs). They had even insisted on arranging Mind Healers for her, Ron and Harry as a gesture of recognition of everything they had been through.

But even the Mind Healers had shut Hermione down when she’d asked for advice on getting somebody (anybody) to listen to her.

“Have you considered that your need to help people is a response to your own trauma?” they’d asked. “Is it possible that you feel like you yourself lacked proper care and assistance, and you are trying to ensure nobody else feels that way?”

“Well,” Hermione had said with a frown. “Maybe. But I don’t see why that’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not your responsibility to help everyone,” the Mind Healer had said gently. “You’re eighteen years old. Don’t you think you’ve done enough for now?”

Codswallop. It was the attitude of Don’t you think we’ve done enough that had got the magical world into such a mess in the first place.

There had been a couple of officials who had seemed to realise that there were better ways of doing things—but even they had been reluctant to talk. They couldn’t be seen to be taking ideas from the public, they’d said. To discuss anything further, Hermione would have to be considered a freelance consultant.

And to be a consultant, you needed the NEWTs.

Well, fine. Hermione would get the NEWTs.

That is, if she could concentrate.

“It’s so loud in here,” she hissed to Harry.

Harry blinked and looked up from his homework. “We’re in the library,” he said slowly, as if she hadn’t noticed. “It’s the quietest place in the castle. That’s sort of the point.”

Hermione sniffed. “Please.”

Harry frowned and went back to his essay on the Anti-Alohomora Charm. There was a mistake at the beginning of his third paragraph. Hermione bit her lip to stop herself from pointing it out. He’d never learn, if she did.

She turned back to her own homework, but even An Arithmetic Approach to Curse-Breaking couldn’t hold her attention. She felt jittery in a way she never had done before the war. Homework was good fun, but she needed to be doing something.

“I think I’m going to go for a walk,” she whispered.

Harry looked even more confused. “A walk? It’s the middle of January. It’s freezing.”

“Not outside. Just around the castle. Stretch my legs.”

“Right. Well, okay. I’ll see you at dinner, then?”

Hermione smiled tightly.

It wasn’t that she wanted Harry to come with her. She didn’t—she had never understood the need to travel in groups that other girls her age seemed to have.

It was just—

It would have been nice if he’d asked whether she wanted company. Ron would have asked, if he’d been there—if he’d come back to Hogwarts instead of jumping straight into Auror training. He would have complained a bit, would have rolled his eyes—but he would have asked. He would have wanted to go with her.

“Yes,” she whispered, packing away her things and standing. “See you at dinner.”

Hermione had always considered herself a very independent person. She didn’t need friends or a relationship or popularity. But that year, Ron’s absence was an ache she could never quite forget. Of course, she wrote to him, and saw him every Hogsmeade weekend. But it really wasn’t the same as having him there with them.

She knew Harry felt it too. Hermione loved Harry dearly, and they got along splendidly—but they were a bit unbalanced, just the two of them. Their lonely childhoods had made them both instinctively solitary, and they were both impatient and intense in their own ways. They needed a third person, really, to even them out a bit. To make them laugh.

A couple of first years dashed across her path.

“Sorry!” one of them yelled over their shoulder.

“That’s all right,” Hermione said, but she doubted they heard her—they’d already skidded around the corner and out of sight.

A few years ago, she would have been annoyed by running and shouting in corridors, which was against school rules. But that year, it was refreshing—bowed heads and fearful glances were still a much more common sight than any sort of youthful exuberance. The Carrows had certainly left their mark.

Hermione was reminded of an idea she’d been meaning to suggest to Professor McGonagall—a wellbeing club, to encourage healthy discussion and collaborative healing from the terrors of last year.

McGonagall had been one of the only people who seemed to understand that Hermione needed to feel useful. Hermione had practically cornered her a few weeks before term had started, prepared to argue her case and then be completely and utterly ignored.

But McGonagall had sat down with her, had listened to her concerns, and had actually made changes. Thanks to that discussion, the Hogwarts house-elves had been freed and re-hired as staff members if they’d wanted to stay. (To Hermione’s delight, several of them had opted to take a severance package and had, presumably, left to live a life of elfin leisure.)

It had been a small victory—and one that was long overdue—but it had been something. And if Hermione could approach McGonagall with a solid plan, she was sure the idea of a wellbeing club would at least be considered.

She didn’t know where to suggest as a meeting space, though. The Room of Requirement still refused to appear, so that was out. But, unlike with the DA, they wouldn’t need to hide what they were doing. With McGonagall’s permission, the whole castle was open to them.

Her feet had taken her to the Charms corridor. Hermione cocked her head and considered the doors that lined the stone walls. There was only one classroom used for teaching, but there were several classrooms reserved for practical Charms practice—they could be perfect.

But were they big enough? There would need to be space for at least, say, fifty students. The practical classrooms were bigger than regular classrooms, but not by much…

Her mind already spinning with possibilities—she’d known a walk was a good idea!—Hermione pushed open the nearest door.

The practical Charms classrooms were famously useless. Since everybody practised their charmwork in their common rooms, the most activity the practical classrooms saw were during the rare breaktimes that the weather was so awful that students were allowed to remain indoors. So, when Hermione had pushed open the door, she hadn’t expected anybody to be inside.

She certainly hadn’t expected to see Draco Malfoy pressed against the wall by a boy with light brown skin and copper hair. A boy who was kissing him.

“Goodness!”

Malfoy and the boy—Archie Campbell, a Ravenclaw in Ginny and Luna’s year—sprang apart.

“Granger!” Campbell squawked. He shot a look at Malfoy, grimaced, and fled the classroom without another word, shoving Hermione with his shoulder as he rushed by.

Hermione blinked. The practical Charms classrooms were usually empty, yes—but it wasn’t completely unheard of for students to utilise quiet corners of the castle for moments of intimacy.

It was just—Malfoy.

And Archie Campbell.

He was a half-blood, Campbell, Hermione remembered distantly.

And Malfoy was—

“Well,” Hermione said. “I’m sorry for barging in like that. But, really—locking spells.”

She was hoping for an embarrassed chuckle. She was expecting some kind of defensive insult. But Malfoy just stood there.

Hermione cleared her throat. “So…do you often come here, or is this classroom usually empty?”

The silence was awkward. Hermione would have been relieved to hear even a Piss off, Granger—but instead, Malfoy let out a strange little gasp.

Hermione had been politely avoiding Malfoy’s gaze, but at that, she looked at him properly.

She’d expected him to be leaning smugly against the wall, his flushed face and pink lips a taunt: Look what I have and you don’t—but he wasn’t.

He was, in fact, deathly pale. His eyes weren’t narrowed in a malicious smirk. They were wide and watery.

He didn’t look smug at all.

He looked terrified.

“Malfoy?”

“Please don’t tell anyone,” he said in a rush.

“Well, no,” Hermione said, “it’s none of my business—”

“Especially not the teachers, I can’t get in trouble, I can’t—”

“I won’t—”

“If this gets back to my parents, I don’t know what I’ll do— They can’t know, please—”

“Malfoy,” Hermione snapped, and Malfoy flinched. “Sorry,” Hermione said. “But I said I won’t tell anyone.”

But Malfoy did not seem reassured. He let out another short, strangled gasp. His eyes were darting around the room in a way Hermione recognised. Carefully, she took a step to the side so she was no longer blocking the only exit.

“Malfoy,” Hermione said in a gentler voice. “Are you okay?”

Malfoy shook his head quickly.

“Is there anything I can help with?”

The harsh sound that came out of Malfoy’s mouth was probably supposed to be a snort of laughter, but it sounded much more like a desperate sort of wheeze.

“Are you sure? I’m quite willing to lend a hand if there’s something—”

“I’m gay.”

Hermione waited for Malfoy to continue, but he was biting his lip, his face screwed up, his breathing quick and shallow.

“Well,” Hermione said, when nothing else appeared to be forthcoming. “Yes, I recently began to suspect something like that.”

“What?” Malfoy’s voice slipped up an octave. “When? Why? Who else knows?”

“About three minutes ago, when I saw you snogging Archie Campbell,” Hermione said slowly. “So if I had to guess, I’d say he might have an idea, too.”

Malfoy screwed up his pointy face even more. He was starting to go rather blotchy.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of, you know,” Hermione said. “Aside from not thinking to lock the door when you’re getting off with your boyfriend.”

“He’s not—” Malfoy dragged in a ragged breath. “He’s not my boyfriend. Campbell. I barely speak to him. He’s just— When I’m with him, it’s the only time someone is—”

“Yes, well, I don’t need to hear the details,” Hermione said quickly. “But whatever he is to you, it’s no more wrong than it would be if he were a witch.”

“Not to you, maybe. Muggles are better with—with queerness.”

That had not been Hermione’s experience, actually.

In the Muggle world, she’d been shunned by adults and children alike. Her teachers had called her parents into school on several occasions to have stern words with them for “encouraging their son down a dangerous path” and other such nonsense—despite Hermione’s level-headed insistence that she was nobody’s son, and never had been. But even Hermione couldn’t deny that strange things would happen around her with alarming frequency—and it had been easier for other people to blame that on the fact that she wore dresses than to consider that she might be developing magical powers.

Then, on the afternoon of Hermione’s eleventh birthday, Professor McGonagall had shown up at the Grangers’ front door.

The Hogwarts letter had been a revelation. A lifeline. It had been the first time someone other than her parents had said it’s okay, you’re not broken, you’re just special. Better still had been McGonagall’s reaction when Hermione had raised her chin and said, “You addressed the letter wrong. I’m Miss Granger, not Mister. My name is Hermione.”

McGonagall hadn’t frowned, hadn’t exchanged concerned glances with her parents, hadn’t tittered and waved a dismissive hand with an “Oh, what’s he like!” She’d nodded, quite seriously, and said, “I’m very sorry for the mistake, Miss Granger. You know, if you’re interested, there are potions…?”

And that had been that. Nobody in the wizarding world seemed to think it was the slightest bit strange that Hermione had been declared a boy when she’d been born. They found it much stranger that nobody except her parents had believed her when she’d told them otherwise.

So it was difficult to swallow that Malfoy thought wizards were the prejudiced ones. Hermione was about to say so when Malfoy continued, forcing out words between gasps.

“It’s not just my parents, though Merlin knows what they’ll do to me if they find out. It’s everyone. The other pure-bloods. The Sacred Twenty-Eight are dropping like flies—the Gaunts, the Crouches, the Blacks, the Lestranges, and I doubt the Averys or Yaxleys will be having much luck, with them in Azkaban. The Prewetts are basically out, and nobody’s heard from the Burkes in years. For me to be around, alive and”—another strange, wheezing laugh—“whole and healthy, and refuse to carry on the line? It’ll be all anyone will talk about, and I can’t, I can’t give everyone another reason to—to—!”

He covered his face with his hands, but there was no disguising the sob that wrenched its way out of him.

“Oh, come here,” Hermione said, stepping towards him and repressing the urge to point out that the world was undoubtedly a better place without more Gaunts, Lestranges, Averys or Yaxleys in it. She’d only meant to stand nearby so he knew he wasn’t alone, but he curled into her as soon as she got close, clutching at her robes and burying his face into her shoulder—quite a feat, since he was at least half a foot taller than her.

“I didn’t want to come back,” he said thickly. “I hate it here, but it was either this or a year’s house arrest at the Manor and I couldn’t— As soon as this year is over, I’m leaving, I’m getting away—”

Hermione shushed him, rocking him like she did with the younger students who’d woken from nightmares, sure the castle was about to be attacked.

Because that was what Malfoy was afraid of, wasn’t it? That he’d be attacked—for something he couldn’t help. It was a feeling Hermione knew intimately from her childhood, and from being Muggle-born during the war. She was hardly Malfoy’s biggest fan, but she wouldn’t wish that feeling on anyone.

She held Malfoy, patting his back and making little soothing noises until his breath came easier and his thin body stopped heaving. He stayed there for a minute more, sniffling, then straightened, wiping his eyes.

“Thank you,” he said stiffly, his attempt at sounding dignified rather ruined by the rough stuffiness of his voice. “I apologise.”

“Don’t be silly.” Hermione studied the miserable set of Malfoy’s mouth, then cocked her head. “It’s a good job nobody walked in just then,” she said, teasing. “They might have thought we were the ones kissing.”

It was a poor attempt at a joke, but Malfoy huffed a sad little laugh anyway. “That would solve one of my problems, at least.”

Hermione went still.

What if…?

No.

But…

She would be helping someone, wouldn’t she? She’d be making an actual, tangible difference. She wouldn’t feel so dismissed, so jittery, so bloody well useless.

Malfoy looked at her. Then he froze too.

There was a strange light in his pink-rimmed eyes, and Hermione was sure they were having the same thought. Then he let out another huff of laughter, harsher this time.

“Can you imagine? Ridiculous.”

“Why is it ridiculous?”

“You cannot possibly be asking that question.”

“I am asking it,” Hermione said. “It would help you, wouldn’t it? If people thought you and I were together.”

“But we’re not together,” Malfoy pointed out. “No offence, but as recently discussed, my preferences lie elsewhere.”

“I don’t mean we should really get together.” Hermione pulled a face. “Obviously. But if people thought that we were…”

“Why on earth would anyone think that? Unless you plan to follow me around, being annoyingly comforting whenever I have a bloody breakdown, and hope that someone barges in on us while I’m sobbing pathetically into your shoulder.”

“Ideally not,” Hermione said. “But what if we pretended? Just while we’re still at Hogwarts. You said you’re leaving after school’s over. That’s only, what? Six months?”

It wouldn’t be difficult. They wouldn’t need to do much at all—just spread the rumour and spend some time together. Ron wasn’t at Hogwarts, so nothing would need to change there. And hadn’t Hermione been thinking, less than an hour ago, that she and Harry would benefit from someone else spending time with them?

Granted, Malfoy would probably not be Harry’s first choice. Malfoy wouldn’t have been Hermione’s first choice, either—but she knew how awful it was to live in fear of people finding out a secret you were sure would make them hate you. She’d spent most of her first year terrified that the stairs to the girls’ dormitories would change their mind about her, or that one of the other students would learn about her past.

(She’d told Ron and Harry on the Hogwarts Express at the end of that year, figuring that she’d at least have the summer to adjust to not having friends again if they took it badly—but Ron had just blinked and said, “Oh. Cool,” and Harry had nodded in an awkward sort of way and offered her a chocolate frog, and nothing had changed between them at all.)

Malfoy was still looking doubtful, and something else occurred to Hermione. “Unless it would actually be worse for you to be seen with a Muggle-born.”

“No!” Malfoy said. “At least, not unless I declared my intention to marry you. But until then, being involved with a witch of any blood would certainly deflect suspicion. If anything, it would be good that you’re— It would probably help with”—he grimaced—“image rehabilitation.”

“Well, then.”

“Look, what is this, some kind of revenge thing? Weasley broke up with you, and you want to get back at him by pretending to go out with the person who would piss him off most?”

“As if I’d ever be so childish,” Hermione sniffed, determinedly ignoring her ill-considered date with Cormac McLaggen in sixth year when she’d tried to do just that. “And Ron and I are still together, actually.”

“Then I suspect he might have something to say about this plan of yours.”

“Let me talk to Ron,” Hermione said firmly. “I’m sure he’ll understand.”

Malfoy raised an incredulous eyebrow, but she stood her ground. Ron would understand. He’d probably question her sanity, would probably call Malfoy all kinds of colourful insults, but he’d support her. He always did.

“Then why?” Malfoy asked. “Why would you help me?”

Hermione looked at him levelly. “Because I want to make a difference,” she said. “Because nobody deserves to be punished for who they are, and, frankly, because I’m a better person than you—but also because I think you’re not quite as rotten as you used to be, and you won’t have a decent chance to grow if you’re busy looking over your shoulder and having breakdowns in empty classrooms.”

Malfoy was gaping, his eyes suspiciously shiny again.

“So?” Hermione asked. “What do you think?”

“I—” Malfoy said. “I mean, it’s ridiculous. But I—I suppose it would— And if you’re sure, then…”

“Excellent,” Hermione said. The jittery feeling inside her was already giving way to the warmth of being able to do some bloody good. “Give me a week to sort things out with Ron. Then we’ll get started.”

Chapter Text

Hermione arrived at the breakfast table as she always did: with an impatient huff, her bag thunking onto the bench beside her, heavy with books. Harry poured her a pumpkin juice, absently checked it for potions, and slid the marmalade across the table.

Normally, she picked up the marmalade immediately, heaping spoonfuls onto her toast while she talked through the day’s schedule.

But not today. Today, Hermione ignored the marmalade, and the toast, and the pumpkin juice. She just sat there, staring at Harry, biting her lip and wringing her hands.

Harry would look back and wish he’d said something then. He would wish he’d loudly proclaimed how glad he was Hermione would never lie to him. He’d wish he’d tearfully confessed that Ron and Hermione’s relationship had made him finally believe in love again. He’d wish he’d done anything at all to stop what came out of her mouth next.

“So,” Hermione said after a long moment of hand-wringing and lip-biting. “I have some news.”

“Yeah?” Harry asked, not yet aware of the magnitude of the moment. “Good or bad?”

“Erm,” Hermione said. “Yes.”

Harry (oblivious and stupid) chuckled and poured a generous glob of golden syrup over his porridge. “Is it school-related, Crookshanks-related, or ‘Harry I think we need to do this awful interview with the Prophet’-related?”

“None of those.” She took a deep breath. “Ron and I broke up.”

Harry dropped the syrup. He waited for her to grin, or giggle, or say, “Just kidding! Can’t believe you fell for it!”

She didn’t.

“Fuck,” Harry said. “Why? What did he do? Are you okay?”

For some reason, this made Hermione wince. “No, no,” she said. “He didn’t do anything wrong. He’s been perfectly lovely about the whole thing, actually.”

As far as Harry was concerned, Ron and Hermione’s unshakeable relationship was one of the only good things to come out of the war. He had half-expected an engagement ring to quietly appear on Hermione’s finger after one of their Hogsmeade weekend dates—he certainly hadn’t expected this. “Then, what…?”

“I broke it off, actually.” Hermione’s tone was oddly airy for what Harry considered to be rather serious news. Then she dropped bombshell number two. “Because I have feelings for someone else.”

At this point, had Harry known what was coming, he could have still salvaged the situation. He could have talked her out of it. He could have mentioned how maybe they should be concerned that Ron agreed to anything since Fred died, obviously preoccupied with the idea of losing loved ones and scared to leave things on a sour note. He could have loudly proclaimed that he’d spent the last few months having interesting dreams about Ciaran Connolly, the Beater for Ireland, and he was beginning to suspect his interests did not lie solely with women, and did Hermione know any single gay wizards?

But Harry didn’t know what was coming, so instead of cutting Hermione off, he was contemplating who might be a likely candidate for Hermione’s affections. He couldn’t think of a single person—the only romantic interest Harry had ever known her to have was towards Ron, Lockhart, and—

“Is it… Krum?”

Hermione had the nerve to look surprised. “Viktor? No! No, he’s in a relationship already, actually. With a couple of other Quidditch players, back in Bulgaria.”

Harry’s head was starting to hurt. “A couple?”

“Oh, yes,” Hermione said. “I read up on polyamory after he told me—it’s fascinating. Some anthropologists think that humans only started being monogamous around the same time we developed farming—as a means of growing wealth and having more ownership of offspring, you know.”

“Right,” Harry said. “But that’s not…you’re not…”

Hermione snorted. “One of Viktor’s lovers? No, of course not.”

“Of course not,” Harry agreed. “That would be ridiculous.” He waited for Hermione to continue. She didn’t. “So?” he prompted. “Who is it you have feelings for?”

“Oh.” Hermione bit her lip again. Then she squared her shoulders and looked Harry dead in the eye. “It’s Draco Malfoy, actually.”

Harry’s stomach lurched. “Ha ha,” he said. “Very funny.”

Unfortunately, Hermione still didn’t grin, or giggle, or say, “Just kidding! Can’t believe you fell for it!” She just sat there, her chin raised defiantly.

The lurching in Harry’s stomach became a solid, heavy weight. “Listen,” he said. “I think I’m hearing things, because for a second, I could have sworn you said—”

“Oh, here he is now!” Hermione said brightly. She waved towards the entrance of the Great Hall. “Draco! Over here!”

“What—no—what are you—?” Harry whirled around and, sure enough, Malfoy was standing in the doorway, looking very uncertain about Hermione’s smiling and waving. “You can’t bring him over here, what’s wrong with you?”

“Draco!” Hermione called. “Come and sit with us!”

“Hermione!”

But it was too late. With a nervous glance to the Slytherin table—and, for some reason, towards a group of seventh-year Ravenclaws—Malfoy slowly made his way towards them.

“What are you doing?” Harry demanded—but Hermione ignored him. With her smile fixed in place, she dropped her bag onto the floor and motioned to the empty space on the bench next to her.

Neville leaned over. “Why is Hermione calling Malfoy over here?” he asked mildly.

“Fuck if I know.” Harry followed Malfoy’s progress towards them with narrowed eyes. “She’s lost her mind, I think.”

Neville nodded. “It’s about time one of us did.” He went back to his conversation with Dean as if that was the end of that.

Harry was not filled with Neville’s spirit of acceptance. “Hermione,” he tried. “Really, I don’t think this is a good idea—”

“Hush, Harry. If he hears you, he’ll think you don’t want him here.”

“Good! I don’t want—”

“Draco! Good morning! Here, I saved you a seat!”

Malfoy looked the same as he always did that year: like a posh twat with the shine rubbed off. His white-blond hair was held neatly in place and his robes were as clean and precise as ever—but there were smudges of grey beneath his eyes, and he had a way of standing that was quite different to how he had held himself before. Where once he would swagger through the halls, his chest puffed out and his nose in the air, now his shoulders slumped in on themselves, his head bowed. It made your eye want to slip away from him, made you want to forget he was there as soon as you noticed him—if you noticed him at all.

But Harry was not, at that moment, struggling to notice Malfoy.

Malfoy took in Harry’s vicious expression and swallowed. “Thank you,” he said to Hermione, “but I’m not sure I should—”

“Nonsense!” Hermione yanked Malfoy forwards by the sleeve of his robes. “We’re so busy with classes this year, it’s stupid not to spend breakfast together just because we’re in different houses!”

With Hermione still tugging on his robes, Malfoy was stooped over even more than usual. He looked like he’d rather eat a jar of frogspawn than sit at the Gryffindor table. Harry had avoided Malfoy since being back at Hogwarts and had no particular active quarrel with him. He still fervently wished Malfoy would choose the frogspawn.

“Honestly, Draco, sit down,” Hermione snapped, not sounding at all like someone hoping to woo a love interest. But Hermione’s tetchiness seemed to work: warily, as if Harry might attack him at any moment (and Harry was indeed sorely tempted), Malfoy sat.

“What would you like?” Hermione asked, cheerful again. “Toast? Porridge? Kippers? You’re quite late, most of the sausages have gone, but I think the sixth years still have some, I could go and ask…?”

“No, I’ll just…coffee is fine. Thank you. I can—” Malfoy reached for the coffee pot. Hermione batted his hand away.

“Don’t be silly, let me. Milk? Sugar? And you have to eat something, even just a bit of toast. Here…”

Malfoy sat meekly while Hermione fussed over him. The ceiling was a fresh, cold blue that morning, and the crisp January sun illuminated his obnoxious hair like he was under a spotlight. Even if Harry hadn’t known him, it would have been obvious how out of place he was amongst the loud, messy Gryffindors—how out of place he was amongst any of the students at all.

“Right, here you go.” Hermione placed a full plate of food in front of Malfoy. Malfoy swallowed, looking ill. “Eat up.”

Hermione’s fussing was hardly strange. She definitely had a bit of a mothering streak—making sure people ate, did their homework, checked their drinks for rogue potions. The strange thing was that Malfoy was letting her. It was strange that Malfoy had come over to the Gryffindor table at all.

An awful idea occurred to Harry. He didn’t even want to say it out loud, it was so unthinkable. But since Draco Malfoy was currently sitting across the breakfast table from him, he had to make sure.

“Hermione,” he said. “When you said you broke up with Ron to go out with someone else, you didn’t just mean you were”—he grimaced—“having feelings, did you?”

Harry couldn’t see Malfoy’s face—his head was bowed, his plate of food untouched—but Hermione was smiling, the expression strained but tinged with something that might have been relief. “No, I didn’t just mean that.”

Harry swore. “You and Malfoy, you’re…?”

“The heart wants what it wants, Harry,” Hermione said airily.

Malfoy remained silent.

“So you’re seriously already…” Harry suppressed a gag. “The two of you, you’re…a couple?”

“That’s right.”

“You, Hermione Granger, a Muggle-born teenage war hero, and…”

“And Draco, yes.”

“In a romantic way? You’re not just…I don’t know, study buddies?”

Hermione tutted.

“Well, I don’t know! I thought you and Ron were practically engaged until about ten minutes ago! You can’t be surprised that I’m a little bit confused!”

“There’s nothing to be confused about,” Hermione said. “Draco and I are together. Romantically. We’re a couple. Girlfriend and boyfriend. Partners. Lov—”

“Okay, I get it! God, keep your voice down.”

“Why should I keep my voice down? I’m not ashamed of it.”

Harry looked around desperately, some long-buried memory of Saturday morning television emerging, and along with it the frantic hope that he was being filmed, that the entire thing was a set-up for an unknown audience’s amusement. But if there were cameras, he couldn’t see them.

“Just… If you’re seriously, you know”—he gestured vaguely between them, not able to keep the distaste off his face—“at least keep it quiet for a bit, yeah? It would be the talk of the whole bloody school within an hour if anyone found out.”

Hermione cocked her head. “Do you think?”

Harry nodded, relieved that she was taking him seriously, at least. But his relief was short-lived, because the next moment, Hermione stood.

“Everyone!” she called. The chatter surrounding them quietened. “Everyone, I just want to let you know that Ron and I broke up last week, and Draco and I are together now.”

A deafening silence.

“Well,” Hermione said, smiling that weird strained smile, “that’s all. Thank you!” She sat down and covered the flush that was darkening her cheeks by scolding Malfoy for not having touched his breakfast.

The regular buzz of breakfast chatter tentatively reignited. Through it, Harry distinctly heard Neville say, sounding impressed, “She really has lost her mind.”

Harry was inclined to agree.

Chapter Text

Ron,

Hermione told me the news over breakfast today. I can’t believe it. What is she thinking??

Are you all right? Let me know if there’s anything you need.

Harry

Harry leant against the cold stone of the wall, watching the barn owl disappear into the clouds. It was still painful being in the Owlery, surrounded by the smell of sawdust, gentle hooting, the shuffle of wings. Harry usually avoided the place as much as possible, nipping in to borrow an owl when he needed one and leaving as soon as he could—but even with the ache in his chest, he’d still take the company of birds and bad memories over Hermione and Malfoy.

He had lingered at the breakfast table, shellshocked, after Hermione and Malfoy had left (together!). By the time he’d made it to the dungeons for their first lesson of the day, he’d almost convinced himself that he’d hallucinated Hermione’s announcement. It was just too weird. There was no way Hermione had broken up with Ron to go out with Draco Malfoy. It was impossible.

But his hopes of having missed a Befuddlement Draught when he’d checked his pumpkin juice that morning were swiftly dashed when he opened the classroom door to find Malfoy sitting in Harry’s usual spot next to Hermione.

Sorry, Hermione mouthed over her shoulder.

Harry scowled and sat next to Terry Boot. He glared at the back of Malfoy’s head all the way through the double period.

In the freezing courtyard during break, Harry continued to avoid Hermione and Malfoy. He huddled in a corner with Seamus and Dean, listening to Dean’s impassioned speech about something called the “January transfer window”, which, after twenty perplexed minutes, Harry concluded was probably to do with football.

Thankfully, Potions was the only lesson the Gryffindors and Slytherins shared on Mondays. But Hermione still stuck to Malfoy for as long as possible, hissing in his ear all the way to the first floor—at which point Malfoy, looking almost as confused as Harry felt, shook her off and continued up the stairs to Charms.

Harry pounced as soon as Malfoy was out of sight. “What are you thinking?” he demanded.

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked distractedly, digging through her bag. “Damn it, I must have left my spare quill in my dormitory. I spilt Horklump juice over my other one in Potions—do you have one I could borrow?”

“I— Fine, yeah, one sec.” But by the time Harry had fished his spare quill from his bag, McGonagall was ushering them inside.

Harry knew better than to try to have a conversation under McGonagall’s watchful eye. She’d somehow become even more severe since being named Headmistress. Apparently, she’d interviewed thirty people for the position of Transfiguration professor and hadn’t thought any of them were good enough to teach. She was, therefore, juggling her duties as Head, teaching her usual Transfiguration classes (plus the extra work of the eighth years), and was still sharp enough to detect a whispered conversation in even the furthest corner of her classroom.

Out of respect for the marvel that was Minerva McGonagall, Harry sat through a painful ten minutes of her lecture on the common pitfalls in plant-to-animal transfigurations, his leg bouncing and anger simmering, before he gave in. He pulled out a scrap of parchment and scrawled, What are you thinking, dumping Ron for DRACO MALFOY??

He casually slid it across the desk towards Hermione, his eyes at the front of the class.

Hermione tutted quietly. She didn’t write back.

Harry tried again.

You remember everything he did, right? You remember he was a Death Eater?? You remember he’s a snotty little prick who called you awful names for years??

This, too, went ignored.

What could you possibly see in him?? What does he have that Ron doesn’t, apart from murderers for parents and a fuckton of money his family probably got by KILLING PEOPLE??

Hermione huffed, and scribbled a response.

It’s none of your business what I see in him. But he’s changed since we were younger. You know he has—and he can still change more. He’s not like his parents.

Harry scowled at the note—written in his own quill. Harry had never before been betrayed by a goose feather and he could not say that he was enjoying the experience.

Because Harry had tried, since September, not to think too hard about Malfoy. This was, in part, due to the fact that Harry did know Draco wasn’t as bad as his parents. Harry had seen him crying in a bathroom in sixth year. He had seen him lower his wand on the Astronomy Tower. He had seen him refuse to identify Harry at the Manor, and had seen him try to stop Crabbe in the Room of Requirement, just before Fred had— Just before Harry had—

Harry shook his head, pulling himself back to the present. He inhaled through his nose, imagining the coils of anger in his stomach dissipating, just like the Mind Healer had said.

Harry tried not to think too hard about Malfoy, because if he did, he found himself feeling sorry for him. Malfoy had been one of the only Slytherins who had returned to school. Blaise Zabini and Daphne Greengrass had also come back, but neither seemed to want anything to do with Malfoy—Harry had certainly never seen them talk to him. As far as Harry could tell, Malfoy spent the majority of his time on his own, sitting unnoticed at the backs of classrooms, eating alone at the Slytherin table. In fact, outside of answering questions during lessons, that morning might have been the most Harry had heard Malfoy speak all year—and he’d barely said more than ten words.

But even so:

He’s still MALFOY, Hermione.

Hermione’s reply was quick.

Just give him a chance.

Harry stopped himself from carving out a big NO and shoving the parchment back at her—but he did loudly crumple the page to show her exactly what he thought of that idea.

Despite Harry’s complaints, Hermione invited Malfoy to the Gryffindor table again at lunch. And then she invited him to the library during their free period (at which point Harry left the table in disgust, muttering vaguely about writing to Ron).

Malfoy sat with them again at dinner. Harry glared as much as possible to try to scare him away, but since Malfoy never actually made eye contact with Harry, this did not prove to be very effective.

Eyeballs exhausted from their fruitless assault, Harry switched tactics and began to valiantly pretend Malfoy wasn’t there at all. This worked much better—Malfoy barely said a word, so if Harry ignored Hermione’s attempts to involve Malfoy in their conversation (which were always met with short, dismissive responses—the prick), it was almost as if things were normal.

But just as Harry had finished his last bite of shepherd’s pie, Hermione suggested Malfoy join them in the common room. That was one step too far.

“No,” Harry said flatly.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Harry, you’re being childish.”

The anger that had been simmering inside him all day flared hot in Harry’s chest. Deep breaths, Harry, said the Mind Healer’s voice in his head. Let the tension flow out of you.

Harry ignored it.

“Malfoy is a Slytherin,” he hissed, still pretending Malfoy wasn’t, in fact, sitting right there. “It’s the Gryffindor common room.”

“We’re allowed guests from other houses,” Hermione said, annoyingly reasonable. “Just because everybody else is too fixated on house prejudice to take advantage of it—”

“It’s nothing to do with house prejudice!” Harry couldn’t believe he was having this conversation. He couldn’t believe nobody else was pointing out how wrong all this was. “It’s to do with you. You’ve been broken up with Ron for less than a week and already you’re trying to replace him!”

“I’m not trying to replace Ron! Of course I’m not! What an awful thing to say.”

“Then why are you trying to bring him into our common room! He has his own common room!”

“Granger—I mean, Hermione. It’s fine, really.”

“Listen to him,” Harry sneered. “He still calls you Granger. I’m surprised he doesn’t call you Mudbl—”

“Harry!” Hermione said sharply.

Hermione and Malfoy both stared at Harry, twin expressions of shock on their faces.

There was something particularly shameful about having a former Death Eater look at you as if you’d just said something horrific. The anger simmering in Harry’s chest sputtered and died.

“Whatever,” Harry muttered. He grabbed his bag and stood. “Do what you want. But I’m not sitting anywhere near him.”

Harry was in an armchair by the common room fire, his breathing slowly returning to normal and his Transfiguration homework balanced on his knee, when the portrait hole opened and Hermione and Malfoy walked through. He was, therefore, in a perfect position to witness the Gryffindors’ reaction to Malfoy’s presence.

It was underwhelming.

There were a few curious looks. A bit of scattered muttering. A sixth-year said to her friend, “Wasn’t he the Slytherin Seeker, a few years ago?”

Her friend shrugged.

Then everyone went back to what they were doing.

“Oh, well,” Hermione said, her voice carrying over the low chatter of the room—partly, Harry supposed, because he was straining so hard to overhear. “I had a whole speech planned, but it looks like I don’t need it.”

Malfoy murmured something that could have been “Thank fuck.”

“You don’t have to stay for very long,” Hermione told him, ushering him to a table by the wall. “But I think it’s good to get people used to the idea.”

Malfoy said something else that Harry didn’t catch. It would be too obvious to run upstairs to fish a pair of Extendable Ears out of his trunk, wouldn’t it? He closed his eyes and listened with all his might.

“Well, no,” Hermione said. “It’s understandable, I suppose, but I didn’t realise he’d take it quite this badly.”

There was a pause. Harry was sure he felt Hermione’s gaze burning into him from across the room.

Malfoy said something else inaudible. Damn it, weren’t the upper classes supposed to enunciate?!

“Mmm, no, I still think it’s better if we don’t,” Hermione said. “He’s got so much on his plate. And—” she hesitated, then continued in a much lower voice. Harry looked over in dismay, but she was leaning into Malfoy, talking quietly.

They stayed like that—Hermione talking, Malfoy listening, a frown creasing the space between his stupid eyebrows—for the next ten minutes. Harry got bored of waiting for them to raise their voices enough for him to hear and accidentally became absorbed in his Transfiguration homework. When he next looked up, Hermione and Malfoy were occupied with their own homework, their heads bent together and their quills scratching away.

Harry kept an eye on them all night, but neither of them spoke much. After an hour or so, Crookshanks appeared and clambered into a startled Malfoy’s lap. At half past ten, thirty minutes until curfew, Malfoy nudged Crookshanks off his knee, packed away his things with precise, efficient movements, glanced at Harry (who quickly looked away), and left.

Hermione gazed at the portrait hole after him, chewing on her lip. Harry considered going over to talk to her, but what more could he say? It didn’t look like she was going to change her mind—she’d practically called a press conference about it at breakfast that morning. So he just sat and glared, his Transfiguration essay forgotten once more.

The common room had mostly emptied by the time Hermione heaved a big sigh and packed away her things. Harry’s eyes were hurting again from all the glaring, but as Hermione stood, heaving her bag over her shoulder, she noticed at last. Her face fell.

Good acting, Harry thought savagely. After all, if she could drop Ron so easily—for Malfoy!—then who was to say that she couldn’t drop Harry, too? Maybe she’d make friends with Blaise Zabini and settle into a new trio. Whereas Harry could only imagine what Ron was going through. He was probably completely heartbroken, sobbing his way through his Auror training sessions at the Ministry.

Harry considered reminding Hermione that, at that very moment, Ron was almost definitely lying in bed, crying and alone. But she didn’t give him a chance—with one last regretful grimace, she fled up the stairs to the girls’ dormitories. She didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

Hermione and Malfoy were sitting together at the Gryffindor table when Harry went down to breakfast the next day. He walked right past them and slumped down next to Ginny, who broke off the conversation with her friends and nodded down the table.

“What’s going on there, then?”

Harry shrugged and spooned a sad plop of porridge into a bowl. “Dunno, but I hate it.”

Ginny made a noise of agreement. “D’you know how Ron’s doing?”

“Wrote to him yesterday,” Harry said. “Haven’t heard back yet. You?”

The flowery smell Harry liked so much drifted over as Ginny shook her head. “I only found out last night when I came back to the common room and saw them all cosy on a little study date.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “I didn’t notice you come in.”

“I know.” Ginny’s mouth twisted into a not-quite-smile.

Harry was saved from having to respond by the arrival of the post. He looked up hopefully and, sure enough, the school owl he’d sent to Ron yesterday was lurching its way towards him. There was a thick, squishy-looking package clutched in its talons.

“I know that shape,” Ginny said idly. “Someone’s sent you a jumper.”

“That’s the owl I sent to Ron.”

“Maybe he wants you to strangle Malfoy with it.”

“Even if he doesn’t, I might anyway,” Harry said darkly, clearing a space for the owl to land. It flopped onto the table gracelessly and Ginny immediately began cooing over it, offering it pumpkin juice and a bite of her kipper. Harry untied the note.

Harry,

Ah, she said she wasn’t gonna tell you! Thank Merlin she changed her mind, it’s been driving me bonkers keeping this to myself these last few days. I fully agree with you, mate—all this for Malfoy?! She’s gone absolutely barmy, but she says it’s for the best. I don’t really get her reasoning, myself, but I only see her on Hogsmeade weekends this year anyway, don’t I? To be honest, the whole thing probably won’t affect me too much—and it’ll be over by the time you lot are done with school.

Anyway, glad you wrote—you left your jumper at the Burrow over Christmas and Mum’s been having a bit of a crisis about how to get it to you, since the extra weight would probably finish Errol off over that distance. (I didn’t tell her you probably left it behind on purpose. Green and brown? What was she thinking?!)

Keep an eye on Hermione for me! If Malfoy doesn’t treat her right, I’ll be right over there with my new Auror buds. Hahaha.

Ron

Harry blinked. He hadn’t known whether Ron would know about Malfoy, but from the sound of it, Hermione had told him. Even more surprising: Ron didn’t sound all that bothered. It was a far cry from the anguished outpouring of emotion Harry had expected.

“That’s an impressive level of denial,” Ginny commented, reading over Harry’s shoulder. “‘It’ll be over by the time we’re done with school’? Oh, Ron.”

“I can’t believe this,” Harry said distantly. “They’ve both absolutely lost the plot.”

“Well, sometimes relationships just fizzle out. You remember.” Ginny stroked the owl’s head with the back of her finger. It closed its eyes in apparent enjoyment. “Anyway, huge pit of denial or not, it sounds like he’s fine with it, so I suppose that’s that.”

Harry reread the note, looking for some secret code, a sign that Ron was just manfully trying to hide his true feelings. But there weren’t many different ways of interpreting “To be honest, the whole thing probably won’t affect me too much.”

“I wonder why Hermione wasn’t going to tell you about Malfoy, though,” Ginny mused.

“Oh, come on.” That was the only part of the letter that made sense. “I’d keep it secret, too, if I was into Malfoy. Wouldn’t you?”

“I dunno. I think he’s fit,” one of Ginny’s friends—Laura? Lauren? Laurel?—piped up.

“Yeah, but you thought Snape was fit,” Ginny said, grimacing.

“He had presence!” Laura/Lauren/Laurel said, and the two girls cracked up. Harry, thoroughly disturbed, turned to the package that the owl had brought with the note.

It was wrapped neatly in parcel paper, a length of string tied around it, ending in an efficient little bow, and it made Harry’s stomach clench.

He hadn’t, contrary to Ron’s assumption, left it behind on purpose.

It had been the first Christmas without Fred. Bill, Fleur and Charlie had all come over for the day. Andromeda had been there too, with Teddy. It had been a poignant day, but a good one.

And Harry had been so angry.

He’d kept a lid on it through lunch, through the weepy speech Molly had made, through George’s silent tears. He’d held it in when Percy had knocked on the door at three o’clock, introducing his new girlfriend, a research assistant from the Ministry. He’d made it through opening presents, through everyone pretending that exchanging stuff could make things better.

It was something stupid that made him boil over, in the end. Teddy’s tiny hand was wrapped around Charlie’s rough finger, and Charlie was being silly, pretending it hurt. He was pulling faces and gasping, and Teddy was giggling, his tuft of hair shimmering from turquoise to orange and back again. Then Charlie said, “Oh, you’re so ferocious! You’re going to grow up big and strong, just like your dad!” and the decanter of sherry in Arthur’s hand exploded.

There was a moment of shocked silence. Then everyone started to fuss, cleaning up the sherry and searching for the shards of glass so the decanter could be repaired. Harry shoved his newly unwrapped jumper off his lap and fled.

He stormed through the kitchen into the back garden. The cold December air felt good against his skin, but it did nothing to calm him. He paced up and down, trying to breathe deeply, trying to release some of his pent-up energy, but fifteen laps of the garden later, and he didn’t feel any better. In frustration, he grabbed a gnome who was peering at him from behind a plant pot and hurled it as far as he could over the hedge into the neighbouring field.

The fading yell of the gnome and the faint thump as it landed brought Harry a savage kind of satisfaction. He did it again and again, unearthing gnomes from inside watering cans, behind plant pots and under bushes until the December chill finally made it from the bare skin of his arms through to the fire that burned in his chest.

It had been dark for a while by the time he sheepishly slipped back inside, but if anyone had noticed he’d gone, they didn’t mention it. It was only later that night, when he was lying on the mattress on the floor of Ron’s room about to drift off, that Ron said in a sleepy voice, “Cheers for earlier, by the way. Mum was going to have me do the gnomes tomorrow.”

Harry’s stomach sank. “You saw me?”

Ron’s only response was a loud snore.

Harry, guilty about his outburst, was quiet and distracted for the rest of the holidays. He completely forgot about the jumper, which had probably been shoved under a chair during the fuss about the exploding sherry—and which Mrs Weasley had later found, and probably thought Harry didn’t like it.

Harry sighed and folded Ron’s letter back up again. “Hey, Ginny.”

“Hmm?”

“What’s your mum’s favourite chocolate? Or wine, or something? To say sorry for forgetting this.” He held up the jumper.

Ginny smiled. “Don’t be daft, she won’t mind.”

“No, I want to. What would she like? Flowers?”

“Seriously, Harry, you’re overthinking it—”

The bell marking the end of breakfast rang out, and Harry looked up as the tables around them burst into movement. His gaze caught on Hermione and Malfoy—Hermione was digging through her schoolbag; Malfoy was staring straight at Harry and Ginny.

“What are you looking at?” Harry called rudely.

Malfoy blinked. “Nothing,” he said, only just audible over the din of the Great Hall. Then, awkwardly, so quick that Harry might have imagined it, “Sorry.”

Malfoy stood and, leaving Hermione at the table, stalked away, his shoulders stiff, his head bowed. Harry stared after him, his new jumper forgotten once again.

Harry kept up his avoidance of Hermione and Malfoy over the next few days. He tagged around with Ginny at mealtimes, until Laura/Lauren/Laurel pulled him aside and gently told him it was bad form to hang around your ex so much. Harry, baffled, assured her that Ginny didn’t mind. What’s-her-name acknowledged that might be true, but Harry was scaring away Ginny’s new admirers.

Harry spluttered. “Admirers? Like who?”

“There’s a list,” What’s-her-name said grimly. “It’s long. But we’re never going to be able to narrow it down unless you clear off, so…”

Harry huffed, but agreed to sit somewhere else. He did, however, make a mental note to keep a closer eye on the seventh-year Gryffindors from then on.

He tried Neville, Dean and Seamus for a while, but Neville tended to wolf down his food within five minutes and run to the greenhouses (“I’m raising a group of Mandrake-Tentaculas and they don’t like the cold!”), and Dean and Seamus had spent so much time together over the last eight years that, even outside of football talk, they spoke in so many in-jokes and references that Harry found it hard to keep up.

He even followed Malfoy’s lead (a horrible thought, if ever there was one) and ventured outside of his own house, joining Luna at the Ravenclaw table for dinner on Friday. And for a while, it was fun: peering wide-eyed over her vegetable stew, Luna told Harry how Hagrid wasn’t half-giant at all, but had clearly been cursed by a Bucolic Winklejack as a child, which had accelerated his growth rate. (You could tell, she said, because a Bucolic Winklejack was associated with hair growth as well as size growth—didn’t Harry notice that most giants were bald and Hagrid had really rather a lot of hair?)

Harry had almost been convinced, but then she suggested that Harry’s own untameable hair might also have something to do with a Winklejack. Winklejacks loved sweet things, she told him earnestly, so his best bet would be to cover himself in some kind of dessert and stand outside, waiting for one to come and undo the curse. She was halfway to dumping a bowl of custard over Harry’s head when he hastily thanked her for her advice and scrambled to his feet. Since then, he thought it best to abandon his attempts at inter-house mealtime mixing. Anything Malfoy did was stupid, anyway.

But mealtimes weren’t the only tricky thing to navigate: Harry had an equally tough time during free periods and in the evenings. He continued to sit alone in the common room, glaring at Hermione and Malfoy whenever he remembered to do so, but concentration was hard to come by.

The Gryffindors had long ago learned not to disturb Hermione while she was working, but on his own, Harry was an easy target. Students he could’ve sworn he’d never seen before would plop themselves down next to him and strike up a conversation as if they were old friends. Romilda Vane draped herself over the back of his armchair on several occasions, complimenting his “strong, manly handwriting”. Dennis Creevey tearfully presented Harry with a pair of socks with Harry’s own face embroidered into them, sniffling that Colin would have wanted Harry to have them.

The disturbances were extra frustrating since Harry (probably due in part to spending all his time with Hermione, until that week) had begun to rather enjoy schoolwork. It was nice, being able to write essays and read textbooks without the question of “But will this help me kill Voldemort?” lingering in the back of his mind.

Common room disturbances aside, he’d also found it easier to concentrate since coming back—Hermione had wondered whether it was because he no longer had a Horcrux hidden inside him, taking up brain-space, but Harry suspected the reason was simpler: he no longer had to split his attention seven different ways. There were no DA lessons to plan or Umbridge to avoid. There was no Triwizard Tournament to prepare for, no Dementors to fight, no mysterious voices coming from the walls. There was no Malfoy, sneaking around, probably up to something.

Harry sat bolt upright. Romilda Vane, draped over the back of his chair again, tumbled forwards with a yelp.

God, Harry was so stupid. He’d sat through so many sessions with the Mind Healer the Ministry had assigned to him last summer, and he hadn’t learned a thing. Your anger is a trauma response, Harry. It’s a perfectly understandable reaction, but you can’t let it get in the way of rational thought. When you feel it start to overwhelm you, try to take a step back and observe the facts, rather than your feelings.

And what had he done instead? He’d let his anger get the better of him, just like he’d done at the Burrow over Christmas.

Because of course Malfoy was up to something. It was the only rational explanation: he’d somehow tricked Hermione into a relationship. Maybe Harry had missed some kind of mind-control potion when he’d checked the pumpkin juice. Maybe Malfoy had slipped her something while Harry wasn’t around. Maybe he even had her under an Imperius.

Squashed behind him, Romilda Vane was giggling—“Not the first time I’ve fallen for you, Harry!”—but Harry ignored her. He sprung to his feet, grabbed his bag and stormed over to the table by the wall where Hermione and Malfoy sat. They both looked up as he approached. Even Crookshanks, once again nestled on Malfoy’s lap, lifted his head. If cats could raise their eyebrows in sardonic disinterest, Harry was sure the flat-faced traitor would be doing just that.

“Harry!” Hermione’s pleased expression faded into concern as she took him in. “Is everything okay?”

Harry fought to keep his tone even. “Can I have a word with you, Hermione? Alone?”

Hermione stood, her wand in her hand. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“Nothing’s happened.” Harry forced a smile. “I just want a chat.”

“Well,” Hermione said, frowning. “Of course, yes, but— Draco, will you be okay on your own?”

Harry kept his smile fixed in place. He did not look at Malfoy.

“I’ll be fine,” Malfoy said. “Go on.”

Hermione bit her lip, but nodded.

Relieved, Harry led her to a quiet corner of the common room and cast a Muffliato. “I’ve finally figured it out,” he said.

“Figured what out? What’s going on?”

“Don’t worry,” Harry said. “I’ll fix it. Just hold on.” He raised his wand.

“Harry, what—?”

“Finite Incantatem!”

Hermione’s eyebrows rose. “What was that for?”

“Did it not work?”

“Did what not work? Harry, you’re scaring me.”

“It must be a potion, then.” Shit. He’d really been hoping it was a spell—potions were much harder to negate. “What kind of potion has mind control, though? I’ll have to do research.”

“Mind control?”

“Could be a love potion, I suppose, but you’re not acting as weird as Ron did after those cauldrons. Fuck, is he clever enough to invent something of his own? I should never have got rid of the Prince’s textbook, I bet Snape would know exactly what to do.”

“Snape? What does he have to do with anything? And did you say Ron? Did something happen to him? Harry, tell me right now, or I swear…” Her voice rose with every word, and Harry checked himself. Making her panic wouldn’t solve anything.

He put his wand away and plastered on another smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to worry you. Everything is fine, I promise.”

“If everything is fine, what are you talking about? Mind control? Love potions? Snape?”

Harry hesitated.

Hermione raised her wand threateningly. “Don’t think I won’t hex you, because I will, and I’ll enjoy it.”

Harry didn’t doubt it. “Okay,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. “But don’t be scared. I’ll fix it, I promise.”

“Harry James Potter, I swear on all that is holy…”

“You’ve been dosed with something,” Harry said, making sure to keep his voice gentle so as not to alarm her further. “You’ll be okay, but you’re under the influence of some kind of potion.”

Hermione blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah. We must have forgotten to check the pumpkin juice once. No one’s tried to slip us anything for a while, we probably got lazy. Unless it is a spell—I thought my Finite would be stronger than anything he could cast, even Imperius, but maybe…” He glanced at Malfoy, who was still hunched over his homework.

“You can’t be serious.”

Harry looked back to find Hermione regarding him, stony-faced.

“You’re suggesting Draco has me under some kind of spell?”

“Hey,” Harry said encouragingly. “It’s okay. I promise I’ll figure out what it is.”

“Oh, for—” Hermione rolled her eyes. “He hasn’t done anything like that to me. As if he could.”

“Well, no, I didn’t think he could outsmart you either, but it’s the only reason you’d have dumped Ron for Malfoy— Wait!” He grabbed her as she tried to whirl away with a huff. “I’m sorry it took me a few days to figure it out, but I’m here now. I swear, I’ll help fix this. You’re not alone any more.”

Hermione’s exasperation melted. “Oh, Harry. I appreciate your concern—I think—but I promise you, I’m really not under any kind of magical influence.”

“Well, you would say that—”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “Because I’m not.” She pulled her arm from Harry’s grasp. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you properly about Draco. I thought it would be easier to just get it over with, but obviously I went about it the wrong way.”

“There’s hardly a right way to— Look, it doesn’t make sense. There has to be something else going on.”

“There’s nothing—nothing at all for you to worry about.”

Harry wanted to believe her. Of course he did—he didn’t relish the thought that his best friend was being magically manipulated. But what was the alternative? That she actually preferred Malfoy to Ron? It was unthinkable. Ron and Hermione were meant to be together. Harry had known that for years.

“But you can’t actually like him,” Harry said. “No one likes him. He’s Malfoy.”

Hermione laughed. “I think you’d like him, actually, if you gave him a chance. He’s got a similar sense of humour to you, you know, when he’s comfortable.”

Harry was sure a human face could not accurately express the disgust he felt at that, but he gave it a good go anyway. He wasn’t sure what was worse—Hermione thinking Harry’s sense of humour was similar to Malfoy’s, or the idea of Malfoy being comfortable.

“I just,” he said through his grimace, “I don’t trust him.”

“Well, you don’t know him,” Hermione said reasonably. “But you never will, if you keep avoiding us.”

It was a good point. Harry’s anger had kept him away, but he should really have stuck with them from the start. It would be much easier to figure out how Malfoy was controlling Hermione if Harry could keep an eye on them.

Harry glanced at Malfoy again. He was looking over at Harry and Hermione, chewing his lip, but hurriedly went back to his homework when Harry caught his eye.

“Fine,” Harry said.

Hermione looked taken aback. “Fine?”

“Fine,” he repeated. “I’ll give him a chance. I’ll get to know him. Come on, let’s go.”

“Well, I…” For all Hermione’s insistence that Harry give Malfoy a chance, she seemed awfully wrong-footed now he was agreeing. “Are you sure? I don’t want you causing trouble.”

“Trouble? Me?” Harry blinked innocently. “I’ve never caused trouble in my life.”

She rolled her eyes with a rueful smile. “You’re right,” she said. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Come on, then, if you’re coming. Have you done Sprout’s essay on the sixteen uses of asphodel yet? I’m not sure whether to include a few paragraphs on the mythological history of it or not. I think it’s relevant, but I’m not sure if it’ll add too much length. She only asked for ten inches and I’m already on a foot and a half. What do you think?”

“Ask Neville,” Harry said vaguely, his eyes fixed on their destination. Malfoy was still pretending to work on his homework. The sneaky shit.

“If Neville ever leaves his Mandrake-Tentaculas alone for more than five minutes, maybe I will.”

“You should tell him to spend less time in the greenhouses, anyway,” Malfoy said as they approached, frowning at his textbook. “He’s going to end up with spoiled plants.”

“They don’t like the cold,” Harry said, his eyes narrowing.

“I don’t like writing essays on the eighteenth-century Dissolution of the Wizards’ Council, and yet I’m assured it will help me pass my NEWT.” Malfoy’s pointy nose was all scrunched up—it made him look much younger.

“Draco,” Hermione said, “Harry’s going to join us for the evening.”

Malfoy looked up. His eyes went wide, as if he hadn’t actually registered that he’d already been speaking to Harry. “Oh.”

Harry smiled savagely. “Hello, Malfoy.”

“Hello.” He blinked a few times, then his face settled into its usual aloof disinterest. “Well, then, please—” He gestured to the empty seats around the table.

Harry flung himself into one. “You don’t need to invite me to sit down, it’s my common room. I’ll sit where I like.”

Malfoy nodded. “Of course. Sorry.” He looked at Hermione. She rolled her eyes and sat next to him.

“Harry is here to make an effort with you,” she said, “though I understand why it might not seem like it.”

“Oh,” Malfoy said again. “And is—everything okay? He seemed”—he glanced at Harry—“a bit panicked, before.”

“I’m right here,” Harry said.

“Actually, he was convinced that you had me under some sort of mind control spell.” Her mouth twisted in amusement. “He was trying to save me from your evil influence.”

Malfoy’s eyes went wide again. Good! He probably hadn’t thought that Harry would figure it out. Granted, it had taken him a few days, but he’d got there in the end.

“So that’s why he’s here,” Malfoy said slowly. “To keep an eye on me.”

Hermione frowned. “No, he—” She glanced at Harry, who didn’t school his face into innocence quickly enough. “Oh, Harry.”

Harry tried to come up with an excuse, but Malfoy saved him the trouble. “No, don’t fuss. I don’t mind.”

“Don’t tell her not to fuss,” Harry snapped. “She can fuss if she wants to.”

“Well, you don’t need to fuss,” Malfoy amended. “Not on my account. He can keep an eye on me all he likes.”

“I’m right here, don’t talk about me like I can’t hear you.”

“Of course,” Malfoy said again. “Sorry.”

Malfoy’s pointed little face didn’t look especially contrite, but the quick apologies were beginning to unnerve Harry. He remembered the breakfast table with Ginny earlier that week, when Harry had caught Malfoy staring—Malfoy had apologised then, too. Just what sort of game was he playing?

“Whatever,” Harry said.

“Oh, honestly.” Hermione looked between them and seemed to decide that it wasn’t worth commenting on further. “Anyway,” she said. “The mythological history of asphodel. I know you’re not taking Herbology, Draco, but what do you think? Is it worth including?”

Harry spent the rest of the evening sitting in sullen silence at their table (his table, he reminded himself), picking his way through his homework. By the time it was half an hour before curfew and Malfoy had left for the dungeons, Harry was surprised—and a little peeved—to realise that, without the steady stream of disturbances from the other students, he’d had his most productive evening all week.

Chapter Text

Hermione and Malfoy were already at the Gryffindor table by the time Harry made it to the Great Hall the next morning. After only the smallest moment of standing in the doorway, grimacing and feeling generally sorry for himself, Harry strode up to them and sat down. He glared at them both, daring them to comment.

But Hermione just greeted him vaguely and continued talking about how she’d decided the exclusion of the mythological history of asphodel from the Herbology curriculum was a huge oversight, actually, and she’d be having a word with Professor Sprout to see whether it couldn’t be incorporated in future years. Harry, a bit disappointed that his renewed presence hadn’t been met with more fanfare, ate his porridge in resentful silence.

They spent the first hour of the day—a free period for all three of them—in the library. Harry strategically sat himself across from Malfoy; Malfoy pretended not to notice, but purposefully placed his wand on the table where Harry could see it.

He was challenging Harry. Rubbing his face in it. Gloating. Still, Harry never let his guard down, making sure to look up periodically to check that Malfoy wasn’t silently and wandlessly renewing a curse on Hermione. And when Malfoy disappeared into the shelves to find a book (pointedly leaving his wand behind—god, he was so cocky), Harry mumbled, “Shoelace,” and ducked beneath the table to rifle through Malfoy’s schoolbag. He was disappointed to find nothing remotely suspicious.

He kept up his surveillance during Potions. He sat next to Terry Boot again, but was so distracted by watching Hermione and Malfoy that he added crocodile liver to the cauldron instead of dragon liver, completely ruining the Rat Tonic he was supposed to be brewing. Harry emerged from the dungeons abashed—and with an extra twelve inches to write on the properties of reptile organs within potion-making.

Through it all, Malfoy remained quiet (sneaky), his head bowed (arrogant) and studious (plotting something?). But that was fine; Harry hadn’t really expected Malfoy to do anything suspicious so soon after he’d realised Harry was onto him. So he was quite taken aback when the three of them sat at the Gryffindor table for lunch and Malfoy said, “I’ve got something for you.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. What was Malfoy going to do? Give Hermione a cursed necklace? A bottle of poisoned wine? Harry opened his mouth to warn Hermione not to touch anything Malfoy gave her, but when Malfoy pulled out his gift, it wasn’t Hermione who he set it in front of.

“What?” Harry said cleverly. Because sitting on the table before him were two books, face down. They looked like perfectly normal Hogwarts library books: at least half a century old, the edges of their spines a bit worse for wear, but hardly sinister. What was Malfoy playing at? “What are these supposed to be?”

“They’re books,” Malfoy said. “I thought they might be of interest, but I was operating under the assumption you could read. Going by your reaction, I’m beginning to think that might have been a mistake.”

Hermione snorted softly.

“I’m not touching those,” Harry said. “Are you mad? You’ve obviously done something to them.”

“Well, if you don’t want them,” Hermione said, and reached out.

Harry knocked her hand away. She made an outraged noise and went for her wand. Fuck, Malfoy was cleverer than Harry had anticipated: if Harry didn’t do something immediately, Hermione would summon them for herself, incapable as she was of leaving a book unopened.

“Fine,” Harry snapped, and slapped his hand onto the topmost tome.

Nothing happened.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. Harry clenched his jaw and turned over the books to reveal their covers.

The first was titled Brewing Compulsions through Compulsive Brewing. The second: How to Control Friends and Influence People: An Insight into Manipulative Mind Magic.

“They’re very thorough,” Malfoy said, his thin mouth just curling up at the corners. “I thought they might help in your research.”

Hermione giggled and plucked Brewing Compulsions through Compulsive Brewing out of Harry’s hand. Harry let her take it.

“You think this is funny?” he demanded, staring hard at Malfoy.

Malfoy shrugged one shoulder and began to help himself to a slice of cheese and onion pie. “No.”

Harry made a noise of disgust, but the joke was on Malfoy: Harry shoved How to Control Friends and Influence People into his bag and resolved to study every page. He’d find out what Malfoy was doing to Hermione and reverse it, and then Harry wouldn’t even need to make Malfoy pay—he’d just have to sit back and watch while Hermione murdered Malfoy herself.

Here’s what Harry learned about Malfoy over the following weeks:

He stuck to Hermione like glue. They were together every evening, mealtime, and during their shared classes: Potions, Arithmancy, and Defence Against the Dark Arts. When Malfoy’s free periods overlapped with Hermione’s, he spent them with her in the library. When he had a free period that Hermione didn’t—when Hermione had Ancient Runes, or when Harry and Hermione were in Herbology—he went back to his dormitory.

For breakfast, he always had a black coffee with three sugars, two poached eggs and a slice of toast. For lunch and dinner, he gravitated towards vegetarian options, though he didn’t avoid meat altogether—he always had a generous helping of chicken and mushroom pie whenever it was on the menu. He didn’t like cauliflower.

In the corridors, he kept his gaze trained on the ground, especially when teachers walked by. This was, Harry thought, incredibly suspicious. But then Harry clocked himself doing the exact same thing whenever he walked past groups of giggling girls—or Slughorn, who was more determined than ever to coax Harry into becoming an enthusiastic member of the Slug Club. Harry doubted any of the teachers were trying to tempt Malfoy into an elite gang of favourites, but he could hardly blame Malfoy for not wanting to be noticed.

Because that was the main thing Harry learned about Malfoy: he didn’t want attention. It took Harry a while to understand it, because it was such a stark contrast to the loud, attention-seeking boy he had known. He hadn’t quite expected swooning reenactments of the Battle (like Malfoy had done of the Dementor attacks in third year), nor flashy badges (Potter Stinks, fourth year), nor an elaborate and insulting song (Weasley Is Our King, fifth year)—but he’d expected something. A bit more sneering rudeness. An attempt to win over the Gryffindor students through a curated selection of unsavoury impressions. Anything at all to try to claw back some of the status he had lost over the last few years.

But it never came.

Now, Malfoy flinched whenever a teacher called on him during a lesson, though he always answered correctly in a bored-sounding monotone. He barely said anything, even when it was just the three of them—he spoke only when Hermione asked him a direct question, or when he was so distracted by schoolwork that he forgot not to complain or absently correct something Harry had said.

In fact, the only times it felt like the Draco Malfoy Hermione was going out with was the same Draco Malfoy Harry had known for the last seven years were the times Malfoy made a joke that he clearly thought was too funny to keep to himself. But those rare occasions were awful in an entirely different way: Harry was dismayed to realise that Hermione had been right, and Malfoy was hilarious.

The first time Harry accidentally laughed at something Malfoy said was at the breakfast table. On the walk from Gryffindor Tower to the Great Hall, Harry had subtly been trying to check whether Hermione’s earlobes were swollen—a side-effect of the Captivation Curse, according to How to Control Friends and Influence People.

Hermione’s earlobes were perfectly fine, it turned out. Harry was a little miffed—the Captivation Curse was the fourteenth spell he’d ruled out—so he was extra resentful of Malfoy’s presence at the Gryffindor table and allowed himself the indulgence of ignoring him, rather than closely watching his every move. Harry was so determined to pretend that Malfoy wasn’t there, in fact, that he didn’t notice when Malfoy poured himself a pumpkin juice instead of his usual coffee.

“Wait!” Hermione said.

Harry’s head jerked up. Malfoy was frozen, his goblet halfway to his mouth.

“You haven’t done the diagnostic spells, yet, have you, Harry?” Hermione asked.

Harry shook his head.

“The diagnostic…?”

Hermione grabbed the goblet and waved her wand over it, muttering the incantations. When she was done, she nodded, satisfied, and handed it back to Malfoy.

“Erm,” Malfoy said, taking back his goblet and peering into it.

“Oh, you remember,” Hermione said impatiently. “I told you, the first day we—” She glanced at Harry. “Since we’ve been back at Hogwarts, Harry’s pumpkin juice has been spiked twenty-three times.”

“Twenty-four,” Harry corrected, helping himself to the pumpkin juice. “There was some Unctuous Unction in it one day you were in Hogsmeade with Ron.”

“It’s usually just Veritaserum,” Hermione continued. “From reporters who are paying students to try to get some sort of scoop—”

“Although it feels like they already know literally everything,” Harry muttered.

“—but it has sometimes been something a bit more sinister, so. Can’t be too careful.”

“Veritaserum,” Malfoy said thoughtfully. “Yes, I do remember. You said that was why…”

Now Malfoy was glancing at Harry, too. Harry rolled his eyes, already sick of the stupid coupley secrets that Hermione and Malfoy shared. “Wish it had had some Veritaserum in it today,” he said savagely. “I reckon it would be interesting to hear what’s actually going on in your head, Malfoy.”

“Most of the time, the only thing going on in my head is one long, anguished wail, so I hope you’re prepared for that,” Malfoy said drily.

Harry snorted, then caught himself, horrified. Malfoy, too, seemed surprised: he blinked at Harry, his goblet once again frozen a few inches from his mouth.

“That’s awful,” Hermione sniffed. “But let’s not test the theory, hmm? Here, Draco, let me teach you the diagnostic spells. They’re ones the Aurors use, you know. The first is Aura Incantem, you have to move your wand like this…”

Tragically, that wasn’t the last time Malfoy made Harry laugh. His jokes were always a little off—not offensive, like Harry would have expected, just a bit dark, and often self-deprecating—which aligned perfectly with the way Harry’s own sense of humour had warped over the last couple of years.

Every time it happened—every time Harry wasn’t expecting a joke, so hadn’t prepared himself for keeping a straight face—Malfoy would blink at Harry in shock. Every time, Harry would scowl and pretend it hadn’t happened.

But happen it did, and with increasing frequency. One Thursday, walking from Defence Against the Dark Arts to lunch, Malfoy made a quiet joke about how the true form of Chameleon Ghoul they were studying looked like Voldemort getting out of a bath. The mental image made Harry choke on his own spit, and he was only saved from the embarrassment of having to acknowledge yet another instance of Malfoy making him laugh (the third time that day) by someone behind them yelling, “Malfoy!”

Malfoy froze. He didn’t turn around until the fifth year who’d shouted had caught up with them and handed him a scroll of parchment. Or at least, the fifth year held out the scroll to Malfoy, who stared at it blankly until Hermione took it and sent the fifth year away with a thank-you and a tense smile.

“Want me to read it?” she asked Malfoy.

Malfoy was still frozen—his neck stiff, his shoulders sharp points—but he nodded jerkily.

“It’s from Professor Vector,” Hermione said, scanning the page. “She says your research into the magical theories of Chaldean numerology was really good. She wants you to submit it to The Arithmancer’s Digest.”

“Oh,” was all Malfoy said. His limbs loosened and he took the scroll from Hermione, but his hands were shaking.

Harry was baffled. As well as making Harry laugh, that was another thing that Malfoy kept doing—reacting to things in ways that didn’t make sense. Old Malfoy would have sneered at the fifth year, would have snatched the letter out of their hand and dismissed them with a “Well? What are you waiting for, a tip? Fuck off.” He would have met the news of a professor’s compliments with a triumphant crow. He would have gloated about it for weeks.

But New Malfoy seemed oddly shaken by the whole thing. He didn’t speak at all during lunch—not even when Hermione tried to engage him in conversation, which usually got at least a few syllables out of him. And he never mentioned Professor Vector’s note again.

Even stranger: as Harry continued to watch Malfoy, he learned that it wasn’t just Arithmancy that Malfoy was doing extremely well in. In fact, Harry was surprised to find that Malfoy was practically as clever as Hermione—and a much better teacher.

Sunday evening, a few days after Professor Vector’s letter, the three of them were sitting around what had become their usual table in the Gryffindor common room. Hermione and Malfoy were across from Harry, twin expressions of furrowed concentration on their faces, their quills scratching away in harmony. Malfoy’s free hand was absently tickling a purring Crookshanks under the chin.

Harry, meanwhile, was staring blankly at page 212 of Advanced Potion Making.

“Why the fuck,” he said aloud after twenty painful minutes of not getting anywhere, “do we have to put the Murtlap tentacles in a stupid little bath before we use them?”

“Oh!” Hermione looked up. “Professor Slughorn mentioned this, Harry. Moonstone is porous, so…” She launched into an impassioned speech about moonstone and Murtlap. The words were familiar—it was almost word-for-word the explanation in the textbook that Harry had reread four times. He didn’t understand any better when it was spoken aloud.

Malfoy looked up too. He waited for Hermione to finish then quietly said, “It’s because Murtlap Essence is acidic. Moonstone can’t be paired with acidic ingredients because it neutralises them, and the reaction changes the balance of the potion. Soaking the Murtlap neutralises it before it’s added to the potion, so you don’t get the reaction with the moonstone when they combine.”

Harry blinked. “So,” he said slowly, “that’s why you have to temper the dragon blood with the lavender before you add it later, too?”

Malfoy nodded and went back to his homework.

Harry glared at the textbook, which suddenly made complete sense. “Why don’t they just say that?”

“They do,” Hermione said, sounding put out. “That’s exactly what I was telling you.”

“Right,” Harry said. “Yeah, thank you.” He paused, then, “You too, Malfoy. Cheers.”

Malfoy nodded without looking up, but Harry noticed that his cheeks were turning a slow, dull pink.

Chapter Text

The following week found Harry in the library with Hermione. Malfoy was in History of Magic—a subject Harry dropped in fifth year, the second he was allowed—so it was just the two of them. But there wasn’t any time to enjoy the rare Malfoy-free hour; during NEWT year, the flood of homework was never-ending. Harry was frowning at a page on Weather-Modifying Charms, pushing down the unwelcome thought that Malfoy would probably be able to explain the difference between a Fog-Summoning Charm and a Mist-Summoning Charm without even trying, when Hermione tapped him on the arm.

“Are you all right?”

Harry looked up. “What?”

“You’re all…quiet.”

“Well,” Harry said. “We’re in the library. Honestly, you seem to be a bit confused about the concept recently—I thought you of all people would know how they’re supposed to work.”

“I do know how they’re supposed to work. Unlike some people,” Hermione said, looking pointedly over at a pair of sixth-years one table over, who were discussing their homework on the anatomy of Thestrals in barely-there whispers. “But you seem a bit miffed.”

“Well, I’m not really taking a shine to these bloody Weather-Modifying Charms, to be honest.”

Hermione studied him for a moment, then said abruptly, “Let’s go somewhere else. I want to talk to you.”

Harry grimaced. “About Weather-Modifying Charms? Might have to take a rain check, I’m a bit snowed under with them at the moment.”

“Not about Weather-Modifying Charms,” Hermione said, ignoring Harry’s attempts at weather-related humour. She cast a worried glance at the front desk, from which Madam Pince was glaring at them. “Can we go for a walk?”

Harry, more than happy to put the Weather-Modifying Charms on ice, stuffed his things into his bag and followed Hermione out of the castle and into the grounds. It was a crisp February morning, with blue skies and an icy sheen of frost sparkling on the grass. Harry shivered and wrapped his scarf more tightly around his neck.

“So, what’s up?”

“Well, I wanted to check how you’re doing with the, erm. The Draco situation.”

Harry kept his expression determinedly neutral. “The what?”

“You know. He and I. Us. How are you feeling about—that?”

“I thought it wasn’t any of my business.”

“Well, no, it’s not,” Hermione said. “But you’re still my friend, Harry; I want to make sure you’re not miserable. I know it was a bit of an adjustment.”

Harry considered this. It had definitely been an adjustment. He had spent the first week after Hermione’s announcement thinking of nothing but how awful Malfoy was, and he’d spent the second week thinking of nothing but how to free Hermione from whatever curse or potion Malfoy had her under.

But since then, he’d worked through every spell in How to Control Friends and Influence People, had ruled out every potion in Brewing Compulsions through Compulsive Brewing, and had subjected a long-suffering Hermione to every antidote and counter-curse he could think of. Each time that Harry’s attempts to free Hermione from Malfoy’s evil hold were met with a raised eyebrow and a pitying shake of the head, Harry grew less sure that something sinister was going on.

After all, Malfoy was funny. Granted, Harry seemed to laugh at his jokes more than Hermione did, but that had been the case with Ron, too. And, unlike Ron, Malfoy was clever and studious—something Hermione probably valued in a partner. He was all clean and precise, with neat fingernails and smooth skin and hair that was always held smartly in place. He never talked with his mouth full, or burped loudly, or put his feet on the table. Maybe it hadn’t taken a curse for Hermione to choose him over Ron.

And though Harry still didn’t trust Malfoy, it was hard to deny that over the last month, he had grown used to Malfoy’s presence. As far as Harry was concerned, for Malfoy, that was high praise indeed.

“Well, I haven’t caught him doing anything evil yet,” Harry said, “so if you’re still adamant that you’re not under an Imperius…”

He’d meant it as a joke, but Hermione frowned. “Of course I’m not. Is that the only reason you’re spending time with us, still? You’re forcing yourself to keep an eye on him?”

They were approaching the lake. Despite the clear skies, the water remained a stubborn steely grey. “No,” Harry said. He wasn’t forcing anything. Keeping an eye on Malfoy was easy. Natural. Harry had been doing it for years.

Hermione sighed. Her breath puffed out in front of her in an exasperated little cloud. “So, our relationship isn’t making you unhappy? You said you didn’t want anything else to worry about when I asked you if you wanted to be involved in the wellbeing club—I’m not causing you extra stress during your NEWT year, by being with Draco?”

“God, Hermione,” Harry said. He adjusted his scarf, which was beginning to feel too tight. “I suppose not? It’s not like he says much, is it? Honestly, it barely feels like you’re together, so it’s not as weird as it could be.”

Hermione stopped dead. “What do you mean, it barely feels like we’re together?”

Harry would have preferred to still be struggling through his dry chapter on Weather-Modifying Charms than to have to talk about the dynamics of Hermione and Malfoy’s relationship. But he knew from long experience that Hermione would not let a subject go when she had that determined look on her face.

“Well,” he said awkwardly, “we just do homework all the time these days, don’t we? The two of you don’t— I dunno, you don’t hold hands, or—or kiss, or anything. At least not around me. Which I’m grateful for!” he hastened to add, as Hermione was beginning to look stricken. “I just mean…he’s so quiet now, isn’t he? Just sort of sits there, most of the time.”

Hermione started walking again, still frowning. “Do you think it’s strange? That we’re not more affectionate, Draco and me?”

Harry grimaced. “Definitely not. Like I said, I’m grateful. Besides, it’s not like you and Ron were ever lovey-dovey, were you?”

“No, I suppose in public, we—we weren’t…”

“There you go, then.” They stopped at the edge of the lake. The colour of it—that grey, being tugged towards blue but stubbornly resisting—reminded Harry of something. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. “Why d’you ask, anyway?”

“I told you, I wanted to make sure you were all right,” Hermione said. “I do regret how I went about it all. I should have thought more about how it would affect you before I— And Draco was asking about you, too.”

“Draco—what?”

“Mmm, after Arithmancy,” Hermione said distantly, staring out at the water. “I think he feels a bit guilty as well. Though he’d never admit it, obviously.”

Obviously. It was such an intimate word. As if Harry would know what Draco Malfoy would obviously do or not do.

“Anyway,” Hermione said, turning to Harry. “How are things with Ginny? I haven’t had a chance to speak to her recently.”

A change of subject. Thank god. “Have you heard about her list of admirers?” Harry demanded. “Her mate with the glasses told me about it—Lauren or Laura or something.”

“A list,” Hermione commented in a strangely neutral voice. “That’s impressive.”

“It’s long, apparently.”

“Goodness.”

“As if any of the idiots in this place are good enough for her.” Harry kicked a loose stone and watched it roll into the water.

“Hmm. Do you have someone specific in mind who would be good enough for her, perhaps?”

“No,” Harry said, frowning. “Why, do you?”

Hermione looked at him pointedly.

Harry stared—then the Knut dropped. “Me? You can’t be serious.”

“Well,” Hermione said. “You seem rather upset at the thought of it being anyone else.”

“I’m not upset. I just don’t want her to be with someone who doesn’t deserve her. It’s the same way I feel about—” It’s the same way I feel about you being with Malfoy, he’d been about to say, but that wasn’t quite right. Harry frowned, thrown by the discrepancy in his feelings. It should have been the same. He’d thought it was. But with Hermione and Malfoy—there was something else, too.

Confusion, maybe? Harry was definitely still a bit baffled by the whole thing, after all. Yes, that must have been it—Harry had no idea how Hermione and Malfoy had even happened (and he didn’t want to know, thank you very much). Whereas it was hardly a surprise that Ginny was popular. She always had been.

“Well, it’s something to think about, isn’t it?” Hermione said. “You were happy when you were with her. I miss seeing you like that.” She smiled, then clapped her hands together. “Anyway, it’s nearly time for lunch. Shall we go back in?”

Malfoy was hovering uncertainly in the foyer. His shoulders softened as Harry and Hermione approached. “You weren’t in the library,” he said.

“We went for a little morning stroll,” Hermione said. She stared at Malfoy for an awkward moment, then grabbed his hand. “Sorry to keep you waiting! Shall we go in?”

Harry averted his eyes and led the way into the Great Hall. Hermione and Malfoy sat next to each other, as usual, but thankfully did not attempt to hold hands while eating their lunch. In fact, Malfoy seemed as thrown by the overt affection as Harry was—he kept glancing downwards, flexing his fingers.

Harry pulled a face. He’d meant what he’d said to Hermione—he’d grown used to Malfoy’s presence, since Malfoy and Hermione practically ignored each other most of the time. But the thought of them introducing physical contact and subsequent lingering glances made his stomach turn. He didn’t want to see Malfoy’s dazed expression after Hermione had touched him. And yet, now it was happening, he found he couldn’t look away, unable to stop staring at that barely-there crease between Malfoy’s eyebrows, at the way his long fingers moved as he flexed them.

Even Hermione was acting a little flustered, her voice a little too airy as she tried to talk Neville into leading her new wellbeing club—a position Harry had stoutly refused. It was so stupid; it was just Malfoy. His hands weren’t that special. Harry had touched them himself loads of times. Malfoy’s fingers had scratched at the back of Harry’s hand seconds after Harry had caught the snitch. Harry had wrestled wands out of Malfoy’s grip in the wreckage of the Malfoy Manor drawing room. He’d had Malfoy cling to him as Harry dragged him onto a broomstick away from white-hot flames.

Though to be fair, he couldn’t remember what Malfoy’s hands felt like. Soft, probably. They looked soft.

There was a bang and a roar of laughter from Harry’s right and he jerked, snapped from his daze. The noise had come from a group of boisterous fourth years, one of whom had a pair of impressive leeks sprouting from her ears and a thunderous expression on her face.

Even as the leek-eared girl raised her wand and retaliated with a nasty-looking Furnunculus, Harry couldn’t help but smile. There had been times, last year, when it had felt like nobody in the wizarding world would ever be happy again. Everyone had been living in fear of Death Eaters and dark curses and destruction. It had felt impossible to imagine things returning to normal—to Hogwarts lunches and homework and harmless vegetable-based jinxes. But here they were.

“Harry!”

Harry blinked. “Hmm? What?”

Hermione was shaking her head. “What are you staring at, with that dopey look on your face?” She leant forwards and peered down the table. “Ohh. Is that one of the admirers you mentioned?”

Harry followed her gaze. Several seats up from the boisterous fourth-year group was Ginny, chatting animatedly to a boy with curly brown hair.

“Oh. I dunno.” But the way the curly-haired boy was looking at Ginny made it seem very likely indeed. Harry narrowed his eyes. He’d have to find out who this boy was.

“Harry,” Hermione said exasperatedly.

“What?”

“We were talking about next lesson. Did you do the reading for Professor Jones? About blood maledictions?”

Harry turned his attention away from the seventh years and tried to remember. Their new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Jones—Hestia Jones, from the Order—seemed to delight in assigning them the most brutal and gruesome topics imaginable. It was getting difficult to tell one gory textbook chapter from another.

“I think so,” he said. “Was it the one with a picture of a giant mutant beetle on one of the pages?”

“Mmm, it looked like my Aunt Bella on a good hair day,” Malfoy said.

Harry snickered. “That’s the one. Then yeah, I did the reading.”

As she always did when Malfoy made an unsavoury joke, Hermione looked torn about whether to reprimand them or not. In the end, she settled for a disapproving look and quizzed them on what they’d thought about the final paragraph on page ninety-three. (Malfoy was, naturally, silent, and although Harry had a new fondness for schoolwork, he was still a normal person, so had no recollection of what one specific paragraph said.)

The discussion, one-sided though it was, carried them through the rest of lunch. Knowing Hermione, it would have carried them through the walk up to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom on the second floor, too, but Harry noticed Ginny and the curly-haired boy leaving together. He took the opportunity to grab Ginny’s friend Laura (for Harry had decided she must be called Laura, if only for his own sanity) for a quick interrogation. Hermione watched him go with an unnervingly knowing look in her eye.

The curly-haired boy turned out to be called Joseph Bywater. Laura was tentatively impressed with him.

“Obviously, he’s not as cool as you,” she said. “I mean, even without the whole Saviour thing, you were Quidditch captain, weren’t you? Whereas Joe is the captain of the Gobstones Club.” She rolled her eyes. “But he’s actually all right. He plays guitar.”

“Guitar,” Harry scoffed, but he was mollified both by Laura’s certainty that Bywater wasn’t as cool as Harry, and also by the dismissive tone with which she referred to the whole Saviour thing. “Well,” he said, “keep me updated.”

“That’s weird,” Laura said. “I’m not going to do that. See you later, Harry.”

Laura waved and headed to the dungeons. Harry scowled. It wasn’t weird to want to know what was going on with his friend. He’d brought up the subject of the list of admirers with Ginny, and she’d laughed in his face and said she had no idea what he was talking about. She probably wasn’t lying, either—it was much more plausible that she was just having fun while Laura and the rest of her friends tried to enforce some kind of order. But she had the tendency that a lot of the Weasley children had inherited from Arthur—the tendency to act first and think about consequences later. It wasn’t weird for Harry to be looking out for her.

Or was it? He prodded his feelings further as he started up the second set of stairs. Hermione had said something similar that morning by the lake, hadn’t she? But Harry was certain of one thing: the hot, ugly jealousy he used to feel whenever he considered Ginny with someone else had not reared its monstrous head for some time. Harry didn’t want her; he just wanted her to be happy.

According to Harry’s watch, there were still a couple of minutes left until next lesson. He’d talk to Hermione now, clear up her misconception about him and Ginny before class. She wouldn’t have time to quiz him about it in that sympathetic “but are you sure I don’t know better than you?” way she sometimes had—and by the end of whatever grisly lesson Hestia had planned for them, she’d hopefully have forgotten all about it.

Harry jogged up the last few steps to the second floor. Hermione and Malfoy were waiting outside the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom with the rest of the eighth-year Defence students. Hermione was talking passionately—it looked like the homework discussion had lasted after all—while Malfoy listened, frowning. Harry was about to call out a greeting, his “So I’ve thought about it some more and I’m definitely not into Ginny” speech already half-written in his head, when Hermione grabbed Malfoy by the neck of his robes, pulled him down so his face was at her level, and kissed him.

Harry stopped in his tracks.

It seemed to stretch for minutes on end. Hermione’s fists were clenched in Malfoy’s robes. Malfoy’s hands were held aloft in surprise—then hesitantly settled on Hermione’s shoulder, the small of her back.

Something hot and ugly flared to life in Harry’s stomach. He must have made a noise of dismay, because someone next to him said, “I know. Vile, isn’t it?”

Harry dimly recognised the voice of Blaise Zabini, but he was unable to tear his eyes from the unnerving sight of Malfoy’s pale hair against Hermione’s dark, bushy curls. As such, Zabini would have got away with it if he hadn’t continued lazily, “I don’t know how he can even touch her without throwing up. The dirty little Mudbloo—”

Harry didn’t even realise he was doing it. All he knew was one minute, he was staring at Hermione and Malfoy, his fists clenched at his sides—and the next minute, Zabini was on the floor, clutching his nose and yelling in pain.

There was a loud roaring in Harry’s ears. Dimly, he saw the students who had been waiting outside the classroom rush over. Among them were Hermione and Malfoy, both looking shaken. Hermione reached out. Harry shook her off with a jerk of his shoulder.

“I’m going for a walk,” he said shortly. “Tell Hestia—fuck, tell her whatever, I don’t care.”

“Harry,” Hermione said, her eyes wide.

“Don’t come after me,” he snarled. With one last glare at Zabini, Harry whirled around and fled.

Chapter Text

Harry wasn’t aware of the journey through the school and out of the front doors. By the time his head had cleared enough to take in any details, he was outside, striding towards the lake. But once he was there, there was nowhere to go, nothing to do—just the grounds: too still, too quiet. The morning’s frost still sparkled on the grass. Smoke curled from Hagrid’s chimney. Birds flew overhead, chirping softly.

Harry wanted to burn it all down.

It was a horrible thought, one that evoked flashes of Hogwarts in the aftermath of last year’s battle. The ground lurched beneath his feet, and he cast around for something, anything, to unleash this feeling onto before it exploded out of him.

Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately, from their perspective—there were no gnomes on the Hogwarts grounds that he could use as an outlet. Instead, he let out a noise of frustration and heaved up a Bludger-sized rock from the shore of the lake. It was much heavier than a gnome; when Harry pulled back his arm and threw it with all his might, it only travelled about fifteen feet, but it made a satisfying ploosh! when it landed in the water.

But the satisfaction was short-lived. As soon as Harry had remembered to take a deep breath, to distance himself from his emotions, to try to analyse why the fuck he was so angry, the image of Hermione’s face tilted up to Malfoy’s flashed through his mind, and the fire clawed its way back up his throat.

He grabbed another rock, and another, weighing them in his hand and hurling them into the lake.

When you feel your anger start to overwhelm you, try to take a step back and observe the facts.

The facts were that Hermione and Ron had broken up. The three of them might never be the same again. And Hermione kissed Malfoy now—something that Harry knew, vaguely, must have been happening for weeks, but it was somehow different—horrible—seeing it first-hand.

Try to think about why you’re feeling the way you do.

That was the worst thing—Harry knew he was being stupid. He had no right to be angry. There was no reasonable explanation for it.

He dug up another rock from where it was half-buried in the silt. The ground was cold and gritty, and mud lodged painfully under his fingernails. But it felt good to haul the rock from the earth—it felt even better to hurl it, the muscles of his arm screaming, into the water.

Above all, don’t forget to breathe, Harry.

But he couldn’t seem to take in a full lungful of air. Instead, he lost himself in the motion of unearthing rocks and launching them into the lake, his fingers scratched, his arms and shoulders straining. The rhythm of it was calming: the savage pleasure of freeing the rock from the ground; the weight of it in his hand; the waves it made in the water smoothing into ripples, and then into nothing at all.

By the time Harry was surrounded by a thirty-foot radius of disturbed earth, almost entirely clear of decent-sized rocks, he was beginning to calm down. And then,

“You know, it’s an official Hogwarts offence, to injure the Giant Squid,” came a voice from behind him.

Harry flung the rock in his hand with extra viciousness. It sailed a good forty feet before plunging into the lake.

“Fuck off,” he said, not turning around.

“The rule was introduced in 1970,” Malfoy continued. “Two fifth-year boys were duelling. One of them misfired a Stinging Hex that hit the squid. The squid grabbed him in retaliation. Pulled him underwater.”

Harry dug up another rock and threw it with all his might.

“He was fine, in the end. Broke his leg, inhaled some water, but the other boy managed to pull him out before anything worse happened. Of course, they were both Slytherins, and our dormitories have big windows that look out under the lake. The story goes, whenever they went to bed, the squid would hover outside the window, staring right at them.”

Harry turned. Malfoy was there, alone, visibly shivering without a cloak or scarf. Harry dimly noted that he wasn’t surprised to see that Hermione wasn’t there either. It took him a second to figure out why—it should have been surprising, that Malfoy was there on his own—but then he realised that, if Hermione had been there too, she would have been doing all the talking.

Harry turned back to the lake. “You look like you’re about to freeze,” he said gruffly.

“I have a Warming Charm on.”

“You’re shivering.”

Malfoy didn’t reply. Harry flung another rock into the water, Giant Squid be damned.

“What do you want, Malfoy?”

“Well,” Malfoy said, “you seemed angry—”

Harry scoffed. “Did I?”

“—and I thought it might be helpful for you to have someone to be angry at. Since I’m the person who was just snogging your best friend, I figured I’d be a reasonable target.”

Harry cast around for more rocks to throw. He wished Malfoy hadn’t said the thing about snogging—it made the image flash through Harry’s mind again, made unpleasant heat surge through him anew.

There was a rock peeking out from a clump of reeds. Harry strode up to it.

“What do you mean, a reasonable target,” he spat, fighting to unearth the rock. “You don’t expect me to throw rocks at you, do you?”

“Well,” Malfoy said, “if it helps.”

“If it…?”

Malfoy was standing straight, his pointed chin raised and his expression perfectly calm. His arms were crossed over his chest, his fingers gripping his elbows. His pale skin had a greyish tinge. And he was shivering—no, he was trembling.

He had a Warming Charm on, he’d said. Harry took in the tightness of his shoulders, the clench of his jaw—familiar traits, even if Harry wasn’t yet used to seeing them on Malfoy. Because Malfoy wasn’t cold. He was scared. And yet, for some unfathomable reason, he was there, offering himself to Harry as a—what? A sacrifice to Harry’s senseless anger?

The rock finally came unstuck. Harry heaved it up and straightened.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Malfoy,” he said. He tried to spit it, to hold on to the adrenaline that had been fuelling him, but he found that it was draining away in the face of Malfoy’s ridiculousness. He threw the rock towards the lake, but it barely made it into the water, landing on the shore and rolling, coming to a halt at the line where water met land.

“You can, if you like,” Malfoy said. He walked up to Harry with slow, measured steps. “We both know I deserve it.”

“Do you want me to hurt you?”

“I can’t say it’s high on my list of desires.”

“Well, then,” Harry said, “shut up.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Malfoy nod.

They stood there in silence. Now Harry was reaching for it, he found that his anger had melted away, gone as suddenly as it had appeared. His arm and back ached, sharp in the cold. Oliver Wood would have killed him for doing so much physical exertion without warming up first—with his snitch-catching arm, too.

But he didn’t play Quidditch that year. None of the eighth years did. So it didn’t matter.

“Do you miss Quidditch?” Harry asked abruptly, still staring out at the lake.

Malfoy jumped at Harry’s sudden question. “A bit,” he said.

Harry waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t.

“I understand why they won’t let us play,” Harry said. “Blah, blah, don’t want to deny the seventh years opportunities, blah blah, whatever. But still. I fucking miss it.”

“Mmm,” Malfoy said.

“Ginny’s a brilliant captain. She deserves it. And Anna Kowalski isn’t a bad Seeker, either. She’s just a bit nervous.”

“Yeah.”

“Who’s that kid they have as Slytherin Seeker now? Bobby Hornton, something like that?”

“Bobby Hornsby.”

“Yeah, him. He’s shit.”

Malfoy huffed a quiet laugh through his nose.

The surface of the lake was calm now, all traces of Harry’s violence gone. The water was still that unnervingly familiar steel grey colour, the occasional flash of blue reflecting the sky above.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Malfoy asked eventually.

What was there to talk about? Harry was fucked up. He knew that already, but he was disappointed to find that it caused him to throw a tantrum at the thought of his friend finding happiness. He didn’t enjoy knowing that about himself. He certainly didn’t like that Draco Malfoy knew it now, too.

The stinging in Harry’s fingers worsened as they started to defrost. He clenched and unclenched his fists. The grit on his skin and under his nails was sharp and unpleasant, and his knuckles still echoed with the crunch of Zabini’s nose.

“That story about the squid,” Harry said. “Is it true?”

Malfoy made a faux-shocked noise. “You mean to tell me you’ve never read Hogwarts: A History?”

Harry scowled. There was a spark of anger still inside him, after all. “That stupid story is the most I’ve heard you talk all year. I’m surprised you wasted your breath on such bullshit, since you’re so bloody quiet now.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You don’t speak,” Harry clarified savagely. He was almost relieved to let his fury back in, to let it take control again. “You say about two words every hour. You used to never shut up. It’s weird.” Harry glared at Malfoy. A strange expression was colouring the usual impassiveness of his face—he wasn’t amused, nor shocked, but somewhere in between.

And yet his mouth remained closed.

“See!” Harry said, gesturing to Malfoy in an admittedly quite unhinged sort of way. “You’re not saying anything!”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Fuck! I don’t know! Anything!”

Malfoy tilted his head. “All right,” he said. “I didn’t expect her to kiss me. She didn’t tell me she was planning to—to be so publicly affectionate. Otherwise I’d’ve warned her it could upset you. And I like your hair.”

From the lake, there was a tentative splash that could have been the Giant Squid peeking out of the water to see whether the coast was clear. “You— What?”

“Well, I assumed—rightly, as it turns out—that seeing a more physical demonstration of affection between us would be a bit of a shock. And since it’s still new, and since it’s me, I thought it might be a bit much.”

“No, no,” Harry said, waving his hand as if he could bat the words physical demonstration of affection back out of existence. “After that. What?”

“Oh.” A wry little smirk—no, a smile—twisted Malfoy’s mouth as he glanced at Harry’s hair. “It’s longer than it used to be,” he said. “It suits you.”

Harry could feel his own face screw up in incredulity, the metal frame of his glasses cold against his furrowed brow. He reached for the anger again, for the drive to let himself spit whatever horrid truths he felt like spitting, but it had, once again, vanished.

Malfoy watched him impassively for a long moment, then turned to gaze out at the lake. “There’s still half an hour of Defence left,” he said. “Are you going back?”

“I—” Harry shook his head, wrong-footed at the renewed absence of rage. “No, I—I don’t want the fuss of walking in halfway through.”

Malfoy nodded.

“I suppose I’ll just go back to the library and carry on struggling through the stuff on Weather-Modifying Charms.”

“Weather-Modifying Charms?” Malfoy repeated. “Pff. They’re a breeze.”

Harry blinked. “Are you calling me thick after snogging my best friend and then following me to gloat about it?” he asked without heat. He hesitated, then added, “You’re on thin ice, if so.”

Malfoy didn’t look at him, but one corner of his thin mouth turned upwards. Harry’s own traitorous mouth twitched in response.

“I don’t have the foggiest what you mean,” Malfoy said. “But it’s nice to see you brightening up. You had a face like thunder, when I first came out.”

“Well, you know me. Always blowing hot and cold.”

“Mmm, yes, for someone supposed to be as pure as the driven snow, you are prone to storming off.”

“And yet, because of this stupid scar on my head, nobody feels like they can complain about it. Every cloud has a silver lining.”

“They don’t complain about it in a way you can get wind of, at least.”

“You used to,” Harry pointed out, abandoning the weather puns. “Before you stopped saying things. You used to be one of the only people who told me when I was being entitled and stupid.”

Malfoy did look at him, then. “Well,” he said, “you and I have always had a bit of a tempestuous relationship.”

“Malfoy—” Harry pinched his lips together. He’d observed enough over the last month to know that even if Harry could bring himself to ask, Malfoy wouldn’t talk about himself. He’d just distract Harry with something else stupid like I like your hair.

Harry exhaled and looked back out over the lake. “Since you’re apparently an expert in Weather-Modifying Charms, don’t suppose you’d come and do my Charms homework for me?”

Malfoy snorted. “There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell.”

After a quick trip to the hospital wing, Blaise Zabini was totally fine. Harry was docked twenty points from Gryffindor for punching him, but Zabini was docked thirty points for (nearly) calling Hermione a Mudblood. Zabini and Greengrass glared at Harry from across the Great Hall all through dinner.

“Will you be all right later?” Hermione asked Malfoy, nodding towards the Slytherin table.

Malfoy glanced over his shoulder. “What, because of them?” His mouth curled into an echo of his old dismissive sneer. “Please.”

“They don’t look too happy,” Hermione said uncertainly.

“They never are,” was all Malfoy said in reply.

As usual, they spent the evening in the Gryffindor common room, and Malfoy really didn’t seem worried when he left for the dungeons at half past ten.

After an urgent whispered conversation where Harry assured an anxious Hermione that no, her relationship with Malfoy truly wasn’t sabotaging Harry’s NEWTs, he’d just been annoyed at Zabini, Harry went upstairs to an empty dormitory. That wasn’t unusual, these days; Seamus and Dean had been disappearing around the castle practically every night, and Neville was probably still in the greenhouses, cooing over his Mandrake-Tentaculas.

On his way to the bathroom, Harry caught sight of himself in the simple wood-framed mirror that hung on the back of the dormitory door and paused.

He never really thought about his hair. It was always just there, as constant as his nose or mouth or hands. He was so used to it being the exact same length it had always been, he’d almost forgotten that getting longer was a thing that hair did.

But now Malfoy had pointed it out, it was, undeniably, quite a drastic change from the shock of hair he used to have—that his dad had had. For the first time since Aunt Petunia had tried to shave it off, it had grown last year, while they were on the run—and afterwards, Harry had kept it longer out of pure thoughtlessness. He didn’t even know where wizards went to get their hair cut. If it had been a normal summer, or a normal Christmas, Mrs Weasley would probably have offered to sort it out, but nothing about last summer or Christmas had been normal.

It reached his shoulders now: long, yes, but as messy as it had ever been. With the dim torchlight sending flickering shadows over his face and the smudge of stubble on his chin, he still looked like he’d been sleeping in forests all winter. He no longer resembled James at all. He looked more like Sirius.

“Mmm, you could definitely do with a bit of a trim, dear,” the mirror clucked.

Harry ran his fingers over the top of his scalp, watching as the wild strands of hair were pulled backwards then fell back around his face. How hadn’t he realised that he barely recognised himself?

“Malfoy said he liked it,” he said blankly.

“He’s lying,” the mirror said. “Or he’s hopelessly in love with you. There’s really no other explanation.”

The anger that Harry thought he’d left at the lake flared anew.

Try to think about why you’re feeling the way you do, he reminded himself. But it made no more sense now than it had done earlier. He clenched his fists and tried to breathe through it.

“That’s stupid,” he told the mirror through gritted teeth. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No?”

Harry abruptly couldn’t stand it. Without really knowing why, he drew his wand and fired a curse at the mirror, which flew off the wall, hit the floor and shattered. Shards of glass shot out over the cold stone tiles.

“Malfoy is with Hermione,” Harry said stupidly, staring at the glittering mess.

The broken mirror made no reply.

Chapter Text

The next morning, breakfast was interrupted by Pigwidgeon nosediving into Hermione’s toast.

“What on earth…?”

“He’s a bit early, isn’t he?” Harry peered at the ceiling, which was the colour of grubby cotton wool and completely devoid of owls.

“Looks like he raced here. Poor thing.” Hermione offered him a saucer of pumpkin juice. Pig tried to drink from it, his tiny chest heaving, but instead collapsed face-down into it. He was so small, the saucer was practically a bird bath.

“I’ve got him,” Malfoy said, lifting Pig and drying him with a quick spell. “You read the letter. It must be important if he wanted to get here so early.”

“Why’s Ron writing to you, anyway?” Harry asked. Malfoy, still holding Pig, went still. Harry realised belatedly that Malfoy wouldn’t have known who Pig belonged to.

“I don’t know,” Hermione said distractedly. She unfolded the parchment, then frowned.

“What?” Harry asked. “Is he okay?”

“It must be for you,” Hermione said, passing it to Harry.

The note was short, but it didn’t make any more sense to Harry than it had to Hermione.

You could have warned me about the Prophet!! Never told Mum, she’s absolutely lost it. Sorry!! R x

Harry blinked. “Could have warned him about what?”

“Whatever it is, I suspect we’re about to find out,” Hermione said, glancing upwards.

Dozens of owls streamed into the Great Hall, dropping letters and packages amongst the students. A copy of the Prophet was indeed neatly deposited next to Hermione’s plate. But the newspaper wasn’t what caught Harry’s attention. “Is that Errol?”

“And is that…a Howler?” Hermione’s voice was very small.

Malfoy moved a jug of pumpkin juice out of the way just in time—Errol dropped the crimson envelope onto Hermione’s toast and tumbled onto the table. It took Harry a while to stop laughing at Malfoy—he just looked so stupidly alarmed, with a jug in one hand and Pig (chirping excitedly at a very tired-looking Errol) in the other. By the time Harry’s chuckles had subsided, the envelope had begun to smoke at the edges.

“Maybe the thing Ron never told Mrs Weasley about was…” Harry nodded at Malfoy.

“Maybe,” Hermione said weakly, staring at the smouldering Howler.

“If you run now, you’ll make it outside before the worst of it,” Malfoy suggested, but Hermione squared her shoulders.

“No,” she said. “This was my idea. I knew the consequences. It’ll be fine, I’m sure.” She pointed her wand at the Howler, hesitated for one more second, then opened it.

“HOW COULD YOU DO THIS, YOU AWFUL GIRL?” rang out Mrs Weasley’s voice, and all three of them cringed. “I HAVE NEVER BEEN SO INSULTED IN MY LIFE. AFTER EVERYTHING OUR FAMILY HAS BEEN THROUGH, YOU BETRAY MY SON FOR A DEATH EATER? THE PERSON RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT HAPPENED TO BILL? WHOSE FATHER HELPED YOU-KNOW-WHO POSSESS GINNY? IT’S CLEAR TO ME NOW THAT YOU NEVER HAD ANY RESPECT FOR OUR FAMILY. I DON’T WANT TO SEE YOU OR THAT HORRIBLE CREATURE YOU CALL A CAT EVER AGAIN.”

With a final noise of disgust, the letter burst into flames. A ringing silence was left in its wake. Hermione had shrunk so far into herself, Harry half-expected her to disappear under the table at any minute.

Harry cleared his throat. “Well,” he said. “I don’t think I’m the person who reacted the worst any more.”

His voice carried in the shocked silence—someone behind him tittered. Someone else snorted, and from there, chatter rippled around the Great Hall. Howlers had been rare over the last half a year—everyone was still too happy to be alive to start arguments—but most of the students were old enough to remember when barely a month went by without someone getting a Howler for a bad exam result or for forgetting their great-aunt’s birthday. Within less than a minute, everyone had gone back to their breakfasts.

Everyone, that is, but Hermione. She was staring at the scorch mark on the table where the Howler had been.

“More toast?” Harry offered. “Yours is a bit, erm. Singed.”

Slowly, Hermione shook her head, but Harry got the sense that she wasn’t responding to his question. “I can’t do this,” she said.

“Ah, come on,” Harry said bracingly. “You know what Mrs Weasley’s like. She’ll calm down once she’s got used to the idea.”

“No,” Hermione said, still staring at the table. “No, I’m so stupid, I didn’t think it through at all. I— Draco, I’m so sorry, I—I really don’t think I can do this.”

Harry’s jaw went slack. He looked at Malfoy, but Malfoy didn’t seem like he’d even heard Hermione’s confession. He had the Prophet open in front of him and was reading very intently, his brow furrowed.

On the table, Pig—apparently recovered from his flight—was trying to cuddle up to Errol. Errol kept batting Pig away with an irritable flap of his wing.

“Draco,” Hermione said, more firmly. “Can we— Can we go and have a talk?”

“Wait.” Malfoy’s eyes were darting back and forth across the page as he read. “Wait, before you decide anything—I’m nearly finished…”

“Draco—”

“Shh.” It was a short, dismissive sound, as thoughtlessly rude as Malfoy always was when he was distracted.

After a long moment (wherein Harry wondered whether he should give them some privacy, and stayed and ate his breakfast anyway) Malfoy straightened.

Hermione’s face was ashen, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. By contrast, Malfoy’s pale cheeks were flushed, his eyes blazing. It was an expression Harry hadn’t seen on him for ages—years, probably. It was so different to his usual pale aloofness that Harry found it hard to look away.

“Look,” Malfoy said, brandishing the newspaper at Hermione. “Page twenty-three.”

“Please, Draco. Let’s go somewhere—”

“Read it,” Malfoy pressed.

Hermione, never able to disobey that particular command, took the paper.

“What was it?” Harry asked as Hermione disappeared behind the pages.

“An article about us.” Malfoy grabbed the jug of pumpkin juice and went to refill his goblet, but found it full already. He put the jug back down with a frown.

“Us?” Harry repeated. “You and Hermione, you mean? Was it as nice as Mrs Weasley’s letter?”

“No, it’s…good, actually.” The blazing look on Malfoy’s face had softened. That was another new one. Harry thought again how very young he could look.

The top half of the paper sagged in Hermione’s grip as she neared the end of the article. It revealed her eyes—wide, speeding across the page.

“How’d they find out, anyway?” Harry asked.

“Zabini,” Malfoy said. He was watching Hermione, too. “They mention him. After you punched him, he must have written to the Prophet about it. I suspect he wasn’t acting altruistically, but they seem to have taken a different angle.”

Harry peered around Hermione towards the Slytherin table. Blaise Zabini had the Prophet in one hand and a fork in the other. His face was positively murderous.

“I think he’s about to stab someone with that fork,” Harry commented.

Malfoy glanced over his shoulder. “And possibly beat them with the newspaper afterwards.”

“Or use the paper to wrap the body in, hide the evidence.”

There was a rustle of pages. Hermione closed the paper, taking her time as she folded it neatly and placed it next to her plate.

“Well?” Malfoy demanded.

Hermione swallowed several times in rapid succession. “It was a very kind article,” she said eventually.

Harry grabbed the paper and rifled through to page twenty-three. The piece was quite long, and Harry’s attention was distracted by the hissed communication happening between Hermione and Malfoy, but from what he could tell, Hermione was right: it was a very kind article. There were phrases like “the relationship with someone of Muggle birth shows the Malfoy heir has left family prejudices in the past” and “they are very well-matched, both students currently achieving top marks at Hogwarts.”

Bloody hell. Harry had saved the world last year, and the Prophet had never been this nice about him.

“…didn’t really think it would achieve anything, but it is doing. It’s working. If we stop now…” Malfoy was saying in a low, urgent tone.

“I suppose,” Hermione said hesitantly, “if I write to her and explain…”

“Right! That would work, I’m sure. She seems like a reasonable sort of woman.”

“You can’t be talking about Mum.” Ginny appeared at Harry’s side and grabbed a piece of toast from his plate. “Bit mean of her to bring Crookshanks into it, I thought. What’s he ever done to her?”

“Oh, Ginny.” It wasn’t yet nine o’clock and Hermione already looked exhausted. “Is she really hurt, do you think?”

Ginny shrugged and took a bite of Harry’s toast. “You know what she’s like,” she said, her mouth full. “Gets angry at the drop of a hat, doesn’t she? Fred and George tried to get her shipped off to Romania once. Said it was worse than living with a Horntail, living with her.” She swallowed and smiled encouragingly at Hermione. “She usually calms down eventually, though.”

“You have crumbs all around your mouth,” Harry said. Ginny leaned forwards and wiped her face down the sleeve of Harry’s robe. Harry yelped in protest.

“It was your toast, they’re your crumbs!” she said, laughing. “Anyway, I’ve got Transfiguration first thing and McGonagall hasn’t liked me since we lost to Slytherin last November. Oh—and for the record, Malfoy, I don’t blame you for the possessed-by-You-Know-Who thing. You were literally twelve. See you later!”

“She’s quite intense, isn’t she,” Malfoy said mildly, watching her leave.

“That’s one word for it,” Harry grumbled, batting the crumbs from his sleeve. “But I can definitely think of a few more.”

Hermione spent their next free period composing a lengthy letter to Mrs Weasley and a haggard-looking Errol brought a reply a few days later. Hermione wouldn’t tell Harry what the letter said, but she let out a long breath when she read it, her shoulders dropping for the first time all week.

Guiltily, Harry was a little miffed that Mrs Weasley was so easy to talk around—it meant Harry was the person who had reacted worst to Hermione and Malfoy, after all.

After several days of awkwardness—perhaps Malfoy actually had been listening when Hermione had said I really don’t think I can do this—the two of them settled back into their subdued partnership. Mercifully, Harry didn’t see them kissing again, but they began to incorporate a lot more casual touching into their relationship. It set Harry’s teeth on edge every time, but he managed to hold himself in check: no further gnome nor squid was harmed by one of his stupid outbursts.

He came close only once: during the Hogsmeade weekend at the beginning of March, when Hermione and Draco disappeared for the whole day. On their return, Draco was as quiet and detached as always, but Hermione came back practically glowing—humming under her breath, beaming at the slightest thing. Harry suspected he knew what had put her in such a good mood; they wouldn’t have been the first students to book a room above the Three Broomsticks for the day. For some reason, the thought made him want to hex her and Draco both.

And that was another thing—“Draco”. With him around so much, and with Hermione not having called him by his surname for months, Harry found himself slipping into thoughtless familiarity. Quite by accident, he’d stopped keeping an eye on Draco and had started just…noticing things about him. The smug little smirk he did when he was pleased with a line he’d written in his homework. The bump on his middle finger from the way he held his quill. How in the evenings, his hair—usually neat and smooth—began to soften and fall about his face.

Harry was aware that himself-of-a-few-months-ago would be outraged at this slide into acceptance. But it was actually sort of nice, having another person around all the time. Harry loved Hermione, but without Ron, things had felt strangely incomplete. He had been used to having someone to share their ink when Harry’s had run out and Hermione was writing too furiously to be disturbed; someone to exchange amused glances with when Hermione despaired over only achieving ninety-nine-point-eight percent on a test; someone who could check the pumpkin juice for potions when Hermione was in the library and Harry was bleary-eyed and forgetful after a late night.

Harry never would have guessed that Draco Malfoy would be the person to fill the gap that Ron had left behind. And he didn’t, Harry thought loyally—nobody could ever come close to replacing Ron. But as winter faded reluctantly into spring, Harry became so used to Draco’s presence that it was weird when he wasn’t around. Twice a week, when Draco was in History of Magic, Harry and Hermione had a free period without him. During those times, the table in the library felt unbalanced, the scratching of Hermione’s quill an annoyance without Draco’s there to harmonise with it. Harry consistently came out of those particular free periods huffy and irritable, having accomplished precisely nothing.

But as much as he had become accustomed to Draco’s presence, Harry still wasn’t prepared for what came next, one Thursday in mid-March.

It was late evening. Harry, Hermione and Draco were holed up in the Gryffindor common room, tackling another gruesome essay for Defence Against the Dark Arts—they had moved on from blood maledictions and were now studying Manticores. Specifically, the various ways Manticores killed and mutilated humans.

Harry was halfway through writing a paragraph on Norvel Twonk, a wizard who had died saving a Muggle child from a runaway Manticore in 1957 (an incident that Harry wasn’t entirely sure was relevant, but he had to fill another fifteen inches of parchment somehow) when Draco, sitting opposite him, jumped violently. Crookshanks hissed and leapt from Draco’s lap.

Harry’s wand was in his hand in less than a second. “What is it?” There were no immediate signs of danger. Given the lateness of the hour, the common room was fairly empty, but several groups of older students were still lounging around, chatting or working. None of them looked remotely alarmed.

“Draco?” Hermione asked.

Draco was as white as a sheet, his eyes wide and fixed on a point across the room. Harry followed his gaze, but all he could see was the handsome grandfather clock that stood by the noticeboard. He was about to get up and investigate when Draco said in a very quiet voice, “It’s ten past eleven.”

Harry blinked. He had been expecting something much more in the realm of intruders and Dark curses. “It’s ten past eleven? What does that mean?”

“Oh,” Hermione said softly. “It’s past curfew.”

“So?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Curfew means you shouldn’t be outside of your common room. Not that you’ve ever paid any attention to such things.”

“I know what it means,” Harry said. “But so what?”

“Some of us prefer not to get into trouble,” Hermione said, looking at Harry with her eyebrows raised pointedly, as if there was an extra meaning that Harry should be picking up on.

Unfortunately, Harry had no idea what it could be. “Yeah, but the chances of being caught are pretty low, aren’t they? Even without—” He was about to say even without the cloak or the map, but though he had grown used to Draco over the last few months, he wasn’t sure he was ready to share those particular secrets just yet. “Without, er, knowing the castle as well as we do by now.”

“Why don’t you walk Draco back to Slytherin then, Harry? Just to make sure he doesn’t bump into anyone.”

Harry rolled his eyes and settled back into his seat. “No one will care about ten minutes. And if they do, it’ll only be a few points off. That can’t be the only reason you nearly gave me a heart attack?”

The quill in Draco’s hand began to tremble. He dropped it and tucked his hands beneath the desk. His skin had taken on a greenish tinge, as if he might throw up at any minute. Harry hoped he wouldn’t—he had worked hard on the first ten inches of his Manticore essay.

“You could both use the cloa—”

“No,” Harry said shortly. The thought of being hidden under the cloak with Draco made his stomach twist.

“It’s fine,” Draco said, oddly breathless. “I can— I’ll just— Potter’s right, the odds of being caught are—” He closed his eyes, shuddering.

Harry watched him with mounting bemusement. He’d almost forgotten about Draco’s weird reaction the time he’d got that note from Professor Vector—the way he’d frozen, the way he’d been shaken and subdued for the rest of the day. The bizarre way he was acting now felt similar—and similarly baffling.

Surely Draco wasn’t worried about losing a few measly house points? Hermione didn’t approve of breaking rules, no, but that was Hermione—and she was much more relaxed about that sort of thing these days. Wasn’t getting told off by a teacher something that even the most timid of students stopped worrying about by the time they hit third year? Harry certainly didn’t know anyone else who gave a shit about being out a few minutes after curfew—especially that year, when things like house points and detentions felt absurdly trivial.

“You could stay here for the night?” Hermione suggested.

Draco’s eyes shot open. “I could?” His gaze darted around the common room. “Do you think anyone would mind?”

“You can’t be serious.” Harry had always scoffed at his reputation as a careless rule-breaker, but if this was how normal people were about something as inconsequential as curfew, maybe he was a complete maverick. “You’d rather kip on one of our lumpy sofas and be woken up at six by the early risers than go back to your dormitory ten minutes late?”

“I didn’t mean the common room, obviously,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “People are coming and going all night, it wouldn’t be safe.”

Draco swallowed audibly.

“I meant he should just bunk up with you for the night, Harry.”

There was a beat of silence while Hermione’s words registered.

“What?”

“Well, the stairs won’t let him up to mine, will they?” Hermione said, then added as an afterthought, “Though, obviously, if I could, I’d…”

Harry pulled a face.

“Really,” Draco said weakly, “there’s no need for anything as drastic as all that.”

“It’s hardly drastic,” Hermione said. “The Hogwarts beds are huge. It’d just be the same as us sharing a room in the tent last year, Harry.”

It would be very different from sharing a room in the tent with Ron and Hermione. The thought of sharing a room in the tent with Ron and Hermione hadn’t made Harry’s palms sweat and his stomach drop. Whereas the thought of sharing his bed with Draco…

Harry chanced a look across the table. Draco’s face had gone from a sickly green to a soft pink. He was determinedly avoiding Harry’s gaze.

“Oh, honestly,” Hermione said. “Well, whatever you decide to do, I’m sure it will be fine. But all this talk of sleeping is getting to me.” She yawned exaggeratedly. “I think I’ll head off.” She collected her things together and stood, then awkwardly bumped a kiss to the top of Draco’s head.

“Well, goodnight!” She caught Harry’s eye and mouthed, Lend him the cloak!, then disappeared up the stairs to the girls’ dormitories.

Harry was not going to lend him the cloak. It was his dad’s cloak. Even if he trusted Draco with it (and he wasn’t sure he did), he certainly didn’t trust it in the Slytherin dormitory with Blaise Zabini one bed over.

And sharing the cloak? With Draco behind him, his breath on Harry’s neck, the heat of his body seeping into Harry’s back? No. Absolutely not.

Inspired by Hermione’s exit, a few other students drifted up to bed. The fire was beginning to die down. Harry twirled his quill between his fingers.

“To clarify,” Draco said, “I’m fine with the sofa. I’ve had worse nights.”

Harry nodded. He’d spent plenty of late nights in the common room before, and he’d been relatively undisturbed—the time he’d been woken by Dobby notwithstanding. And the sofa might be a little small for all six-foot-whatever of Draco, but it was comfortable enough, and it was by the fire, and, most importantly, it wasn’t Harry’s bed.

“Do you suppose Hermione was exaggerating? When she said it wouldn’t be safe?”

Harry snorted. “’Course she was. It’s a common room. Who does she think is going to be dangerous? The house-elves?”

“Right. Yes. That’s—good.”

Harry looked up from his quill. Draco was chewing the inside of his cheek, his gaze darting around the room—the portrait hole, the windows, the fireplace. His hair, as it always did in the evenings, was falling softly around his face, brushing his ears. It was extra mussed on one side from Hermione’s clumsy kiss.

“You can if you want,” Harry blurted, then clenched his jaw shut so abruptly that his teeth clicked audibly.

Draco’s gaze snapped to Harry. “What?”

Fuck. Harry could hardly take it back now he’d said it, could he? He shrugged, determinedly casual. “You can kip in my dorm. If you want.”

“Oh.”

“Because you never know,” Harry said in a rush, the words spilling out of him without his brain getting involved at all, “maybe it would be dangerous. Someone could wake up in the middle of the night and come downstairs and not recognise you and panic. Or some dickhead who considers themselves a vigilante might walk in on you sleeping, and might…I dunno. It’s better to be safe than sorry, right?”

Draco was looking at Harry with an entirely unfamiliar expression on his face.

“I mean, obviously, whatever you want,” Harry continued, desperately wanting to shut up but for some reason incapable of doing so in the face of that little chunk of Draco’s hair, messy from Hermione’s kiss. “But Hermione’s right, it wouldn’t be a big deal, really.”

Draco stared at him for a moment longer, which for some reason made strange things happen to the twisting in Harry’s stomach, then he said, “All right then.”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. “All right?”

Draco nodded. “If you’re sure that you—that you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all,” Harry said, for what else could he say, when he was the one who had offered? “Just to be on the safe side, right?”

“Yeah,” Draco said. “Just to be on the safe side.”

Chapter Text

If any of the students lingering in the common room noticed that Draco Malfoy was following Harry to bed, they didn’t mention it.

The two of them climbed the stairs in a stilted silence. When they arrived at the eighth-year landing, Harry gestured for Draco to remain quiet before he pushed open the door to the dorm, but he needn’t have worried—Seamus, Dean and Neville weren’t back yet.

“You have this whole room to yourself?”

“Nah.” Harry let the door fall closed behind them. “The others are always out late.”

“But it must be close to half eleven by now.”

“Yeah. Outrageous, isn’t it?”

He caught Draco’s eye, but Draco wasn’t smiling. Harry cleared his throat. “So, anyway,” he said. “Bathroom is through there. I can dig out some spare pyjamas, if you need…?”

Draco waved away Harry’s offer and made a beeline for the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him. Harry was left alone to change into his pyjamas (which had a hole in the armpit and suddenly felt unbearably shabby) and to contemplate his stupid life choices.

It must have been the thing he’d noticed before—that being part of a trio felt natural, that having Draco around almost felt like having Ron back. Yes, Draco was very different to Ron—quieter, nerdier, posher. But he made Harry laugh, and he was fun to tease, and Harry had watched him so intently over the last couple of months that he knew his habits and quirks back-to-front.

So that must have been it: when Hermione had kissed Draco goodnight, Harry had been reminded of Ron. And Harry wouldn’t have hesitated to share a bed with Ron if he needed a place to sleep. It wouldn’t be weird at all. So it shouldn’t be weird to do the same for Draco, really.

Except it was weird. Draco wasn’t Ron, and Harry was a fucking idiot.

The bathroom door squeaked open and Draco emerged, silhouetted against the light. “All yours.”

Harry pissed and brushed his teeth in record time. He came out of the bathroom to find Draco still standing awkwardly in the centre of the room.

Harry snorted. So much for this being the safer option. He dreaded to think what would have happened if Seamus had walked in to find Draco Malfoy waiting for him in the dark. Even Neville was a bit hex-happy after last year. It wouldn’t have been pretty.

“I didn’t know which bed was yours,” Draco said. “Also, your mirror is broken. Did you know?”

Harry raked a hand through his hair (that Draco had said he liked, that day at the lake) and pointedly did not look at what remained of the mirror on the back of the door. “That one’s mine,” he said, nodding to his bed.

“Right. Do you prefer a—a specific side, or…?”

“Not really.”

“Right.”

Both of them stood there, staring at the four-poster—Harry in his pyjamas, Draco still in his uniform. It was a big bed. It would be okay.

“I could go back to the common room,” Draco said.

“Don’t be stupid. Let’s just—”

Harry clenched his jaw, steeled himself, then got on the bed. Of course, he’d been so preoccupied with crossing the huge chasm between Floor and Bed that he’d neglected to actually get under the covers. He shuffled them down underneath himself and wriggled under, his face burning.

“Come on, then,” he said gruffly, when Draco continued to stand there looking lost.

“Right. Yes.” Delicately, as if it would collapse under his weight, Draco knelt on the bed.

“Here.” Harry held up the top of the duvet.

“Oh—no, it’s fine, I don’t need—”

“It’s March, dickhead, and we live in a castle. If you sleep over the covers, you’ll be freezing, even in your uniform. Get in.”

Draco made a small noise which could have been a hastily swallowed fuck, but he nodded and manoeuvred himself under the covers. Once he was settled, Harry took off his glasses and spelled the curtains around the bed closed.

“So the others don’t see you when they get back,” he explained, though Draco hadn’t asked.

“Yes,” Draco said. He was lying on his back, ramrod straight, staring determinedly up at the canopy above the bed. Harry shoved his wand under his pillow and rolled over so he was on his back too.

“Well,” he said, after a painful silence. “Goodnight.”

Draco let out a long, slow breath. “Goodnight, Potter.”

“You know,” Harry said, addressing the canopy. “You might as well call me Harry. Since we’re sharing a bed and all.”

Harry heard Draco swallow. “Goodnight. Harry.”

Silence settled around them. Neville came back twenty minutes later, stubbing his toe on his trunk and swearing softly. Half an hour after that, Dean and Seamus snuck in, whispering to one another as they changed into their pyjamas.

Through it all, Harry lay there, staring up at the canopy. Draco was so still and quiet that it would have been easy to forget he was there, if every cell in Harry’s body hadn’t been screaming with the knowledge of his proximity.

Proper sleep continued to elude him. But once Neville’s soft snoring began to fill the room, Harry found himself drifting into hazy daydreams. He imagined himself by the lake, playing catch with the Giant Squid. His limbs ached from lying so still, and the grey-blue of the water would be so cool and soothing. He wanted to submerge himself in it.

He had enough awareness to recognise that he was on the precipice of sleep. He had enough awareness to know he wasn’t going to reach it while he remained in the stiff, uncomfortable position he was in. He had enough awareness to direct himself to roll over so he could fall into slumber.

He did not have enough awareness to remember to roll away from Draco, rather than towards him.

He realised his mistake too late, once he’d already automatically shifted into his usual sleeping position, his knees drawing up and the covers bunched beneath his chin. Horror flooded through him at the blunder. The thought of drifting softly to sleep suddenly seemed laughable.

Harry lay frozen, his heart pounding. What would be worse: rolling onto his other side and potentially waking Draco, or staying still?

His heavy limbs protested at the thought of moving again so soon after they’d finally found comfort. Slowly, Harry let himself relax. He was not much closer to Draco now than he had been on his back, after all. It was just that now, with the moonlight filtering through the drapes, Harry could see him.

It was hard to tell if Draco was asleep. His eyes were closed, his breathing quiet and even, but he was in the same position Harry had been in for the last few hours: on his back, his arms by his sides, his legs together. He hadn’t moved or made a noise since they’d bidden each other goodnight—not when any of Harry’s dorm mates had come back for the night, nor when Harry had rolled over.

But surely, if he really was asleep, his mouth would have fallen open, or his head would have dropped to the side, or he would have been snoring. Nobody could look so bloody put-together when they were unconscious.

His hair had fully escaped whatever charm or potion he used to keep it neat. It fanned out around his head, a pale halo on Harry’s crimson pillow. His eyelashes were surprisingly long, and darker than his hair—brown rather than blonde. His eyebrows were the same colour—and were extraordinarily neat, now Harry was looking. Thin and arched, without a single hair out of place. Did he use a charm for his eyebrows, too? Or did they naturally grow like that?

His nose was long and narrow, and turned up into a point at the end like a ski slope. His top lip protruded over the bottom, adding to the slightly rat-like look of his face. His chin was sharp, and his Adam’s apple was prominent against the graceful lines of his neck.

What was it that Hermione found similar in them, that Draco and Ron were both somehow her type? Ron, although lanky, carried a sort of softness with him—in his freckles, his expressiveness, his easy smile. But though his skin was so smooth it looked velvety, Draco had none of that softness—he was all edges and points and precision.

When you thought about it, Harry mused, his eyes falling closed, Draco had more similarities to Ginny than Ron. They were both a bit sharp, a bit mean. Exciting, rather than comforting. He wouldn’t have thought Hermione liked that kind of thing.

Harry must have fallen asleep at some point, because he woke to the sound of Dean and Neville squabbling over the shower with the good water pressure. He didn’t move. Didn’t open his eyes.

He had been worried that he’d wake up cuddling Draco or something similarly mortifying, but there was no warm press of another body against his; he was still lying on his side, his knees bent, his arms clenched to his chest. Harry strained to listen over Dean’s triumphant crowing and the shower starting up, but he couldn’t even hear the sound of someone else breathing.

Harry’s eyes snapped open—had Draco snuck out in the middle of the night? Had Harry hallucinated the whole thing?—but no: Draco was there, in exactly the same position he’d been in when Harry last saw him.

His eyes were open, staring up at the canopy of the bed. He almost looked dead—but when Harry raised himself up to check, his heart pounding, Draco turned his head to look at him.

Harry froze. He felt like he’d been caught doing something weird and perverse. He couldn’t for the life of him think of a normal way to react to Draco’s steady gaze, so he just stared at Draco for a long, startled moment. Draco stared back.

The sun was streaming through the large dormitory windows. With the crimson curtains pulled tight around Harry’s bed, everything was bathed in a soft pink light. Harry hoped it would hide the flush he could feel heating his face.

He flopped back down onto his pillow and tried to resist the urge to pull the covers over his head. “Morning,” he muttered.

Draco didn’t react: didn’t say anything, didn’t smile. He just kept looking at Harry, his gaze darting over Harry’s face.

“Sleep okay?”

Draco shrugged. Finally, he looked away, refocusing on the canopy.

“Do you need anything from your dormitory before breakfast?”

“What’s that, Harry?” Seamus asked from across the room.

“Nothing,” Harry replied, raising his voice. “Just talking to myself.”

“Nutter,” Seamus said genially. “Anyway, I’m off to sweet-talk Jones before Defence, see if she’ll give me any tips on this feckin’ Manticore thing. See you at breakfast, lads!”

Neville and Dean shouted their goodbyes from the bathroom. Harry made a vague noise of farewell.

“No,” Draco murmured, once Seamus had left. “I don’t need anything from my dormitory.”

Harry was so taken aback by Draco’s voice—much deeper than normal, rough from the night’s disuse—that for a moment, he forgot what he’d even asked. “Right,” he said. “In that case, we can just stay here till Dean and Neville leave, then we won’t have to bother explaining anything.”

Draco closed his eyes. “Sounds good.”

It was a good plan, Harry thought. The other Gryffindor boys hadn’t said anything specifically against Draco since Hermione started going out with him, but Harry reckoned they’d still prefer not to be sleeping in the same room as him; Harry didn’t want to be the one to tell them he’d snuck Draco in overnight without asking.

But after another ten minutes of his skin tingling from Draco’s proximity while Dean and Neville got ready, he was beginning to regret his decision. If he had told them about Draco as soon as he woke up, if he’d said they’d fallen asleep before the others got back, they would have understood.

But now it was too late to say anything. He’d kept it quiet for too long. If they found out now, they’d assume—

“You not getting out of bed today, Harry?” Dean asked, a note of amusement in his voice.

Harry tried to make himself sound sleepy, despite being painfully awake. “M’working up to it.”

“Fridays are always hard,” Neville said sympathetically.

“I bet something is hard,” Dean snickered. “C’mon, Nev, hurry up. Clearly the poor bloke needs a bit of privacy.”

“Oh my god,” Harry said, his face heating so much that he was sure his cheeks would be the same colour as the crimson pillows.

“Have fun, Harry!” Dean said cheerfully.

“We’ll get Hermione to save you a few bits of toast in case you don’t make it to the Great Hall,” Neville said.

The two of them left, chortling. Harry didn’t move, paralysed by embarrassment.

“Well,” Draco said, “I’m happy to leave you to it, if you’d like some time to yourself.”

Harry looked over despairingly, but Draco was smirking, one neat eyebrow raised. “Fuck off,” Harry groaned. “Come on then, dickhead. I’ll never hear the end of it if we end up missing breakfast.”

Chapter Text

With NEWTs approaching, the seventh and eighth years’ conversations turned with increasing frequency to life after Hogwarts. Neville had already been offered a position as a greenhouse assistant under Sprout, which he was eager to start. (“Though my Mandrake-Tentaculas have been so bratty this month! If I can’t get them to behave, she might change her mind!”)

Dean and Seamus had plans to get a flat together in London. Seamus refused to make any kind of career plan (“I’ll get a job in a pub or something for a while, it’ll be a laugh,”) and Dean was thinking of applying for a position in the Department of Magical Games and Sports.

Nobody really asked Harry what he intended to do, since everyone knew he’d been offered a place in the Aurors and assumed he’d join up as soon as term ended. But Hermione seemed to have a different answer every time the conversation came up, as her main goal seemed to be overhauling the entire Ministry.

Draco, as usual, stayed quiet during these talks. It was only when Harry pressed him over dinner one evening that he confessed.

“I’m going to leave,” he said.

“Leave where?” asked Parvati, who was intending to work with Padma on setting up their own astrology-based cosmetics business.

“Britain.”

Harry frowned.

“Ooh,” Parvati said. “Where are you going to go?”

Draco shrugged. “Anywhere that isn’t here.”

Parvati looked from Hermione to Draco and tilted her head. She always did have an unnatural way of sniffing out potential gossip. It would make her a ferocious business owner. “Are you going to go with him, Hermione?”

“Not sure yet,” Hermione said lightly. She turned a page in An Insight into Alchemy and added, “Though obviously, if I stayed here, I’d travel to see him all the time. Otherwise I’d miss him.”

“Right,” Parvati said. “Long-distance can be hard. Is that why you broke up with Ron? Because he didn’t come back to Hogwarts this year?”

“What? No, that— I broke up with Ron to go out with Draco. I told you that already.”

Parvati hummed. “That must have been a difficult decision, though. Ron’s fit. Not that you’re not fit, Malfoy,” she hastened to add. “But Ron’s just—” She gestured to her own shoulders. “You know.”

“I know,” Draco said.

“Well, some of us aren’t overly preoccupied with looks,” Hermione sniffed.

There was an awkward silence while Hermione carried on reading, and everyone else absorbed the fact that she’d just implied she thought Draco was ugly.

“Don’t worry, Malfoy, I still think you’re fitter than my brother,” Ginny said, appearing at Harry’s side. “Here, budge up, would you? Gibson’s eaten all our mash again.”

Harry duly shuffled over to make room for Ginny, who began to dollop mashed potatoes onto a plate before she’d even sat down. He sneaked a glance at Draco, who was looking forlornly into his peas. Impulsively, Harry reached out a foot under the table and nudged Draco’s ankle. Draco’s head jerked up; Harry rolled his eyes towards Hermione and Parvati. Draco’s mouth turned up at the corners, ever so slightly.

“What about you, Ginny? What are you going to do after NEWTs?”

“Dunno,” Ginny said around a mouthful of potato. “Though Hestia—Professor Jones, I mean—is related to Gwenog Jones, from the Harpies, you know? Pass us the gravy, would you? Cheers. Anyway, she says that they’re gonna be recruiting for reserves over the summer. Might give that a go.”

“The Harpies?” Parvati said. “Is that Quidditch?”

“Yes,” Harry, Ginny and Draco said at the same time.

“Interesting,” Parvati said. “How would you feel about that, Harry?”

Harry blinked. “Well, the Harpies are an all-female team, so I don’t think they’d want me.”

But Parvati waved a hand as if he were being ridiculous. “No, no. I mean—how would you feel about Ginny playing Quidditch?”

“Er,” Harry said. “I would be happy for her?”

Ginny grinned at him.

“She’d be busy all the time, though. With—you know. Training or whatever.”

Harry frowned. “We’re not together, Ginny and me. You know that, right?”

Parvati raised her eyebrows and nodded, exaggeratedly serious.

“She’s onto us, Harry,” Ginny said through a mouthful of potato. “And there I thought we were hiding our secret epic love affair so well.”

“Oh no,” Harry said. “How has this happened. Please, Parvati, don’t tell anyone.”

“The media pressure is just so much, dating the Saviour!” Ginny held the back of her hand to her forehead, swooning sideways into Harry.

Parvati watched Harry shove Ginny upright with a deeply sympathetic expression on her face. Ginny snickered and flicked a pea at her.

Two days later, Ginny got dosed with Veritaserum.

Harry had dreamt about the lake again. He didn’t remember much, only the feeling of complete contentment as he floated on the surface of the cool water. But he woke early with a strange knot in his stomach that wouldn’t dissipate no matter how many times he tossed and turned and tried to drift back to sleep.

Eventually, he gave up and trudged down to breakfast.

It was early enough that the Great Hall was still fairly empty, but there was a group of chortling students at the far end of the Gryffindor table—a familiar fiery red head among them.

“Harry!” Ginny called, noticing him. “C’mere, you might be able to help.”

A few more faces resolved into familiarity as Harry approached—Demelza Robins, Jimmy Peakes and Ritchie Coote, as well as Anna Kowalski, who had replaced Harry as Gryffindor Seeker, and the other new Gryffindor team members, Ayesha Hassan and Uzoma Kariuki.

“You’re all up early,” Harry commented, taking a seat beside Demelza.

“Strategising for practice at lunchtime,” Ginny said briskly. “We’re up against Hufflepuff on Saturday and they just switched out Peterson for Summerby, remember him? I played him back in fourth year, that time Umbridge banned you. He was really good.”

“That Seeker with the eyebrows? You beat him, didn’t you?”

“Only by chance. He’s a bit slow in the head, but he’s quick as hell on a broom. I reckon our best bet is for Anna to practise feinting this week, what do you think?”

Harry blinked. When Ginny had been named Gryffindor Captain, Harry had sort of expected her to ask his advice on Quidditch matters. To his disappointment, she never had—and she had turned out to be a better and more focused captain than Harry ever had been. Harry had had to keep his opinions to himself—or mutter them to Hermione during matches, in response to which he would receive a vague, uninterested hum.

But now Ginny and the rest of the team were looking at him expectantly. Harry cleared his throat.

“Feinting would work a few times, but after a while even Summerby will catch on,” he said. He glanced at Ginny, who nodded. “You’ll still want to practise them this week, but you’ll probably also want to work on speed drills. What are you flying, a Cleansweep?”

God, but a healthy dose of Quidditch talk was exactly what he needed. The knot in his stomach loosened as he lost himself in tactics. He spent so much time being objectively thicker than Hermione and Draco that he’d forgotten how good it felt to really know something, to be confident enough in his own opinions that he could argue, that he could help.

The hall filled up around them, but Harry barely noticed. He had enough presence of mind to shoo people away from the jar of marmalade and the pot of coffee he was guarding, but he was otherwise blind to the comings and goings of the other students. It was only when Hermione and Draco arrived half an hour later, distracting him from the fierce debate about whether the Magpies or the Kestrels were performing better that season, that Harry realised he had yet to eat anything.

“Morning,” Hermione said, settling herself at the table and immediately helping herself to the marmalade Harry had saved for her. “Double Potions first thing. How do you think you did on the Wolfsbane essay, Harry?”

“Oh, that reminds me, I haven’t taken my contraceptive potion yet this morning,” Ginny said, then immediately flushed bright red. “Wow. Don’t know why I felt the need to share that. Sorry.”

“Nothing wrong with being safe,” Hermione said primly. “Anyway. I was just saying to Draco”—she touched Draco’s elbow, as if Harry didn’t know who “Draco” was—“do you think we’ll be doing more on Wolfsbane, or will we move on? I think another double period on it would be a bit much, personally.”

Harry usually had quite a lot of patience for Hermione’s morning schedule talk, but he couldn’t pretend that he’d rather theorise about the day’s curriculum than talk about Quidditch for what felt like the first time in months. He mumbled something vague and turned his attention back to the team—but he found that his mood had dampened. He contributed a few comments about the unreasonable dictatorship of the Magpies’ manager, but his heart was no longer in it. He kept getting distracted by stupid stuff—by the Ravenclaw girl lingering nearby with a quill and parchment, probably debating whether or not to ask him for an autograph. By Draco’s precise movements as he stirred sugar into his coffee. The clink his spoon made on the side of his cup.

Harry was just tired, probably. Tired and hungry. He poured more syrup into his porridge.

“The thing about the Magpies,” Ginny was saying, “is that they only care about winning the league. They have a whole new team every season. There’s no passion there.”

“Isn’t winning the league sort of the point, though?” Anna asked.

“Sure, if all you care about is glory,” Ginny said. “Not if you care about the sport.”

“That’s just something rubbish players tell themselves,” snorted Ritchie.

“I hope you’re including yourself in that group, the way you were flying the other day,” Ginny said, then clapped her hand over her mouth. “God, sorry, Ritchie. That was a shit thing to say, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Harry frowned. Part of the thing that made Ginny a good captain was that she was unerringly positive about her players—whereas Harry had never quite been able to hide his exasperation when someone hadn’t been performing well.

“I was having an off day,” Ritchie muttered, flushing.

“An off month, more like,” Ginny retorted. “Fuck, sorry.”

“Are you all right, Gin?” asked Demelza.

“I don’t know,” Ginny said, her eyes wide. “The stress of this Hufflepuff match must be getting to me. I think I’ll stop by the hospital wing before first lesson, see if Pomfrey won’t give me a Calming Draught. Though Mum told her that it was me who used to nick them from her supplies, she shut me down so quickly last time I asked for a dose—”

“Excuse me,” came a new voice. It was the Ravenclaw student who had been hovering nearby, her quill poised over a piece of parchment.

Harry tore his gaze from Ginny and braced himself for the Ravenclaw’s disappointment when he told her he didn’t do autographs—but it wasn’t Harry she spoke to.

“What’s your full name?” the Ravenclaw asked.

“Ginevra Molly Weasley,” Ginny answered promptly.

The Ravenclaw girl smiled. “What’s Harry Potter like in bed?”

Harry choked. “Excuse me—?!”

“Attentive,” Ginny said. “Really focused and intense, and quite a bit more vocal than you’d expect, though last time I saw him with his shirt off he was still too skinny and—”

“Silencio.”

Harry had never been happier to hear Draco Malfoy’s voice.

“Locomotor Mortis.”

The Ravenclaw girl squawked as her legs flew together, holding her in place. The parchment and quill flew out of her hand as she tried to keep her balance. Harry, stunned, caught sight of the words intense and vocal in shiny black ink as the parchment drifted to the floor.

“What on earth…?” asked Hermione.

“I think Weasley’s been dosed with Veritaserum,” said Draco.

Harry’s gaze fell on the jug of pumpkin juice that sat innocently by the side of Ginny’s plate. With a sick feeling in his stomach, he remembered handing it to her in the middle of a furious dissection of the incredible Reverse Pass that Uzoma had done during Gryffindor’s last match against Slytherin.

“Harry?” Hermione asked. “Did you check for potions this morning?”

“Fuck,” he said. “No, I didn’t. Sorry, Ginny.”

Ginny pulled a face at him, mouthing some choice words. Harry suspected it was a mercy he couldn’t hear what they were.

Hermione clapped her hands together and took charge, collecting the spiked pumpkin juice and casting diagnostic spells on all the other drinks. McGonagall (still head of Gryffindor, as well as everything else) came over to see what all the fuss was about; after a terse explanation from Hermione, she dragged the Ravenclaw student away for what Harry hoped was a severe punishment. Demelza went with Ginny to the hospital wing for a Veritaserum antidote.

And through it all, Harry sat there uselessly, cursing himself. It was one thing for his carelessness to put himself at risk. Like he’d told Draco a few weeks ago, everyone knew practically everything about him, anyway—including, now, the fact that he was vocal in bed, which was just fucking brilliant.

But that was the first time that someone else had been hit with one of the potions meant for Harry. Harry had already known about Ginny’s warning against Calming Draughts and her frustration with Ritchie Coote, but from the uneasy looks the rest of the team were exchanging, he suspected neither was common knowledge. What else would she have been forced to admit if Draco hadn’t been there—much more quick-thinking than Harry had been?

Harry glanced at Draco, meaning to thank him, but Draco had hidden himself behind the Prophet. Harry offered the newspaper a half-hearted glare (he suspected the Ravenclaw student who had slipped the Veritaserum into the morning’s pumpkin juice had been acting on behalf of a Prophet reporter—they were the most persistent with interview requests, even now) before turning miserably back to his porridge.

“Well!” Hermione sat next to Draco with an air of brisk competence. “That’s that dealt with. Really, Harry, I know it’s been a while since the last time, but that’s no reason to stop doing the diagnostic spells.”

“I know,” Harry said. “It was stupid. I just— I forgot.”

“Well. No harm done. And there’s still enough time before Potions to have a civilised breakfast. The others are only just arriving, look.”

Indeed, Neville, Dean and Seamus were stumbling into the Great Hall. None of them had been back in the dormitory by the time Harry had fallen asleep last night.

“Morning,” Dean said through a yawn as they plonked themselves at the table.

“You look like a Hippogriff shat in your cereal, Harry,” Seamus commented. “What did we miss?”

“Harry’s good in bed,” said Uzoma.

“Ah, cracking,” said Seamus. “Always believed in you, pal.”

“Erm,” said Neville.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Someone slipped Veritaserum into Ginny’s pumpkin juice.”

“And she said you were good in bed? Nice.” Dean paused, then added, “Is she still around?”

“Well, she said he was attentive and vocal,” Uzoma clarified.

“I take back every nice thing I said about your Reverse Pass, Uzoma,” Harry said.

“Vocal,” Seamus repeated, sounding impressed.

“Oh my god.”

“Let’s change the subject, shall we?” Hermione asked.

“Please,” Harry said.

“I wouldn’t mind hearing more about Harry’s vocal love-making, to be honest—”

“Seamus.”

“Draco,” Hermione said loudly. “Is there anything interesting in the paper?”

“Anything at all,” Harry said.

“Yaxley’s dead.”

“Oh,” Harry said. He thought about it for a second, then added, “Well. Good.”

“Let me see that.” Hermione took the paper from Draco, who seemed a lot more shaken than Harry thought the news deserved.

He remembered, suddenly, that Draco had been a Death Eater too. Maybe he’d known Yaxley. Maybe they’d been friends. He pushed his porridge away, suddenly not hungry at all.

“Yaxley,” Neville murmured. “That’s another one gone, then.”

“Oh, come on,” Harry snapped. “You can’t have been friends with him as well.”

“What? Course I wasn’t. What are you talking about?”

“He was a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight,” Hermione said, her eyes scanning the page. “It means the Yaxleys are the fifth Sacred line to die out in the last four years.”

“The Sacred…what?”

“It’s a pure-blood thing,” Neville said. “A list of twenty-eight families considered truly pure-blooded, according to some old coot in the 1930s. It’s nonsense, obviously.”

Draco let out a strangled little laugh.

“Oh,” Harry said. “I’ve never heard of that before. Are the Potters on there?”

“No,” Draco said. “Too much Muggle ancestry.”

Harry frowned. “But my dad was a pure-blood.”

“Yeah, that’s what I mean, it’s nonsense,” said Neville. “There are loads of pure-blood families that aren’t on there. But some people are weirdly into the sanctity of the list.” He put on a voice that was clearly meant to be his grandmother.

“I bet you love it,” Harry said to Draco, still bitter about the reminder that Draco had been a Death Eater—and that, at some point over the last couple of months, Harry had completely forgotten. “This Sacred List.”

“It’s not my favourite, actually.”

Neville hummed sympathetically. “Because of Hermione.”

“What?”

“Oh, because of my dirty Muggle blood,” Hermione said airily, closing the newspaper with a flourish.

“Cheers to dirty Muggle blood!” Dean said, raising his mug.

“Exactly,” Neville said, and Hermione snorted. “If Draco and Hermione get married, the Malfoys will be off the list, too.”

If Draco and Hermione get married. Harry shuddered. He imagined Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy sitting at the top table of a wedding with Mr and Mrs Granger. The porridge in his stomach suddenly felt like it had been replaced with boiling water. He clenched his fists. He tried to breathe.

“Which, as Neville said, would only be a problem for the most ridiculous and traditional of pure-blood cronies,” Hermione said primly. “No offence to your grandmother, Neville. To everyone else, it would show how much Draco has rejected the prejudices of his family.”

“Yeah!” said Seamus through a mouthful of bacon sandwich. “Fuck the pure-bloods! Although, speaking of fucking—to be honest, I’m still mainly thinking about Harry Potter: Vocal Shagger.”

Harry threw a pastry at him. It didn’t make him feel any better.

Chapter Text

Harry trailed after Hermione and Draco on the way to the dungeons, unsettled by the morning’s eventful breakfast. He arrived just as Slughorn opened the classroom door and ushered them inside.

“Welcome, welcome! Hope you’re all deliciously well-rested after the weekend! No, no, don’t sit down just yet!”

Harry froze, halfway through slumping into his usual spot next to Terry Boot. Everyone else also paused, in various awkward stages of taking their seats.

Slughorn beamed, clearly enjoying the confusion. “Last lesson, we finished our work on the Wolfsbane potion,” he said. “There’s one more potion on the NEWT curriculum that we have yet to cover. Can anybody tell me what it is?”

Hermione’s hand shot up. “Veritaserum, sir.”

Standing beside Harry, Terry Boot and Michael Corner snickered. Harry felt himself flush. He knew better than to hope they weren’t thinking about Ginny’s recent Veritaserum-prompted confession—gossip at Hogwarts always had travelled fast. But if people mocking Harry’s skinny body and embarrassing sex noises was the price he had to pay to stop them thinking too hard about why Ginny had been caught stealing Calming Draughts—well, that was fair. The whole episode that morning had been Harry’s fault, anyway. If he had just remembered to check the bloody pumpkin juice…

“Take ten points, Miss Granger!” Slughorn was saying. “Now, the reason I have you all hovering so nervously”—an indulgent chuckle—“is because to tackle this final potion, we’ll be working in groups. There are nine of you, so I’d like three groups of three, please.”

Hermione turned to look at Harry. Harry didn’t move. The image of a Malfoy-Granger wedding still lingered unpleasantly in the back of his mind.

“We will be working on the Veritaserum potion, yes, but we will also be attempting to formulate its antidote! So, choose your partners carefully, because you will be working closely with them for the next month!”

Ah, shit. As that morning had proven all too well, a Veritaserum antidote would be a very fucking useful thing to have. If he managed to brew a successful batch, it would keep everyone safe from the target that was painted onto their backs, just because they knew Harry. Terry Boot was good at Potions, but Hermione and Draco were better. And Harry did spend hours every day studying with them already…

He shoved the thoughts of weddings and Un-Sacred Offspring out of his head and sidled up next to Draco, just beating Ernie Macmillan, who was inching closer and eyeing Hermione hopefully. Draco jumped at Harry’s sudden appearance at his shoulder. Harry smiled blandly.

He knew a moment of doubt when he realised that Ernie—with his revision schedule and his enthusiasm—was an infinitely better choice of partner for them than Harry was. Hermione and Draco would be more than justified in shooing Harry back to the Ravenclaws—he had been the one to abandon them for Terry in the first place, after all. But Hermione smiled, and Draco nodded warily, and the three of them sat together at Hermione and Draco’s desk.

Once they were all settled (with Ernie perched on the very edge of his chair, sitting next to Blaise Zabini and looking horrified about it), Slughorn explained their assignment.

They were to be given the ingredients and the method for making Veritaserum, which they would need to brew perfectly within two weeks. Meanwhile, they would be tasked with working out the antidote for themselves, using their previous work on Golpalott’s Third Law.

Harry had a vague recollection of a stressful Potions lesson on Golpalott’s Third Law back in sixth year. If he remembered correctly, he had spent the hour miserably thumbing through the Prince’s textbook for help and had presented Slughorn with a bezoar and an empty cauldron and the end of it. He didn’t suppose that particular trick would work twice.

But Hermione and Draco both nodded as if this was a perfectly reasonable task, and by the end of the double period, they had the beginnings of a Veritaserum potion simmering away.

The antidote would come after. Harry had never been more anxious to get a potion right.

The Breakfast Veritaserum Incident sat heavily in Harry’s stomach for the rest of the day. Ginny wasn’t at lunch or dinner, but Ritchie Coote was—sitting alone, playing with his soup, his shoulders slumped.

It was Harry’s fault. He’d been distracted by Quidditch talk. It had been unforgivably careless. But it had just been so nice, being involved in a proper conversation. These days, Hermione only wanted to talk about schoolwork or the various ways she was planning on changing the world (just last week, she’d managed to convince McGonagall to rename the Fat Lady, who now went by Doreen), and Draco rarely wanted to talk at all. Happy to be back at Hogwarts, free from the worries of Voldemort, Harry had thought he was content with their quiet companionship. He hadn’t realised until that morning how bloody lonely he was.

But now he’d noticed it, it was undeniable—even more so that day, as snickers and suggestive noises followed him around the castle. Hermione rolled her eyes, told him to ignore them, and sternly reminded him that there were exactly ten weeks until exams. Draco, usually reliable for at least one murmured jibe, said nothing.

Meanwhile, Harry burned with guilt over Ginny, burned with the ache of missing Ron (who would have talked and laughed and made the whole thing seem as trivial as Hermione insisted it was), and burned with a simmering anger for no discernible reason at all.

When you notice yourself spiralling, try to find something to distract yourself with—something that will occupy your mind and give your body an opportunity to calm down.

“Wanna get a head start on the Veritaserum antidote?” Harry asked Hermione and Draco, who were in their usual spot—next to each other at the table against the wall in the common room, Harry across from them. Crookshanks, who still hadn’t forgiven Draco for startling him the other week, was nowhere to be seen.

Draco had been even quieter than usual that day, barely saying a word—barely even looking at Harry. So it was a surprise when he immediately nodded and said, “Yes, good idea. Let’s do that.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows, but she seemed to not want to scare away Harry’s uncharacteristic enthusiasm for getting homework done early and set aside her Ancient Runes essay without comment.

As distractions went, the Veritaserum antidote project was a good one. Harry had known it would be complex—that was partly why he’d suggested it—but it turned out to be a much bigger undertaking than he had anticipated.

The complicated concept of Golpalott’s Third Law wasn’t even the actual solution to the exercise, Hermione explained (and then Draco explained again, in simpler words).

“Because Golpalott’s Third Law specifically addresses the issue of creating antidotes to blended poisons,” Hermione said, “which Veritaserum obviously isn’t.”

“Obviously,” Harry said.

“So, the challenge is to figure out at exactly what stage of the brewing process the Law can be applied to Veritaserum, and then work out what the missing ingredient is at that point.”

“I think I get it,” Harry said. “That sounds hard.”

“That’s step one,” Draco said.

“Ah.”

“Right,” Hermione said. “From there, we’ll need to develop the mixture into something that will counteract actual Veritaserum.”

“Okay,” Harry said, a headache beginning to form at his temples. “How do we do that?”

Hermione beamed. “Well, that’s the challenge, isn’t it?”

Even with Draco’s quiet explanations, which usually made things resolve easily in Harry’s head, he struggled to understand how they would even begin to tackle the problem. The other two assured him that it would become clearer once they got further into brewing and tasked him with noting down any pages of Seven Hundred and Seventy-Seven Exhilarating Ingredients that mentioned truth potions.

It required just enough brainpower that it kept him occupied for a while. But after a few hours, the words began to blur, the ink winding across the page like the Ashwinders whose eggs, according to Seven Hundred and Seventy-Seven Exhilarating Ingredients, might be a useful addition to their potion.

“Someone must have written it up somewhere,” Harry said, taking his glasses off to rub his eyes. “It’s not like nobody has ever heard of Veritaserum. It’s not like nobody has ever brewed the antidote before. Ginny had some literally this morning. It’s stupid that we can’t just look it up.”

“I told you, it’s illegal to publish the recipe,” Hermione said absently. “Using Veritaserum in the Wizengamot would be pointless if anyone could make the antidote and take it before their trial.”

“Then it’s even stupider that it’s on the NEWT curriculum,” Harry grumbled. “They’re literally teaching it to us.”

“It’s assumed we won’t actually figure it out. We’re marked on our approach to the problem, not the outcome.”

Harry scoffed. “Bet Snape managed it. Bet he wrote it all down in the Prince’s textbook. God, I miss that thing.”

“Even if he had, following someone else’s instructions instead of working it out ourselves would be cheating.”

“Maybe, but it would mean that you’d get loads more time to revise other subjects…”

“That— Well, yes, that would be nice, but that’s not the point—”

“Fuck!”

Harry jumped. Draco was staring across the room, his eyes wide. Harry followed his gaze.

“Ah, shit.”

It was quarter past eleven.

“Oh, Draco,” Hermione said sympathetically.

Harry thought that was a bit rich. Oh, Draco? What about Oh, Harry? He was the one who was probably going to have to share his bed again. Who was going to have to lie there, tingling with the knowledge that Draco was inches away, his stupid hair fanning out all over Harry’s pillow, making it smell all different and posh.

He should extend the invitation now, get it out of the way. But Draco had been ignoring Harry all day. Harry didn’t see why he should be the one to broach the subject. He folded his arms and avoided looking across the table. See how Draco liked being ignored for a change.

“Harry?” Hermione prompted.

“What?”

Harry wasn’t looking at Hermione either, but he could still hear the disapproving purse of her lips when she said, “Are you going to offer to walk Draco to the dungeons?”

As it had two weeks ago, the idea of being under the Invisibility Cloak with Draco—of Draco’s body pressed against Harry’s, of both of them sharing air in the hot, confined space—made Harry shiver. It was far worse than the idea of sharing a bed, where they could at least pretend to be ignoring each other. “No,” he said.

“Are you going to offer to lend him—?”

“No.”

There was a moment of silence, wherein Harry continued to glare across the room, and Hermione continued to be loudly yet wordlessly disapproving.

“You’re being a baby,” she said finally.

Harry did look at her then, his mouth falling open. “Excuse me?”

“I thought we were getting somewhere over the last few weeks.”

“Ah—really, the common room will be fine, I’ll just carry on working—”

“Shut up.” For some reason, Draco’s quiet little comment irritated Harry more than Hermione’s disdain did.

“You’ve already done it once, I don’t see what the fuss is about,” Hermione sniffed. “It’s not like he cursed you in your sleep, is it?”

Harry gaped. That hadn’t even occurred to him.

Why hadn’t—

It should have occurred to him! It should have been his first argument! Why did he keep forgetting that Draco had been a Death Eater?

“Honestly, Potter, don’t worry about it. I really don’t expect the offer to be there a second time—”

“Of course the offer’s there, you tit,” Harry snapped. “Nobody said it wasn’t.” He wanted to add And don’t call me “Potter”, but that would be stupid. What did Harry care what Draco called him?

There was a long pause.

“Well,” Hermione said. “That’s good, then.”

Harry kept his arms folded, scowling.

“Shall we do a bit more work before bed, or…?”

“Let’s,” Draco said. “May as well.”

But the words winding over the pages of Seven Hundred and Seventy-Seven Exhilarating Ingredients refused to resolve themselves back into English, and Harry had achieved nothing further by the time Hermione put down her quill half an hour later.

“Well, I think we’ve made a very good start,” she declared. “What do you think, Draco?”

Draco’s neat eyebrows were furrowed, his pointy nose buried in whatever book was in front of him—Harry’s eyes were too foggy to make out the title. “Yes,” he said vaguely. “Though progress would have been quicker if they hadn’t let a halfwit write one of the only available books on mithridate theory. His grandson is just as useless, mind you—Norman Ugthorpe, he’s in the Portkey Office. You’ve never seen a more incompetent wizard in your life. Even the office Crup would do a better job than him.”

Despite himself, Harry smiled. It was always funny when a glimpse of the old chatty, critical Malfoy peeked out.

“That book is a little limited,” Hermione admitted—polite, as if the long-dead author might hear her. Harry preferred Draco’s way. “But that just shows it was a good idea to start so soon! Excellent suggestion, Harry.”

Harry shrugged. It had done the job of distracting him from what had happened with Ginny—and it felt good to be working towards something that could help to stop it happening again. But once Hermione had wished them goodnight and the initial awkwardness of getting into bed with Draco Malfoy—again—had passed, Harry was left with no more distractions.

As he stared at the canopy of his bed, painfully conscious of Draco’s silent presence next to him, Harry’s thoughts returned to that morning.

Ginny had told Harry about the Calming Draught thing last summer, after the Ministry had first insisted that Harry attend a course of Mind Healing sessions at St Mungo’s and Harry had raged about it for a solid hour.

Apparently, she’d taken them for years, Calming Draughts. Since her first year at Hogwarts—since the diary. And it had been fine, at first. Madam Pomfrey would give her one every few months, whenever Ginny had had a particularly bad day. It hadn’t been a problem.

But then in Ginny’s third year, there had been stirrings of Voldemort’s return, and Ginny’s bad days had got more frequent. Fuelled by memories of Riddle, Ginny would show up at the hospital wing every couple of months—sometimes more. Madam Pomfrey, growing concerned, had advised Ginny to find other methods of coping.

And Ginny had intended on doing just that. But then, that summer, Voldemort had returned. Suddenly, asking Mrs Weasley to investigate a course of Mind Healing for something that had happened years ago had felt silly when the rest of the family were having hushed meetings about death and destruction.

So, Ginny had got good at brewing it, and stealing it, and pacing herself, and all the while her memories of Tom Riddle had strengthened as Voldemort’s power grew.

She’d cracked the winter before last—the winter when Harry had vanished without a trace and every other Weasley was heavily involved in the war. With half the shops in wizarding Britain closed, potion ingredients had been hard to come by. It had got trickier and trickier to find safe spaces in the castle where she could brew it. She’d needed the potions more than ever. She hadn’t been able to get them.

Luckily, she’d been in Transfiguration when she’d collapsed, cold and sweaty and shaking. If she’d been in a Muggle Studies or Dark Arts class (she’d told Harry cheerfully, later), the Carrows would have taken the opportunity to torture her for disturbing the lesson. McGonagall was old and experienced enough that she had been unconvinced by Ginny’s insistence that she just had a cold, and had sat patiently until Ginny told her everything.

With characteristic ruthless efficiency, McGonagall had had Mrs Weasley at Hogwarts within the hour, and a meeting with a Mind Healer arranged for the following day. It had been a revelation.

And it had been a secret that nobody but McGonagall, Mrs Weasley and Harry had known, until that morning.

“You look even surlier than usual,” came a voice from Harry’s right.

Harry started. He’d been so caught up in his reminiscing—and his guilt—that the unthinkable had happened: he’d almost forgotten Draco was there.

“Just thinking,” he said.

“About what?”

Fucking hell. It was midnight, and they were sharing a bed, and now Draco wanted to talk.

“This morning. Breakfast.”

Draco made a soft noise in the back of his throat. “Yeah,” he said. Then he didn’t say anything else.

The others still weren’t back. Every rustle of bedsheets was loud in the quiet of the room.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Draco asked.

“No. I don’t know. There’s not much to say.”

“It could have been worse, at least.”

Harry snorted. “How?”

“Well, at least Weasley was complimentary. She could have said you were selfish, or rubbish, or…I don’t know, that you came too quick, something like that.”

It took a moment for the words to make sense. Then heat flooded through Harry, prickling up his chest, his neck, his face. Draco was talking about the other thing Ginny had said. The thing about Harry being…

“I’d be thanking that snotty little Ravenclaw brat, if it were me.”

“Thanking her?”

“Mmm,” Draco said. “If there was anyone left who didn’t fancy you, they probably do now.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry asked, after a long, incredulous silence. “Ginny wasn’t complimentary. She said I was vocal.”

“Yeah,” Draco said in a weird voice.

“Well then.”

“Well, what? It’s hardly a bad thing.”

“Oh my god. Of course it is. Everyone was making fun of me.”

“Who was making fun of you?”

“Seamus, for one.”

Draco laughed. “Harry,” he said, and some distant part of Harry was pleased they were back to first names. “He wasn’t making fun of you. He liked it. He was into it.”

Draco’s humour was often deadpan, but Harry thought he could identify the tone of voice and the slight lift of his eyebrow that meant he was joking.

Even with his glasses off, even in the dim light of the curtained bed, Harry could see that neither of Draco’s neat eyebrows were quirked.

“Don’t be stupid,” he said.

Draco propped himself up onto one elbow, frowning. “Are you serious?”

“Of course I’m serious.” Under Draco’s gaze, Harry’s face burned even more intensely. He felt like he was in danger of setting the pillow alight by the heat of his cheeks alone. “He wasn’t into it. Why would you say something like that?”

“Because I— Unlike you, I pay attention to those around me.”

“You weren’t paying attention to anything. You were hiding behind the paper.”

“Reading,” Draco corrected. “I was reading the paper.”

“Whatever. Though I don’t know why you bother. It’s full of shit, the Prophet.”

“Of course it is. But occasionally they print something good.”

Harry frowned. He thought it was good news that Yaxley was dead, but he hadn’t got the impression that Draco agreed. “Yeah? Like what?”

“Well. I was a fan of the little exposé they printed last month, courtesy of Zabini.”

“The one that called you clever and handsome and wonderful, you mean?” Harry snorted. “Of course you liked that one.”

“I’m not sure they put it quite like that—but why wouldn’t I like that they said nice things about me? It’s hardly an experience I have a lot these days. I mean—rightfully so,” he hastened to add. “But still. When you grow up as much of a spoiled brat as I did, the sudden lack of praise can be…”

He trailed off. Harry waited for him to continue. And eventually, he did—but all he said was, “Sorry. I was going on a bit, there.”

“No,” Harry said, though it had indeed been more than he’d heard Draco say for weeks—since the lake, probably. “I didn’t mind.”

“Generous of you,” Draco said, but still, he didn’t finish his sentence. He rolled onto his back, and they fell into silence.

Harry’s thoughts drifted back to breakfast, but after Draco’s teasing, the churning of his stomach had dissipated. “You know,” he said after a while, “I never thanked you for jumping in this morning. With the Silencing Charm and the Leg-Locker. It would definitely have been even more of a disaster without you there—I was just sitting there like an idiot. So…cheers.”

“Oh,” Draco said. “Well—you’re welcome. I mean, of course, you don’t have to…”

“No, I know. But I should have— I just appreciate it, that’s all.”

Draco let out a strangled sort of hum. Harry turned his head to look at him, but his expression as he stared up at the canopy of the bed was the usual calm blankness that Harry had come to expect. He was a bit pink, maybe. It was hard to tell.

Chapter Text

Over the following days, Draco’s unfinished sentence (“the sudden lack of praise can be…”) lingered in Harry’s mind.

It wasn’t like it was a surprise that Draco enjoyed being praised. Harry had vivid memories of him preening whenever Snape complimented his potion, or whenever a teacher awarded him a few house points for answering a question correctly. It was also unsurprising that said compliments had dried up after the Malfoys’ involvement in the war became common knowledge.

It was just that Harry had never thought about what that would be like. It had happened the opposite way with him: as a child, he’d heard nothing nice about himself at all—and then he’d joined the wizarding world, and since then had had a near-constant stream of people praising him for the slightest thing (even if it was tempered by a similar number of people calling him a nutjob).

Harry couldn’t say he enjoyed the cloying words of those who thought he was some kind of mythical hero. But he did wonder whether it wouldn’t be even worse, if he had to go back to the Dursleys now—now he knew what it felt like to be liked.

He had never really stopped watching Draco, but that week Harry watched him with this new consideration in mind. It was strange how little the teachers commended him, given that he was second only to Hermione in every subject. He’d give an answer that would have earned twenty house points for any other student, and all he’d get would be a terse nod. At the breakfast table, someone would ask for the toast, and when Draco would pass it to them, his only thanks would be a grimace and a vague noise of acknowledgement.

Even Hermione didn’t seem to realise. Harry supposed Hermione’s benchmark for brilliance was higher than everyone else’s, given her own intelligence and drive, but even so: she should really have been paying him a bit more attention, as his girlfriend. Draco needed someone to be nice to him. Everyone did.

So, Harry took it upon himself to loudly thank Draco whenever he passed Harry the syrup at breakfast, or held open the library door when Harry was following behind him. He mentioned again how good a teacher Draco was whenever he took an incomprehensible textbook passage and effortlessly translated it into stupidly simple terms. When they were outside on a wet Saturday in April, attempting to conjure butterflies from thin air for Transfiguration, he made sure to compliment Draco on his impressive green birdwing (even if, as Hermione pointed out, it only had four legs instead of six).

It started from a sense of duty. From the knowledge that, as aloof and well-adjusted as Draco was, nobody should have to go through life being as ignored and insulted as Harry had been at the Dursleys.

But it turned out that complimenting Draco brought with it several unexpected consequences.

The first was that it made Draco flustered, which was brilliant. Harry was not used to seeing him lost for words—he barely spoke, yes, but that was an intentional quietness. Whenever he was asked a question, his answer was short but prompt, delivered in a quiet monotone. But whenever Harry complimented him, he would blush, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly, making him look like a particularly pointy fish. Harry, thrilled, went out of his way to try to elicit said expression whenever he could.

The second unexpected consequence was that it made Draco meaner. Not towards Harry or Hermione—not towards anyone at all, really. It wasn’t the same meanness that Harry remembered, that targeted bullying viciousness. It was just a thoughtless sarcasm, a sharpness to his humour that Harry had thought had been worn away.

It was Draco, being himself again.

And Harry—

Bloody hell, he could never admit this to anyone.

Harry liked it.

It meant that Draco’s dark jokes—the ones that made Harry snort pumpkin juice up his nose and choke on his own spit—came more frequently. It meant that Draco started to tease Harry—tentatively in the beginning, the first Oh, come off it, Scarhead almost ending in a question mark, but with growing confidence as Harry grinned in response. It meant that Draco got slowly but surely chattier, his silences punctuated with more anecdotes, more opinions, more smirks—especially when they were out of earshot of everyone else.

That is to say, when they were in Harry’s bed.

The third time Draco realised he was still in the Gryffindor common room after curfew, it was a week into Harry’s complimenting campaign. Harry had pointed out the time, and Draco had let out a stream of curses and said, nonsensically, “I’m not doing this on purpose, I swear.”

The fourth time, a week later, Harry insisted that Draco borrow a pair of pyjamas instead of sleeping in his uniform. That had made Draco flustered, too, and Harry had grinned at the sight—the effect was even better when Draco was dishevelled, his hair falling out of place as it always did in the evenings, a white-blond contrast to the pink of his cheeks.

By the fifth time, Harry had started to think of the right side of his bed as “Draco’s side”, and by the sixth, the last of the earlier awkwardness had been overtaken by joking, snickering, and easy conversation.

Draco still wasn’t the thoughtless, snobbish, insulting Malfoy of Harry’s past. But once the curtains around Harry’s bed were closed, he was no longer the quiet, impassive Malfoy that Hermione had introduced as her boyfriend at the beginning of the year.

The difference between the versions of Draco became more marked each time he and Harry ended up sharing the bed. But it was only by the seventh time that Harry felt like Draco might answer if Harry asked him about it.

It was a Wednesday. They’d had double Potions that morning—their Veritaserum had finished brewing (it was perfect, naturally), but they had not yet cracked the puzzle of the antidote.

They were close, though. Harry had been devoting most of his study time to the task and, for some reason, Draco seemed just as eager. In a turn of events that nobody could have predicted, Hermione was the least enthusiastic of the three of them, making excuses whenever Harry or Draco suggested they work on the project.

Granted, Hermione’s excuses were often in the realm of “We’ve worked on it every night this week” and “We do have homework for other subjects, you know.” But Gryffindor had lost the Quidditch match against Hufflepuff, and Ginny had been much less animated than usual recently. Harry couldn’t help but think that if they could nail the antidote, they could make sure it didn’t happen again. Harry wouldn’t be responsible for any more of his friends’ suffering.

He and Draco were absorbed in finalising the design of an experiment they were planning to do next Potions lesson when Hermione cleared her throat and pointed out that it was almost midnight.

Harry sat back, rolling his aching shoulders. “Yeah, I suppose we should call it a day. I’ve nearly worn this quill out with all these bloody notes we’re making. You ready to go up, Draco?”

They had the dormitory to themselves, as usual. Harry was bracing himself for the day the others noticed Draco had been sharing a room with them for weeks, but Neville, Dean and Seamus were out so late every night that so far they’d managed to keep it quiet. They had their routine well-polished, just in case—that night, Draco was in his pyjamas on his side of the bed within a few minutes of them saying goodnight to Hermione.

Harry joined him soon after and immediately carried on talking about the plan for the antidote experiment. He reckoned it had a good chance of working—or if it didn’t, it would get them one step closer, at least. Hermione was certain they’d already done enough to earn them an O, but Harry didn’t care about the grade. He wanted the result.

Draco listened as Harry ran through the method again. Harry could hear himself rambling, but even though Draco was meaner now, he didn’t tell Harry to shut up. He just lay there, blinking slowly, making soft noises of agreement whenever Harry paused for breath.

It was funny—Harry had grown so used to their easy conversations when they were alone in the dormitory that it was actually weird, Draco being quiet. Harry faltered, midway through arguing with himself about whether they should ask Slughorn if they could borrow his gold cauldron for Monday’s lesson.

“What?” he asked. “Am I talking shit?”

Draco smirked. Harry knew that look; it meant Draco wanted to say Yes, like always—but instead, he shook his head. “No, I think you’ve got a good point. Gold would be better.”

“Do you think? I’m sure Slughorn would lend it to us.”

“You should ask him.”

“I will,” Harry decided, relaxing into his pillow. “Yeah.”

The moon was full again, and a strip of white light shone through a gap in the curtains. It hit Draco’s face, a bright line across one eye, one nostril, part of his mouth.

His mouth, which was still, unnervingly, closed.

Harry recalled being by the lake two months ago, raging about Draco’s newfound serenity and demanding to know what he was playing at, being so quiet. He supposed he didn’t blame Draco for not telling him anything then. But maybe now…

“Hey. Remember that time I stormed out to the lake and you followed me?” Harry asked. “A couple of months ago?”

“The day we were nearly murdered by an outraged cephalopod? I’m not likely to forget.”

Harry grimaced. He’d forgotten about the squid. “Has it been bothering you? When you’re in the dungeons?”

“What, the squid?” Draco laughed softly. “No, it hasn’t been bothering me. Maybe it knows I was just an innocent bystander, and you were the one attacking it.”

“Or maybe you made up that whole stupid story,” Harry countered.

Draco smiled with half his mouth, one corner of his lips quirking into a sly little smirk. He didn’t say anything.

The silence was the push Harry needed. “That day, when I was angry, I asked you why you don’t talk any more. You never answered.”

“Did I not?”

“No. You said something stupid to change the subject.”

“That doesn’t sound like me.” That half-smile still lingered on Draco’s mouth. “What stupid thing did I say?”

Harry grimaced, his face heating, but he wasn’t going to let Draco get away with embarrassing him into talking about something else. Again. “You said you liked my hair,” he said through gritted teeth.

Draco’s gaze raked over where Harry’s hair was tucked behind his ear, down to where the ends were tickling his neck and shoulders. “Why is that stupid?”

Harry stared. “Because it— You know why it’s— Look, that’s not the point.”

Draco was laughing again. Harry kicked him.

“Ow!”

“I just want to know how you managed to get all—you know. Self-composed. You’re so bloody well-adjusted now.”

Draco’s laughter abruptly stopped. “Well-adjusted? Is that what you think I am?”

“Well, apart from those times you get weird about breaking a school rule or receiving a note from a teacher, nothing seems to get to you any more.”

Draco was quiet for a long moment. Harry held his breath, waiting.

“Harry,” Draco said eventually. “I’m in your bed right now because the thought of being found in the corridors after curfew makes me want to throw up.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not well-adjusted. It just means you’re a big nerd.”

“I’m really not.”

“Whatever.” Harry rolled his eyes, far too used to Hermione’s preoccupation with what teachers thought of her to heed Draco’s denial. He nudged Draco with his toes. “Tell me why you don’t talk any more.”

Draco’s face made a complicated expression that Harry wasn’t sure he’d be able to read in full daylight, never mind in the dimness of the dormitory. “I suppose I don’t talk any more,” he said, “because I’m not…I’m not a very good person.”

Harry had been expecting Draco’s answer to be something like—he’d had meetings with his own Mind Healer last summer and had learned the path to inner peace. Or the end of the war had brought him a newfound confidence and he didn’t need to perform in the way he used to. Or even that he’d realised that if he was quieter, he could learn information about other people and use it against them.

“What?” Harry said.

“I’m a very shitty person, actually. You’re doubtlessly aware of that, which is why you were so convinced Hermione must have been under some sort of curse to have agreed to go out with me.”

Harry pushed away the memory of the notes he’d written to Hermione after she’d first told him about Draco. What are you thinking?? What could you possibly see in him??

“I was just surprised, about the Hermione thing,” he tried.

Draco gave him a look.

“It was surprising! Even you have to admit it was surprising. It’s reasonable that I was surprised.”

“It’s reasonable that you were surprised, because you know what an arsehole I am. No—don’t deny it, that’s not why I—” He took a deep breath and rolled onto his back, no longer looking at Harry. “Whenever I do anything, say anything, my instinct is to be selfish and manipulative and mean. It’s the first thought I have. And even if I try to stop myself and do something nice, I usually end up doing something awful, because I don’t know how to be nice. So until I learn how to stop being such an irredeemable cunt, I’m trying not to do anything at all.”

“Except make Hermione break up with Ron so you could go out with her?”

“I didn’t make—” Draco protested, but now Harry was the one laughing. “Oh, do shut up, Scarhead. But for the record, that wasn’t my idea.”

“I believe you. Hermione can be very determined.”

“You’re not wrong.”

With Draco on his back like that, staring at the canopy, and Harry on his side, staring at Draco, Harry was reminded of that first night they’d shared the bed—when Harry had let himself study Draco up close for what might have been the first time. The point of his nose. The fall of his hair. The lines of his neck.

Draco’s eyes had been closed then. Now, they were open, the moon lighting up the ring of grey around his pupils.

Something tugged at the back of Harry’s mind.

“You know,” Harry said, “I think there are people who are irredeemable. But I don’t think you’re one of them.”

Draco’s prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

“You’re definitely a cunt, though,” Harry added.

Draco let out a breath of amusement and turned his head to give Harry a sardonic look, one neat eyebrow raised. “You’ve always seen right through me, haven’t you?”

And Harry didn’t know whether it was that they’d just been talking about the lake, but he realised what the tugging at the back of his mind was.

The water that day, the day he’d thrown the rocks, had been a stubborn steely grey, flashes of blue reflecting the clear skies. It had reminded Harry of something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He’d dreamed about it since—dreams that were filled with cool contentment, but which left him with a knot in his stomach and a frown on his face once he woke.

It was probably a coincidence. But that almost-blue grey of Harry’s dreams, of his memory, was the exact same colour as Draco’s eyes.

Another nagging feeling accompanied the realisation. There was something else. Something Harry needed to know. Something he did know, but needed to remember.

Draco’s sardonic expression faded. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Harry said automatically. “’Course I am.”

“You seem a bit…”

“Just tired.”

“It is late. Shall we go to sleep?”

“Not yet. I…” Harry wanted to say something. But he didn’t know what it was.

Draco rolled to face him again. He didn’t speak. Just waited. He was quiet, because he was trying to be better. He didn’t want to fuck up. Harry knew what that was like, but he’d never quite been able to hold himself back, to stop himself from being thoughtless and impulsive.

Case in point:

“Do you really like my hair?” It was a stupid question. Harry didn’t know why he’d asked it—he didn’t care one bit about his hair. He never had.

But it made Draco smile. “Yeah,” he said. He reached out and brushed a stray curl off Harry’s forehead, lingering over the scar. His fingers were soft. Harry had known they would be. Soft and cold.

“Your hand’s freezing,” Harry said.

Draco flinched away. “Fuck, sorry. I don’t know what I was—”

“It’s fine.” Harry grabbed Draco’s wrist and tugged his hand back to the tangle of his hair. “I don’t mind.”

Everything had gone still. There were no sounds, no people in the whole world outside of the curtains around Harry’s bed.

Achingly slowly, Draco pushed his fingers into Harry’s hair. Ginny was the only person who had ever touched Harry like that. Harry suddenly found it difficult to keep his eyes open.

“Why did you decide to grow it?”

“Mmm?”

“Your hair,” Draco said. Then, quietly, affectionately, “Idiot.”

“Twat,” Harry responded automatically. “I didn’t decide anything. It always used to stay the same length, ever since I was a kid. It just grew like this last year, when I was…”

“On the run, hiding from my lot?”

“I was trying to think of a way of not putting it like that.”

“I know. I didn’t want you to hurt yourself, trying to get your brain to work.”

Harry laughed. “You know what you were saying, about how your instinct is to be mean?”

Draco froze, his fingers still tangled in Harry’s hair. “You’re right. Sorry.” He made to withdraw, but Harry shot out a hand to stop him.

“Don’t be sorry,” Harry said. “I like it.”

Draco was holding himself very, very still. “Harry…”

The bed lurched, and everything slotted into place.

The thing nagging at the back of Harry’s mind. The dreams, the compliments, the flares of inexplicable anger. The absent way Harry would lose himself watching the small quirks at the corner of Draco’s mouth, the way his hair fell around his face in the evenings, his pink cheekbones when he was flustered. His quick humour. His quiet cleverness. His patience as he explained incomprehensible textbook passages.

“Oh, shit,” Harry breathed.

Harry wanted him.

They were sharing a bed, thick crimson curtains cutting them off from the rest of the world. Their faces were less than a foot apart, Draco’s hand was in Harry’s hair, and Harry wanted him.

It was ridiculous. It was stupid. It was undeniably true. Harry’s brain whirred, revisiting every moment he’d felt off-kilter over the last few months, and suddenly it all made sense. Fuck, Harry wanted him.

Draco was so still and so close. The moonlight was falling on the side of his face, lighting up his hair. It was like he was under a spotlight, as if the universe was mocking Harry: Look! He’s right here! He’s right here, in your bed!

Harry couldn’t stop staring.

And perhaps staring is all he would have done, if Draco’s gaze hadn’t dropped, just for a second, to Harry’s mouth.

Draco had been right: maybe it would have hurt, getting Harry’s brain to work. It certainly wasn’t working then. Harry was operating on pure instinct when he closed the short distance between them, nudged that little upward peak of Draco’s nose and brushed their lips together.

Draco’s hand tightened in Harry’s hair. He let out a shaky breath.

Then, slowly, he kissed back.

It was like Harry’s first kiss all over again. It was exactly like Harry’s first kiss, in fact—both were tentative, sending excitement shooting through him, the thrill of I can’t believe this is happening, the elation of god, I didn’t realise how much I wanted this.

And both came laced with guilt. With Cho, because she’d just been crying over Cedric. And with Draco, because—

Harry broke away. He rested his forehead against Draco’s. Draco’s hand shifted to Harry’s neck. His fingers were warm now. “Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Draco said, his voice low. “I liked it.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut against the desire that rushed through him. He was saved from having to respond by the opening of the dormitory door, and the sound of Dean and Seamus returning from whatever empty classroom they’d found to fuck in.

Harry had known about Dean and Seamus for months. They weren’t subtle about it—said they didn’t see the point of hiding anything, after what they’d all been through last year.

Harry understood. And he was happy for them. But after months of walking into the dormitory to the sound of Seamus’s moans, Dean’s grunts and the slap of skin-on-skin, Harry and Neville had gently asked if there might not be an alternative arrangement. Seamus had cheerfully called them frigid prudes, but since then, Dean and Seamus had taken their after-dark activities to various classrooms around the castle.

Harry hadn’t really thought about it since he’d stopped walking in on it. But just then, Draco’s warm hand was on Harry’s neck, their foreheads were pressed together, and the reminder that Harry’s friends had just had sex—that having sex was a possibility—sent heat twisting thickly through Harry’s gut.

It was absurd how much he wanted this. It was ridiculous. Harry would laugh, if it weren’t for—

His eyes snapped open. Draco was moving, shifting closer. He was being slow, careful, but it was still a surprise when his knee nudged against Harry’s.

That’s all it was: a nudge. It was Harry who took a shaky breath and responded, moving closer so their lower legs were pressed together, their bare feet touching.

Draco moved so his lips were next to Harry’s ear. “Are you all right?” he breathed.

Harry’s mouth skimmed Draco’s jaw. Draco’s hair, falling over his face, brushed Harry’s cheek. Harry’s pillow had smelled of it for weeks. It was sweet. Spicy. Vanilla and clove. “I don’t know,” Harry whispered back.

There was a ghost of a kiss to the side of Harry’s face. “Do you want to stop?”

The truthful answer was no, Harry didn’t want to stop. New urges—urges he’d had a while without realising—were thrumming through him.

He wanted to push Draco onto his back and kiss him properly, deeply, drinking in every little sound he made. He wanted to dig his fingers into Draco’s hair the way Draco had done to him. He wanted to drag his mouth down that long, pale neck, over that pronounced Adam’s apple, and find out if Draco tasted as good as he smelled. He wanted to discover which touches made him gasp, which made him squirm, which made him huff with ticklish laughter. He wanted to push his knee further forward, parting Draco’s legs and pressing closer, closer, until their crotches were flush together and Draco could feel exactly what his lips against Harry’s skin was doing to him. He wanted to yank up Draco’s pyjama shirt—Harry’s pyjama shirt, he was wearing Harry’s pyjamas—and run his hands over the smooth skin of his sides, his back, his stomach.

But he couldn’t put off thinking about—

He’d already done too much, at some point he was going to have to think about—

“Draco,” Harry whispered, very aware that Dean and Seamus were getting ready for bed only a few feet away. “We can’t. Hermione.”

“Herm—? Oh. Oh, fuck.”

Harry agreed wholeheartedly: oh, fuck indeed. What had he done? What was he still doing, all but wrapped up in Draco? Wrapped up in Hermione’s boyfriend?

He pulled away, putting some distance between them.

The dormitory door opened again.

“Oh, hi, you two. Didn’t think you’d still be up,” Neville said.

“Shh,” Dean hissed. “Harry’s asleep.”

“Oh, right,” Neville whispered, not any quieter.

Harry wanted to scream. Inches away from him—too close, too far—Draco’s lakewater eyes were wide.

I’m sorry, Harry mouthed at him, but if anything, Draco’s expression of dismay intensified.

Harry had always quite liked sharing a dormitory with other people. It was nice to be surrounded by friends after you’d spent years alone, locked in a cupboard.

But just then, he hated it. He wanted to tell Draco that it wasn’t his fault—Harry was the one who had started it. He wanted to say that it had been a mistake, that he was sorry, that he wouldn’t tell Hermione unless Draco wanted to.

But he couldn’t say any of these things, because there were three other people in the room. Three other people who didn’t realise Harry had been sneaking Draco Malfoy into his bed for weeks—had been keeping it a secret, had enjoyed seeing Draco in Harry’s pyjamas, had been studying him in the moonlight, wondering how soft his skin would be if Harry were to touch it.

Instead, Harry forced an apologetic smile and rolled over so he didn’t have to look at Draco’s horrified face any longer.

Neither of them fell asleep for a very, very long time.

Chapter Text

Draco had kissed Harry Potter.

He’d—fucking hell. Fucking hell! He’d kissed Harry Potter!

He’d kissed Harry Potter once and couldn’t do anything else, because Harry Potter thought Draco was in a relationship with Hermione Granger.

Fuck!!

This was typical of Draco’s bloody awful luck, his bloody awful choices. He just couldn’t stop sabotaging himself, no matter what he tried.

And he’d really thought he’d been getting somewhere. It had been three and a half months since Hermione had walked in on Draco and Archie Campbell (another awful choice—but one with incredible arms, at least). It had been three and a half months since Draco had agreed to Hermione’s ridiculous, outrageous idea in a fit of panic-induced desperation—willing to try anything, willing to trust that Hermione Granger, at least, would make the right decision.

And it had gone okay! It had gone well! The other students had mostly stopped treating him like he had murdered somebody (he’d actually been too much of a cowardly piece of shit to murder anyone, thank you very much), his marks were the highest they’d ever been thanks to all the bloody studying Hermione did, and there had been that article in the Prophet—that unbelievable article, the one that talked about Draco as if he wasn’t destined to live under the shadow of his father for the rest of his life. The one that talked about him as if he might eventually be worth something.

All in all, this “going out with Hermione” farce had seemed like it might have actually been a good idea.

Until Harry Potter had kissed him—and then had looked like he was going to be sick.

Harry Potter had kissed him Harry Potter had kissed him Harry Potter had kissed him!!

What would have happened if Harry had known the truth about Draco and Hermione? Draco had spent the whole night torturing himself by imagining it. Would they have kissed more? Would they have gone further? Would they have risked it, with the other Gryffindors asleep in the same room, their snores mixing with the sounds of Draco taking Harry apart…?

Fuck.

Fuck.

Draco had…

Harry Potter had…!

For as long as he could remember, Draco had been lonely enough (and fixated enough on his own hopeless homosexuality) that he’d developed a crush on basically every wizard who: (a) could string a full sentence together, and: (b) wasn’t an active murderer.

When Draco had been twelve years old, he’d sent an anonymous Valentine’s card to Professor Lockhart. It had been three feet of parchment long, made up of two halves: the first, a long and involved confession of his secret feelings towards members of his own sex; the second, the script of a romantic play set over a period of ten years. Lockhart was the protagonist; Draco was the protégé-turned-love interest.

At fourteen, he had developed a single-minded obsession with Henri Moreau, one of the boys visiting from Beauxbatons during the Triwizard Tournament. They never once spoke—but on several occasions, Draco had seen him coming down a corridor and had switched, mid-conversation, to speaking in loud French, leaving Crabbe and Goyle looking even more confused than usual. (Alas, no matter how many times Draco had tried, Henri had never gasped and rushed over, and Draco’s dreams of an illicit romance starting with the words Mon dieu, what iz zis, an Englishman wiz such parfect French? had not become a reality.)

At sixteen, Blaise Zabini had become Draco’s first everything: kiss, blowjob, fuck. Zabini had seemed to think of it as an idle exploration, something vaguely amusing to pass the time. Draco, of course, had fallen deeply in love almost immediately. Given Zabini’s penchant for cruelty, it had probably been a blessing that as the year progressed, Draco’s interest in sex had dwindled. But nonetheless: without conscious thought, he’d always maintained a mental list of wizards he was interested in.

At eighteen, Archie Campbell was number four on said list. Number three was Quentin Harper, the Slytherin Quidditch captain, and number two was Myron Wagtail, the lead singer of The Weird Sisters.

In the number one position, a spot he had held for many, many years, was Harry Potter.

Harry Potter, with whom Draco had been shoved into an unlikely trio, courtesy of Hermione Granger and her grand plans.

Harry Potter, with whom Draco had been regularly sharing a bed for the last six weeks.

Harry Potter, who had grown his hair out until it represented everything Draco could never be: careless, unapologetic, wild and free and sexy. Who had saved the fucking world less than a year ago. Who had been driving Draco mad, watching him and complimenting him and laughing at his jokes.

Harry Potter, who had kissed him.

Fuck, Draco needed to talk to Hermione. He needed her to tell him what to do. She’d have the answer. You only needed to glance at the extensive list of things she’d done over the last few years to know that she always had the answer. Whereas, if you glanced at the list of things Draco had done…

There was a shuffling of bedsheets and Draco tensed. He had his back to Harry, his nose practically brushing the drapes, but it was easy to picture what Harry looked like waking up: his eyelids heavy, pink lines on his cheek from the creases on his pillow, dark stubble on his jaw, his hair a sexy fucking disgrace.

Harry let out a long, slow exhale.

Had he woken up as hard as Draco had been all night?

The mornings in the Gryffindor dormitory had been improving. What had started off as painfully awkward had become a slow exchange of smiles while the other boys bickered; the occasional exciting brush of skin as they stretched and yawned; Draco hiding the twitching of his dick with a smirk whenever Thomas joked about Harry’s wanking habits. But that morning, the awkwardness had returned a thousandfold, pressing Draco into the mattress as if there were a heavy stone sitting atop him.

Harry Potter had kissed him.

“You awake?” Harry whispered.

Draco had been awake for hours. He’d drifted off at some point in the early morning, and his dreams had been drenched in the feeling of Harry’s breath on his skin, of the sensation of his hair tangling between Draco’s fingers, of the tantalising thought of what could have been if only—

Then he’d woken in a panic, terrified that he’d grab Harry in his sleep and—well. He’d decided he’d rather stay awake and spend Thursday in a haze of tiredness than risk it.

But he didn’t want Harry to know that. Harry had seemed horrified last night. The least Draco could do was pretend to be unaffected by the whole thing.

At least, until he spoke to Hermione. Hermione would fix everything.

Said strategy was all very well and good, except that it was still hellishly early. Draco lay as still as he could, painfully aware of every rustle of bedding, every movement of the mattress, every one of Harry’s tiny, bitten-off sighs.

Soon. He’d talk to Hermione soon. He’d talk to Hermione, and she’d tell Harry everything, and then—

He couldn’t let himself think about and then. He couldn’t let himself hope.

It felt like days passed before the other Gryffindors started to stir. Draco carried on pretending to sleep, even when one of them said good morning to Harry and Harry replied in that faux-sleepy voice that made Draco clench his hands into fists lest he reach out to touch him.

It was only after the others had left that Draco rolled over.

“Hi,” Harry said, a little breathlessly.

Draco clenched his fists again. “Good morning.”

“Listen. About last night—”

“It’s fine,” Draco said quickly. He didn’t want to lie to Harry—not any more—but he needed Hermione there before he tried to say anything. She’d be able to word it so much better than Draco. She’d be able to explain it all in a reasonable way that didn’t make Draco sound like a lunatic.

“It’s not fine,” Harry said, frowning. “I don’t know what came over me, I’m really sorry—”

“Harry.” Draco’s traitorous hands unclenched and reached out to touch the bare skin of Harry’s arm. He was warm, smooth. Remember when you kissed him? Draco’s brain supplied unhelpfully. “Don’t worry about it. Really.”

“But—”

“Really.”

Draco held Harry’s gaze for a long moment. Eventually, despite looking as if someone had just kicked his Crup, Harry nodded.

By that point, Draco was an expert at hurried cleaning and grooming charms; it took him less than five minutes to be ready to leave. Harry took longer—opting for a shower rather than a charm, perhaps specifically to torture Draco—so by the time they arrived at the Great Hall, breakfast was nearly over. Even so, they were still there before Hermione. Going by his expression, Harry couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or worried.

“She’ll be in the library,” Draco told him as they picked an empty spot at the far end of the Gryffindor table.

“You get no points for guessing that if it’s true.”

“Do I get points for guessing that she’ll be double-checking her Arithmancy homework before first period?”

“Hmm.” Harry pretended to consider it as he checked the pumpkin juice for potions. “Half a point, maybe?”

“I’ll take it. Let’s find out.” Draco nodded to the double doors, through which a harried-looking Hermione had just appeared, scanning the table for them. He raised a hand at her and grabbed a jar of marmalade to put next to her plate.

“You really like her, don’t you?”

Draco frowned at Harry, who was staring forlornly at the jar of marmalade. “Well, I. Yes, I suppose.” It was a startling revelation—one he wouldn’t have seen coming four months ago. But it was true: he did like Hermione. She was bossy and overbearing and nosy, but she was also determined, kind and razor-sharp. And she was helping Draco, when she would be justified in hexing him on sight every time their paths crossed.

Harry let out a sad little sigh and Draco realised how his response must have sounded. “I mean,” he said quickly, “I like her in the way that— In a very, you know— Not necessarily how you might be thinking—”

“Who’s thinking what?” Hermione asked, heaving her bag onto the bench and joining them.

“We were just wondering where you were,” Harry said.

Hermione put two pieces of toast onto her plate and reached for the marmalade jar, as Draco had known she would. “I just nipped to the library to check over my Arithmancy homework against a different textbook before the lesson. I’m still not entirely comfortable with Aramaic methods of reduction. I got an awful mark on the mock exam we did last week.”

Draco quirked an eyebrow. “You got an O.”

“Yes, but it was a low O,” Hermione said, perfectly sincere.

Draco glanced at Harry, used to exchanging meaningful eye contact whenever Hermione was Like That, but Harry was frowning at his porridge.

Draco cleared his throat. “Glad you’re here now, anyway,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Harry looked up so fast that Draco was surprised he didn’t sprain his neck.

“Oh?” Hermione asked.

“Yes,” Draco said. But what was a polite way of wording I kissed your best friend, who incidentally thinks you and I are in a relationship, and I would quite like to kiss him some more, so can you please tell him our relationship is a farce to get me good press so he doesn’t feel guilty about that one kiss we had, and might even consider more kissing? when one was at the breakfast table, surrounded by other students? “About Harry, actually.”

“Oh my god. Are you really— Right now?”

Draco shushed Harry with a wave of his hand.

“Is this about the Veritaserum project again?” Hermione sighed. “I’ve told you, I really don’t think finding the actual antidote is achievable. Though I suppose I could help a bit tomorrow afternoon during the free period, if you need it?”

“Oh—no, actually, I think we’re all set there. We’re going to try asking Slughorn to use his gold cauldron for the next experiment. Harry’s idea—the copper ones could have been reacting with the Bundimun secretion.”

“Oh, that’s a thought. Do you think he’ll let you borrow it?”

“Well, not if I ask, obviously, but I doubt he’d refuse a request from the Boy Who Brewed—”

“He’ll make you go to a Slug Club party in exchange, Harry,” Hermione said with a smirk.

Harry pulled a face. “It had occurred to me.”

“Anyway,” Draco said, “that’s not what I wanted to talk about—”

“What’s that? You’re finally coming to a Slug Club party?” Ginny Weasley appeared, as she always seemed to, out of thin air. She leaned over Harry’s shoulder and grabbed a pastry from the middle of the table. “Thank god. Zabini keeps chatting me up at them—you can keep him away with your fierce Saviour glare.”

Draco pressed his lips together, working hard to suppress a glare of his own. In the old days, he would have told Weasley to fuck off, that they were trying to have a conversation, that she had her own friends and he didn’t see why she kept feeling the need to bother them.

Instead, he kept his face blank and his mouth shut. He poured himself a coffee and waited for her to leave.

“I don’t want to go to a Slug Club party,” Harry told her. “But I need a favour off Slughorn, so…”

“So you might be Slughorned into going,” Weasley said understandingly.

There was a pause.

“Slughorned into it?” Weasley said. “Like shoehorned into it? No?”

Spiteful glee flared in Draco’s chest. Harry always laughed at his jokes.

He kept his gaze down, measuring out three teaspoons of sugar. If they all ignored her, she’d get the hint and go away.

Harry, unfortunately, did not seem to be on the same page as Draco. “Does Zabini really bother you?” he asked.

Weasley laughed the sickening carefree laugh of the comfortably confident. “If I said yes, would you scare him away for me?”

She was probably batting her eyelashes. Probably resting her hand on Harry’s bicep. Draco’s teaspoon clinked against his cup.

“I can have a word with him,” Harry said.

Weasley snorted. “Nah, I’m just kidding. Would be good to have you there, though. The next one’s the first weekend in June.”

“You can’t possibly go to that, either of you!” Hermione said. “That’s right before exams!”

“Is it?” Weasley sounded unconcerned. “When do they start, again?”

Draco did look up then, so he could properly appreciate the disgusted expression on Hermione’s face.

Weasley cackled. “Well, let me know! If you’re coming, I’ll need to prepare a Stomach-Soothing Potion beforehand so I don’t throw up from everyone fawning over you.”

“Make sure you bring an extra one for me, yeah?” Harry asked.

Weasley saluted and finally made her way to the other seventh years.

“Right, as I was saying—”

“She seems a bit chirpier,” Hermione commented.

“I suppose,” Harry said, frowning after Weasley.

Draco fondly pictured himself snapping his fingers in front of Harry’s face to recapture his attention. But his moment of distraction cost him.

“Anyway, not a bad day today,” Hermione said. “Defence Against the Dark Arts just before lunch—did you both finish the reading on parasitic corporeal possession?”

“Wish I’d had a Stomach-Soothing Potion for that,” Harry said.

“Yes, it was a bit much, wasn’t it? Then it’s just you and me for the afternoon, Harry—Herbology and Charms.”

“Actually,” Draco said, “while we’re on the subject of the long and trusted friendship between the two of you—”

“Hang on,” Harry said. “You haven’t been dosed with Veritaserum, have you, Draco?”

“What?”

“I just— I don’t want you to say anything that you, er—that you don’t actually want to say. Maybe I cast one of the spells wrong.”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said disapprovingly.

“I haven’t been dosed with Veritaserum!”

“Are you sure?” Hermione asked. “Say something false.”

Several laughable possibilities flashed through Draco’s mind. I’m dating Hermione Granger. Harry Potter didn’t kiss me last night. I’m exactly as well-adjusted as Harry seems to think I am and I’m as confident and carefree as Ginny Weasley.

“My name is Rita Skeeter,” Draco said.

Hermione tutted. “That harpy.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “Well, then I suppose you can… Obviously, yeah, you should—”

“Oi, Potter!”

“What now?” Draco snapped. This was ludicrous: he had stopped himself from talking all year, and now he was actually trying to speak, nobody was letting him!

Finnegan gave him a funny look—but like the other Gryffindor eighth years, he was far too used to pretending Draco wasn’t there to acknowledge his rudeness any further.

“Dean just reminded me, it’s a Hogsmeade weekend in a few days,” he said instead, addressing Harry. “You coming? I need a Zonko’s run and could use the ‘I’m mates with HP’ discount.”

“I dunno,” Harry said. He glanced at Draco and Hermione. “Are you two going?”

“Oh—yes,” Hermione said, a slow smile spreading across her face. “But I was hoping it would be a bit more of a couple’s trip, you know.”

She meant that she was going to leave Draco in whatever quiet corner of the village he could find while she Apparated away to spend the day fucking Ron Weasley.

Harry looked like he was going to be sick again. Draco knew the feeling.

“Right,” Harry said. “Sorry Seamus, I think I’ll probably stay here. Homework, you know.”

“Granger, you’ve feckin’ ruined him,” Finnegan said, pointing an accusing finger at Hermione. “Homework. He’s the saviour of the world. The hero of wizarding Britain. The former rule-breaking champion of Gryffindor. And you’ve made him want to stay inside on a lovely spring weekend and do homework.”

“It might still be raining, anyway,” Harry mumbled.

Draco glanced at the ceiling. A fine drizzle was floating down from pale grey clouds. Even the weakest of Impervius Charms would keep it at bay.

“Pleased to have had such a good influence,” Hermione said with a sniff.

Finnegan insulted her colourfully, winked, and walked away.

“He shouldn’t be buying anything from Zonko’s this close to exams, anyway,” Hermione said. “Even if he doesn’t care about his results, the rest of us need to concentrate.”

Harry was still looking vaguely ill. His hand was wrapped tightly around his spoon and his jaw was clenched.

Draco remembered the feeling of that jaw under his lips. The sound of Harry’s small, shaky breaths. The way he’d leaned forwards, had nudged Draco’s nose with his own, and had kissed him.

Harry caught him staring. Draco held his gaze. Behind his glasses, Harry’s eyes turned hot. It suddenly felt like all the air had been sucked out of the Great Hall.

The bell for the end of breakfast rang out. Harry blinked and looked away, frowning.

“Anyway, Draco. You wanted to say something? Can you tell me on the way to Arithmancy, or do you need both of us here?”

“No,” Draco said faintly. He tore his gaze from Harry and offered Hermione a smile. “No, on the way to Arithmancy will be fine.”

Draco could have sworn that, across the table, Harry let out a small, strangled whimper.

Chapter Text

Draco was so distracted thinking about that heated look Harry had sent him across the breakfast table that he nearly missed his chance again. It was only when Hermione reminded him that he wanted to tell her something that he shook himself out of his daze.

“Oh.” He looked over his shoulder to make sure nobody was in eavesdropping distance. “Yes. I think we should tell Harry. About—” He gestured between them.

“Really? Whatever for?”

Draco opened his mouth, ready to tell her everything, then paused.

It was Harry’s secret, wasn’t it? Harry thought Draco was with Hermione, and Hermione was his best friend. Surely he wouldn’t want her to know that he had betrayed her by kissing her boyfriend.

But on the other hand, Harry hadn’t actually betrayed her, because Draco was not Hermione’s boyfriend. But Harry didn’t know that—couldn’t know that, unless Hermione told him. And perhaps Hermione wouldn’t tell him, unless Draco told her about the kiss…

Fuck. This sort of decision shouldn’t have been left to someone with a moral compass as fucked up as Draco’s.

“I just think we should?” he tried.

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

“He doesn’t seem to mind me so much any more.” Ha! “And he’s your best friend. It’s only polite, isn’t it?”

“Draco Malfoy, if you think you can lie to me…”

“I’m not lying!”

Hermione’s glare was brutal.

“But I…might not be telling you everything?”

On reflection, he should have known that Hermione Granger was never going to let him get away with knowing something that she didn’t. Ten seconds later, he found himself in an alcove, Hermione’s wand pointed at his neck. Fingers of fear clawed up Draco’s throat.

“Can you—” he said in a strangled voice. “Your wand.”

Hermione looked down in surprise. “Oh—sorry, I didn’t even realise.” She pocketed the wand, but looked no less fierce. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Draco took a deep breath. He reminded himself that he was safe. It was only Hermione. She wasn’t actually threatening him.

And really, he should tell her, shouldn’t he? Honesty—good people loved that sort of thing. If Draco was honest with Hermione, then Hermione could be honest with Harry. There would be no more secrets. Draco might actually get the chance to—

“All right,” he said. “Last night. Something happened.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows, waiting.

“We, er.” He swallowed and dropped his voice. “We kissed. Harry and me.”

Hermione blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Only once,” Draco explained in a rush. “It was basically an accident, and Harry feels awful about it, obviously, because he believes you and I are together. So I think we should tell him, and then he…then he won’t feel so bad about it any more.”

He’d stopped himself from saying and then he and I can discuss the possibility of more kissing, but going by Hermione’s pitying expression, she’d heard it loud and clear.

“Oh, Draco.”

“What?”

Hermione stepped backwards out of the alcove. “Come on, we’ll be late.”

“‘Oh, Draco’ what?” Draco hurried to catch up as she strode up the stairs. “Why did you pull that face?”

“I’m not pulling any sort of face.”

“You are,” Draco insisted. “What is it? Did he say something about me? ”

The look Hermione shot him did not inspire confidence. “What sort of kiss was it?” she asked.

“It was—” Incredible. Life-changing. Soft and tentative and so. fucking. hot. “Just a little one.”

“Who initiated it?”

Harry did. Heat flooded through Draco at the thought. “It was—mutual?”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

They rounded the final corner before the Arithmancy classroom. The other students were waiting outside, subject as usual to Professor Vector’s difficulties with being on time—ironic for a woman whose career was entirely based around the meaning of numbers.

The two of them hung back.

“I wonder,” Hermione said, “whether you might not be reading a little too much into whatever happened.”

Draco frowned.

“I don’t mean to imply I don’t believe you,” Hermione said hastily. “I just mean…is it possible that whatever it was meant a little more to you than it did to him? You said it was an accident.”

Draco remembered Harry’s quiet Oh, shit just before he had closed the distance between them, nudged at Draco’s nose, and kissed him. He remembered being frozen in fear—but not the usual kind. Not the terror of pissing someone off, of being on the wrong end of a raised wand, of being tortured for stepping out of line. It was the fear of snapping Harry out of it—of ruining that perfect, unreal, unbelievable moment.

“It’s possible,” he allowed. “But even so. Doesn’t he have a right to know he didn’t kiss his best friend’s boyfriend?”

Hermione glanced around, but the corridor was empty apart from the handful of eighth years queueing outside Vector’s classroom door, well out of earshot.

“The thing is,” Hermione said in a low voice, “Harry was with Ginny.”

Well, yes. Everyone knew that.

“He broke up with her so she wouldn’t be a target. During the war, you know.”

That certainly sounded like Harry. The thought came with no insignificant surge of affection. Damn it.

Hermione was looking at him meaningfully, so Draco was forced to say, “So?”

“So,” Hermione said, “he only ended it to protect her. He still cares about her. You’ve seen how they are together.”

Draco had seen it. He’d watched it play out that very morning—Weasley teasing Harry, confident of his affection. Harry, proving her right, being worried, looking out for her.

He’d watched it over the last few months, every time Weasley appeared out of nowhere to rub it in Draco’s face that she’d emerged from the war happy and unscathed, while Draco had emerged broken. Every time Harry grinned as she teased him, shuffled over so she could sit next to him, let her steal food from his plate.

“But they’re not together now,” he said. “And the war is over.”

Hermione smiled sadly. “I think you know as well as I do that it can take a while to process that.”

“So…what are you saying? He and Weasley are getting back together? I thought she was seeing other people.”

Harry had grumbled about it, Draco remembered, his stomach sinking. He’d glared and griped and had been generally pissed off about the whole thing.

“Well, exactly,” Hermione said, obviously on the same wavelength. “Not that I think Harry is petty enough to do anything with someone else just to show off to Ginny, but…” She bit her lip. “Honestly, I think he might be a bit lonely. It’s partly my fault—I should have been being a better friend to him this year, with Ron gone. I’ve been so preoccupied with NEWTs, and trying to find a decent leader for the wellbeing club, and trying to find time to write to Ron in secret, and trying to remember to act like a couple with you—”

“Right,” Draco said. “Right, yes, so—even if last night was nothing, even if I’m reading too much into it, why don’t we tell him anyway? Then at least you won’t have to hide so much around him.”

Then at least then Draco would be able to ask if he was blowing it out of proportion.

He didn’t think he was. He’d been half-lying to Hermione to protect Harry—it hadn’t felt like an accident.

But then again—

Last night, Draco had asked him if he was all right (his lips scraping against the stubble on Harry’s jaw), and Harry had said I don’t know.

And this morning, Harry had said I don’t know what came over me. He had tried to apologise. Draco had, in his arrogance, assumed the apology was because he thought Draco was already with someone.

But what if it wasn’t?

It’s fine, Draco had said.

It’s not fine, Harry had replied.

“Let’s assume we tell him,” Hermione said. “Let’s assume there’s no risk of someone slipping him Veritaserum, and we don’t mind that we’re complicating the first stress-free year of his whole life, and he miraculously develops good enough acting skills that he doesn’t let the Kneazle out of the bag in the first fifteen minutes. What then?”

“Well, I…” Draco trailed off, hoping that Hermione would jump in. But she waited for him to force it out, her eyebrows raised. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind talking to him about whether or not…you know.”

“Whether or not he might want to kiss you again?”

God, it did sound ludicrous. Draco nodded miserably.

“But what then, Draco?” Despite the fact that it felt like Hermione was stabbing him in the chest, her voice was gentle. “Let’s say he is interested. The whole point of this”—she gestured between them—“is that you say the wizarding world isn’t kind to gay people.”

Draco wanted to shush her for even saying the word aloud, but he supposed that would only prove her point.

“Well,” he said, “I’m not suggesting that we would advertise it—”

“So you and I would continue to be a couple while he watched? Then every night you’d follow him to bed and hope nobody realised that you were doing more than sleeping? Probably staying up all night, every night, less than two months until NEWTs?”

“Well, I—”

“And then in a couple of months, you’re leaving Britain, and then what? Where will that leave Harry?”

“Well, he—”

“He cares about people, Draco,” Hermione said. “Friends and family are important to him. Whereas, forgive me, but you said that you and Archie Campbell barely even spoke.”

“Obviously that was different—”

“Was it? Why?”

Because Archie Campbell isn’t him. But Draco didn’t say that. He didn’t say anything.

“I just don’t want him to get hurt,” Hermione said softly. “And, believe it or not, I don’t want you to get hurt either. I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of other people’s prejudices. I’m sure you remember.”

Draco grimaced. He deserved that.

“But even before I came to Hogwarts, I… Well, I didn’t quite fit in then, either. And Harry has already been on the receiving end of so much nastiness over the last few years. Would you really risk putting him through it again for the sake of you having someone to snog for a few weeks?”

Fuck it all, but she was making sense. Draco was doing what he always did—being thoughtlessly selfish, and greedy, and a horrid, spoilt little brat.

Because he hadn’t thought of the consequences for Harry. It hadn’t even occurred to him. He hadn’t given a single shit—he’d just wanted—desperately, immediately. The only reason he hadn’t told Harry the truth himself was because he knew he’d do it wrong, somehow—he’d wanted to wave his hand and have Hermione do the work for him, to make her have the awkward conversation, and then Draco could jump in and reap the benefits.

Fuck. When was he going to stop being so awful? Was it already too late? Was he destined to be like this forever?

“I’m sorry, Draco,” Hermione said, watching him with concern. “If you want, we can chat about this a bit more later?”

“No, it’s fine.” Draco forced a smile. “You’re right, of course. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m sorry.”

Hermione frowned, but thankfully Professor Vector chose that moment to appear and snap at them to take their seats.

Vector was, as ever, too strict to allow for much moping, and by the end of a brutal hour on Onomancy, the last new topic before NEWTs (and therefore the trickiest), Draco’s mood had settled somewhat.

It was derailed immediately, of course, when he and Hermione walked into the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom to find Harry peering at them nervously. He was obviously braced for Hermione to start shouting at him—and Draco wasn’t actually sure how Hermione was going to play it—but thankfully, she was perfectly friendly, and acted as if nothing whatsoever had changed.

Harry said all the right things back, but was clearly wrong-footed—Hermione was right again; for someone who dealt with the press so much, his acting skills were awful—and kept trying to catch Draco’s eye.

Draco, of course, resolutely ignored him for the whole lesson—and through lunch, and when he waved them both off to the greenhouses for their Herbology lesson.

The walls of the castle began closing in immediately after the great oak front doors fell shut behind them. It always happened when Hermione had Herbology or Ancient Runes, neither of which Draco took. Without her exasperated efficiency keeping everyone else away, he attracted a lot more attention. More glares, more whispers, more confrontational tilts of the chin: Come on, Malfoy, if you think you’re tough enough.

He wasn’t tough enough. He spent the hour in his dormitory, the curtains pulled tight around his bed, trying not to think about the last bed he’d been in and what had happened there.

He dragged himself to Transfiguration while Harry and Hermione were in Charms, flinching at every flash of someone else’s wand, at every glance in his direction. McGonagall, just as strict as Professor Vector and perhaps slightly sharper, seemed to single him out to grill him relentlessly on everything from Animagi to Switching Spells. He emerged from her classroom with his head ringing, but with a small glow of satisfaction in his chest—he’d answered every single one of her questions correctly.

Harry and Hermione were already at the dinner table when Draco arrived. Longbottom was with them, chatting animatedly. Draco lingered in the doorway, considering turning around and simply not bothering to eat.

But he would never improve as a person if he kept avoiding situations that made him uncomfortable. And, as his selfish reaction to the kiss had shown, he still had an awfully long way to go.

He marched over and joined the Gryffindors.

“I spent all winter making sure they were warm enough,” Longbottom was saying. “But now the weather is better—oh, hi, Malfoy—they’re fussier than ever. And their venom is starting to come in, so it’s only a matter of time before one of their strops knocks me out, though I doubt it would kill me just yet. Unless my earmuffs fall off when I go down, of course.”

The Mandrake-Tentaculas, Draco presumed. They were a rare hybrid, but one Draco had seen before.

They’d had them planted in the Manor the summer after Draco turned thirteen. They’d been Mother’s obsession for the whole year—she’d never cared one whit about plants, but a single Mandrake-Tentacula was worth thousands of Galleons at peak health. At the time, they hadn’t needed the money, of course. But Narcissa had never intended to sell them.

It commanded authority, she’d explained over breakfast one morning, when Draco had demanded to know why there was suddenly an area of the grounds he couldn’t go near without the risk of being killed in three different ways at once. To have something so expensive and dangerous in your possession showed every visitor that you were comfortable and confident. It made others fear you. It made them respect you.

She’d got rid of every single plant by the middle of Draco’s sixth year. Maybe Draco had been eyeing them a bit too contemplatively. Maybe she was afraid the Dark Lord would show up and feed Lucius to them.

Not that the Dark Lord had needed killer plants to do his dirty work. Narcissa had misjudged him; he’d much preferred to do the deed himself. He’d luxuriated in it.

“Draco’s good at Herbology,” Harry said, and Draco was snapped jarringly back to the present.

“Are you really?” Longbottom asked, cocking his head. “I thought you dropped it after OWLs?”

“I did,” Draco said, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth. He frowned at Harry and reached for the peas, hoping that would be that.

But, “He said months ago that you were spoiling the Mandrake-Tentaculas, looking after them so well,” Harry persisted. “Do you remember, Hermione? In the common room.”

“Was that the time you Finite Incantatem’d me because you thought Draco had me under an Imperius?” Hermione asked absently, not looking up from the book she had propped against the gravy boat.

Longbottom snorted. Draco couldn’t resist another glance at Harry—he was flushing a slow, delicious pink.

“Is he right, Malfoy?” Longbottom asked. “Do you know about Mandrake-Tentaculas?”

“No.”

“Here,” Longbottom said, “tell me what you think anyway.” And he launched into a detailed explanation of his bratty collection of devil plants.

Draco tried to listen, but his focus kept wandering back to Harry. He was playing with his food, sneaking glances at Draco when he thought Draco wasn’t paying attention.

I kissed him. I was in his bed, and I had my hand in his impossible hair, and I kissed him.

“… so what do you reckon?”

“Armadillo Bile Mixture in the fertiliser,” Draco said vaguely. “Make sure they see it’s you who gives it to them.”

There was a beat of silence. Draco blinked and looked away from Harry.

“Oh my god,” Longbottom said in an awed voice. “That might actually work.”

Shit. Draco hadn’t meant to say anything. Nothing good could come from him involving himself in other people’s lives. He knew that. Hermione knew that. Everyone who’d ever met Draco knew that.

“How did you figure that out? And why aren’t you taking Herbology?” Longbottom demanded.

“It’s probably not right at all. It was just a guess,” Draco said. He put his fork down. “You know, I’m not very hungry. I’m going to go, I think.”

“Ooh, are you going to the library?” Hermione asked. “I’ll come with you, I want to see if Madam Pince will let me take out one more book. The limit of ten is an absolute farce for NEWT students—”

“I don’t feel much like homework, actually,” Draco said. He stood. “I’m going to go back to the dungeons. I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodbye, Hermione, Longbottom. Harry.”

This close to NEWTs, Draco didn’t actually have the luxury of not feeling like homework. His dormitory was much quieter than the bustling Gryffindor common room. Theoretically, he should have still been able to have quite a productive evening.

But his concentration was shaky at best—and it only got worse as the evening wore on.

The thing was, Draco had kissed Harry Potter last night.

Actually, it was worse than that—Harry Potter had kissed him. Draco hadn’t even started it, as desperately as he’d wanted to. And he had wanted to for longer than he cared to remember.

And although Hermione had put a thorough dampener on Draco’s foolish hopes that it might happen again, Draco still had the memory of it happening once. Since Arithmancy, he’d been so distracted by the familiar weight of his own failings, he hadn’t allowed himself to properly luxuriate in it.

But, fuck, it was worth luxuriating in. Draco let his quill fall from his fingers onto the bed, heedless of the ink stain it would make on the sheets, as he remembered:

Himself, thoughtlessly reaching out to tuck Harry’s hair behind his ear, the urge to see more of him, to touch him, embedded so deep inside himself that he didn’t realise what he was doing until Harry’s soft voice snapped him out of it.

If it had stopped there, the night would have been nothing more than another thing to add to Draco’s ever-growing pile of regrets.

But it hadn’t stopped there. Harry had held him in place, his warm fingers around Draco’s wrist so surreal that Draco forgot everything else, forgot his resolution to not do anything. He’d let the unreality of the moment consume him, already softened as he was by the lateness of the hour, by how charming Harry was, rambling about potions, by the way the rest of the world felt very far away once the thick curtains were drawn around Harry’s bed.

He’d insulted Harry, he remembered. Called him stupid, something like that—the exact exchange had been pushed out of his mind by what followed: Harry, saying he liked it. Harry, holding him in place. Harry, whispering a curse, so soft and intimate that Draco couldn’t help but forget himself just a little more.

Then Harry, leaning in. The tentative brush of skin on skin. The way he’d opened up so sweetly when Draco allowed himself to respond—the parting of his lips, the heat of his mouth, the touch of his tongue—

Draco sat back against his pillows and let the memory consume him. His hand fell to his crotch as he ran again through the details: Harry’s forehead against his, his breath playing over Draco’s lips, his mouth so close. The other Gryffindors returning and Draco filled with excitement anew, the thought of them being right there an unexpected turn-on. He’d been unable to stop himself reaching out, testing the waters, and Harry had responded, and Draco had wanted.

He’d retained just enough of his learned cautiousness to remember to ask, to make sure, but his mouth against Harry’s jaw and his nose in Harry’s hair had felt no less intimate. He’d kissed Harry’s face, the stubble rough and glorious against his lips, and he’d felt Harry respond, shifting against him, leaning into his touch.

It had gone wrong from there, of course—Harry had brought up Hermione, who Draco had completely forgotten about. Worse: Harry looked so guilty, and Draco desperately wanted to tell him, wanted to assure him that it was fine, but he couldn’t, because how on earth could he trust himself?

But in the present, alone on his bed, Draco could remain in the moment before. He could remember the way Harry had whispered into Draco’s neck, but instead of “We can’t,” it would be “I don’t want to stop.” It would be “God. Yes. I want you.”

Draco heard himself make a small sound as he imagined it. His legs parted and his fingers squeezed, and in his mind, Harry pulled him closer and kissed him again.

It wasn’t a new fantasy. The novelty was that it had actually happened, but the elements (Harry, a bed, kissing, touching) were familiar. Draco sank into it easily, his head falling back against his headboard as he was swept away by the memory of what Harry tasted like (sweet), of what his hair felt like (thick, soft), of what he sounded like breathless and just-kissed (perfect).

He had just resolved to shove his hand inside his robes and do the job properly when the dormitory door squeaked open. Unlike the surprising thrill of the Gryffindors returning late last night, the sound did not fan the flames of Draco’s desire.

“Oh,” Zabini said, the curl of his lip obvious even though Draco couldn’t see him. “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” Draco agreed coolly, knowing that staying silent would have Zabini ripping open the curtains around Draco’s bed in the hopes of catching Draco in a compromising position. He sat up just in case, moving a spare bit of parchment over the ink stain that his quill had left.

It was a good job, too, because Zabini did rip open the curtains a second later. Draco raised an eyebrow at him, his quill hovering over his notes as if he’d been halfway through a sentence.

“Bit early for you to be taking up room in the dungeons, isn’t it?”

Draco made a show of checking his watch. “It’s nine o’clock.”

Zabini sneered and turned to his own bed. It was only the two of them in the dormitory that year—another reason, if Draco needed one, to avoid the place as much as possible.

“You don’t usually show up until later, do you? If you show up at all, that is.” Zabini dumped his bag by the side of his bed with a dull thunk. He bent over to dig around in his trunk, but he made sure to turn his face so Draco heard him clearly when he said, “What’s the matter? Didn’t fancy a shag with your Mudblood girlfriend tonight?”

“Don’t call her that.”

Zabini laughed. “As if you haven’t called her that yourself hundreds of times. The conversations we used to have about her. Surely you remember?”

Draco did remember, as much as he tried not to.

“Honestly,” Zabini continued smoothly, “I figured that was part of the appeal. A way to get power over one of them. Seeing her on her knees—that’s what you always wanted, isn’t it?”

Bile rose in Draco’s throat. Not quite because the things Zabini said disgusted him—but because Draco would have said them too, three years ago.

Blaise and his mother, despite their views, had been wise enough to not deal with the Dark Lord directly, so they had been largely unaffected by the war. Would Draco be laughing along with Blaise, if he hadn’t been through what he had? If he hadn’t seen what the Dark Lord and his followers were truly made of?

For the first time, Draco thought of what the Dark Lord had done to him and felt a vicious sort of gladness. Maybe it had been worth it, after all.

“You know, it’s interesting,” Zabini said, standing and smoothing out his robes. “I call Granger a Mudblood in front of Potter and he punches me into the hospital wing. I do it in front of you, and you just sit there.”

“Maybe I don’t give a shit about anything you have to say,” Draco suggested.

“Or maybe you haven’t changed nearly as much as you’d like people to think.”

Draco didn’t bother trying to think of a response as Zabini left the dormitory with a triumphant smirk.

Zabini was right, after all.

Chapter Text

The first lesson of Friday morning was double Defence Against the Dark Arts. From what Draco had gathered from Harry and Hermione, their new professor, Hestia Jones, had indeed been a member of the Order of the Phoenix.

When he’d first heard the rumour at the start of the school year—when Harry and Hermione had still been Potter and Granger—his stomach had sunk. He had been sure that, if it were true, Jones would hold him back from a decent set of NEWTs, which was to be Draco’s last “fuck you” to wizarding Britain before he left forever. But so far she had been nothing but fair—even kind—to each of the students, including Draco. She did, however, seem to take a vicious pleasure in the particularly gory, a trait that reminded Draco, sickeningly, of Fenrir Greyback.

Thankfully, she was unlike Greyback in every other way. When Draco showed up to the lesson on Friday morning heavy-eyed and stifling yawns for the second day in a row, Jones merely smiled sympathetically and did not call on him for the duration of the two-hour period.

It had been a long night. After the conversation with Zabini, Draco had been too unnerved to resume his reminiscing. Any further academic productivity had been similarly out of reach, so after another thirty minutes of frustration, he’d packed away his things and got ready for bed.

Given his all-but-sleepless night the day before, he’d hoped to drift off quickly, but of course the universe had never been so kind to Draco Malfoy. He’d stayed awake for hours, his memories of Harry—Harry’s bed, his hair, his mouth—butting up against the brick wall summoned by Zabini’s sneer, by Hermione’s pitying “Oh, Draco. Harry was with Ginny. You’ve seen how they are together.”

But despite his heavy eyelids, Draco managed to remain present for most of Friday morning’s Defence class. It helped that he had a free period directly afterwards—he was planning on returning to his dormitory and trying for a much-needed nap. But as they all filed out of the Defence classroom at the end of the lesson, Harry grabbed his sleeve.

“Draco. You have a free period next, too, right?”

Hermione looked between them, biting her lip, but clearly didn’t think the conversation was important enough to risk being late for Ancient Runes, which was four floors up and on the other side of the castle.

“Yes,” Draco said cautiously, watching Hermione leave rather than look at Harry, which felt as impossible as looking directly at the sun.

“Will you come to the library with me? I’m having a shit time with the essay on transubstantial transfiguration. I could use your help.”

Draco closed his eyes and swallowed. “Harry—”

“Or I can stop pretending I give a shit about Transfiguration and just talk to you here,” Harry continued blithely. “I wanted to say sorry, again. For what happened the other night.”

“Fucking hell.” The corridor was full of students going to their next classes. None of them were paying Harry and Draco any attention, but even so. Draco knew Harry had a very defective sense of self-preservation, but this was a bit much.

“After Arithmancy with Hermione, you were…different. I thought you were going to tell her about what happened, but she’s been all right with me…”

“Transubstantial transfiguration, was it?” Draco said loudly, dragging Harry towards the library. “Perhaps with that muffling spell of yours up so nobody can overhear the important breakthroughs you’re making?”

Harry snorted. “Like anybody will believe that.” But he followed Draco down the stairs to the library, staying blessedly quiet until they’d set themselves up at a table in the corner, a Muffliato surrounding them.

“So?” Harry pressed.

Draco had thought about this last night, during his sleepless hours staring at the canopy of his bed, wishing the green was crimson. He couldn’t tell Harry that Hermione knew about the kiss without explaining why she wasn’t angry. And Hermione didn’t want Harry to know that Draco and her weren’t together, because she didn’t want Draco to distract Harry. She didn’t want Draco to hurt him. Which, even with the best of intentions, Draco inevitably would.

“Of course I didn’t tell her,” Draco said.

Harry let out a long exhale. “Oh,” he said. “Right. Fuck. Good. Then what was all that about at breakfast yesterday?”

“Something else. It doesn’t matter.”

“Because it sounded an awful lot like you were about to tell her, right there at the table.”

Draco raised his eyebrows, even though that had indeed been his plan.

“…which, okay, on second thought, doesn’t really sound like the sort of thing you would do,” Harry finished. “God. Sorry. I’ve been a bit— But even so, yesterday, you were— I really fucked up, didn’t I?”

Draco looked at him properly for the first time all day. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one who had missed sleep last night; there were dark circles under Harry’s eyes, a frown line etched between his eyebrows.

Draco’s gaze dropped thoughtlessly to Harry’s mouth, which he had kissed not forty-eight hours ago. He looked up again quickly, but from the expression on Harry’s face, Draco’s lapse had not gone unnoticed.

“You didn’t fuck up.” Draco tried valiantly to keep his voice light and even.

“Are you sure?” The words came out slightly strangled—Harry cleared his throat. “I mean it, I’m really sorry. I don’t know what came over me. If I could use a Time-Turner and stop myself from doing it, I would.”

“I wouldn’t.” It was an unwise thing to say, but it was true. There was a long, long list of things Draco would use a Time-Turner to go back and change, and kissing Harry Potter was definitely not one of them.

“Oh,” Harry said. He bit his lip and Draco couldn’t help but look again, remembering how soft it had been, how it had opened for him. For him.

He wrenched his gaze away and stared unseeingly at A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration.

It felt like a long time before Harry spoke again, but it could easily have just been five slow, painful seconds. “So, will you stop avoiding me? Otherwise I might have to send a letter to Kingsley, seriously enquire about the availability of Time-Turners.”

Harry’s tone was joking, but there was a truth to his words that sent a frisson of excitement down Draco’s spine. If anybody could owl the new Minister for Magic and get a free Time-Turner for his own casual use, it would be Harry Potter.

“I haven’t been avoiding you—”

“Please, it was the first time in months you didn’t come to our common room after dinner—”

“—but I’ll make sure to dedicate every second of my free time today to you both, so your worries are eased.”

Harry broke into a grin. Draco wanted to die.

“You’re so generous,” Harry said. “I just— I don’t want my stupid mistake to come between you and Hermione.”

“Not at all,” Draco said.

“And I promise I won’t do anything like that again. I swear. Can we agree to forget it ever happened? Please?”

Nothing could make Draco forget it. Nothing at all.

“Of course,” he said, smiling blandly. “Consider it forgotten.”

The hour in the library passed quickly. With their little table surrounded by the protection of the muffling spell, it almost felt like they were back in Harry’s bed. Despite himself, Draco found himself relaxing, and he made a fair amount of progress on his Transfiguration homework while snorting at Harry’s wry observations on the other library inhabitants. He even forgot himself enough to make a few of his own comments—but it was hard to regret his lapse when, after each barb, Harry’s snort of laughter would send warmth rushing through Draco’s whole body.

Hermione was already at the lunch table when they arrived. She raised a questioning eyebrow when she saw them approach together—Harry and Draco never spent their free periods with one another if Hermione wasn’t there too—but Draco had had an incredible amount of practice at keeping his head down and schooling his features into cool neutrality. And it turned out that Harry had a nugget of self-preservation after all—he was perfectly normal. As Draco had hoped, Hermione’s urge to talk about schoolwork won over the urge to dig for details, and they passed a relatively pleasant lunch discussing the Veritaserum antidote experiment, which they were tackling on Monday morning.

That evening in the Gryffindor common room, Draco checked the clock every fifteen minutes until half-past ten, at which point he promptly packed his things away. He made sure to squeeze Hermione’s shoulder affectionately when he stood, and said a friendly enough goodbye to them both that Harry didn’t feel any further misplaced guilt.

And if, once he arrived in his dormitory, he shut the curtains tight around his bed and made himself come to the memory of Harry’s mouth against his—well. He’d certainly done worse things, hadn’t he?

True to his word, Harry continued to act like the best kiss of Draco’s life had never happened. On Saturday, he cheerfully waved Draco and Hermione off when they set out for Hogsmeade. A petty part of Draco was tempted to invite him along—Hermione had said that she’d been too distracted to be a good friend to Harry, after all, and a Hogsmeade trip was the perfect opportunity for the three of them to spend time together without homework. He had to firmly remind himself that Hermione had sacrificed quite a lot for Draco’s sake, and though Draco was bitter that he wasn’t getting railed by a war hero, there was no reason to deny her the pleasure.

They walked to the village with Hermione’s arm linked through Draco’s. It was, obviously, just for show, and Draco hated himself for taking comfort in it. But even the small solace of her presence at his side was short-lived; before long, they ducked into the alleyway beside Gladrags’, and Hermione Apparated away to whatever London hovel Ron Weasley called home.

At least it wasn’t raining. After a quick stop at Scrivenshaft’s to pick up a new quill for Harry (he’d said his current one was wearing out, the night they’d—) and a pot of ink for himself so it didn’t look like he’d gone out of his way, Draco trudged out of the village and settled behind a huge chestnut tree near the Shrieking Shack, out of sight of any passers-by.

He stayed there all day, idly scratching out a History of Magic essay on Emeric the Evil and nibbling on pastries he’d snuck from the breakfast table. An hour after the sounds of evening diners began to drift up the hill from the village pubs, Hermione returned, flushed and beaming. Draco couldn’t help but smile at her uncharacteristic giddiness.

Harry smiled too, when they arrived back at the castle—though it was distinctly strained at the edges. Stubborn hope flared in Draco’s chest, but at that very moment, Ginny Weasley walked by, laughing uproariously at a spotty-faced Ravenclaw boy who looked bemused but pleased by the attention.

Draco gave Harry the new quill to distract them both.

“How did you know I needed a new one?” Harry took the plain eagle feather quill with a reverence it did not deserve.

Draco shrugged. “Heard you gripe about it, I suppose,” he said, as if every detail of Wednesday evening wasn’t burned into his brain forever.

“I didn’t expect you to be thinking about— I mean, I figured you’d be busy today.”

Draco, who hadn’t had a less busy day for months, allowed himself an indulgence. “I’m sure I speak for the rest of the wizarding world when I say I spend every waking minute thinking of our esteemed Saviour.”

It wasn’t a lie. But he said it in a way that made it sound ridiculous.

Even so, Harry flushed.

Pleasingly, Hermione—still riding the high of riding Weasley, no doubt—didn’t notice the exchange at all.

Chapter Text

Slughorn, of course, let Harry use the gold cauldron without hesitation. They’d gone over the plan again and again, and by the time double Potions rolled around on Monday morning, the steps of their Veritaserum antidote attempt were instinctive. It was the best brewing experience Draco had ever had, and by the end of the lesson, the resulting concoction was the exact shade of deep navy they’d hoped it would be.

It needed to mature for forty-eight hours before they knew for sure whether they’d got it right. Harry was convinced they’d nailed it, his eyes shining with fierce triumph, but Draco didn’t want to get his hopes up. Still, it would be incredible if they’d managed it. The threat of being slipped a truth potion had haunted him for months—even more so since the morning Ginny Weasley had been tricked into revealing details of her history with Harry. Although, if Hermione was to be believed, she and Harry weren’t quite so historical as Draco would like.

Not that it mattered, he reminded himself firmly. Draco was a shitty person. He was trying to learn how to be better, but until he managed it, he shouldn’t be inflicting himself on anyone. Least of all on Harry Potter. Not that Harry was actually interested. Honestly, said Hermione’s voice in Draco’s head, I think he might be a bit lonely.

God, Draco wanted the antidote attempt to work. The sort of self-pitying shit he’d spout under Veritaserum would be nothing short of tragic. The things he’d reveal about how pathetic he was were possibly even more of a concern than revealing his complete lack of interest in witches. Though, obviously, he’d very much like to avoid that, too.

Two more months, he reminded himself. In two months, he’d be leaving the country and not looking back. And what was two months? Why, he and Hermione had come up with their agreement almost four months ago. And thanks to her, this year hadn’t been nearly as awful as he’d expected. Getting through two more months of this would be a piece of cauldron cake.

Though, of course, the memories of Harry Potter kissing him added a certain element of torture to the whole thing. Especially when Harry was being so determinedly friendly. He’d even started to call Draco “mate” with such forced casualness that it made Draco want to laugh. If he hadn’t told Hermione that something had happened between them, she surely would have figured it out herself, no matter how well Draco hid his true feelings.

But just because Draco was good at hiding his feelings didn’t mean it was easy. It got even harder, after Wednesday’s Potions lesson.

It started off well enough. It started off brilliantly, in fact. Exams were just over five weeks away, so the professors were starting to focus on recapping everything they would need to know for the NEWTs. As such, Wednesday’s lesson was the final class on the Veritaserum antidote project before they moved onto revision.

Which worked out fine for Harry, Hermione and Draco. Because the antidote they’d brewed together on Monday had matured.

And it was perfect.

At least—it looked perfect. The potion had turned the exact impenetrable black that they thought it should be. The Bundimun secretion hadn’t curdled this time, and the whole thing was entirely scentless. It looked like nothing more than ink—but even the rarest and most expensive ink in the world wouldn’t have given Draco goosebumps in the way that cauldron of potion did.

As the other two groups of students bustled about, trying to squeeze the last dregs of productivity from their final hour, Harry, Hermione and Draco stood around the gleaming gold cauldron and stared.

“That’s right, isn’t it,” Harry said in a hushed voice. “That looks right.”

“It does,” Hermione said in kind. “Oh my goodness. That shouldn’t be possible.”

“It might still be nothing,” Draco said, not willing to give in to hope just yet. “We’ll have to test it, then we can try to figure out what we did wrong before we submit it if it hasn’t worked. But to test it…one of us will have to take Veritaserum.”

They straightened and looked at one another. None of them said anything.

Hermione was the first to break. “Well, I’m not doing it.”

“Why not?” Harry asked indignantly. “What do you have to hide?”

“What do you have to hide?” Hermione shot back—unfairly, Draco thought, given that Hermione knew very well what Harry thought he needed to hide from her.

Harry, to his credit, did not look at Draco, but a dull flush began to work its way up his neck.

Draco swallowed. “I—”

“No,” said Harry and Hermione together.

A wild laugh threatened to bubble out of Draco’s throat. He held it in. “I was going to say, I think we should ask someone from another group. In the interest of impartiality, you know.”

The other two sighed in obvious relief.

“You’re right,” Hermione said briskly. “That would make it a more accurate test, wouldn’t it? I’ll go and ask Ernie, I’m sure he’d be willing to help.”

“I’m sure he’d be willing to do anything to get away from Zabini,” Harry muttered as Hermione darted away. He glanced at Draco. “Ah. Sorry. I know you two were friends.”

“We were never friends,” Draco assured him. But the distracting flush still persisted around Harry’s neck, so as Hermione approached with Macmillan, in a moment of wild impulsiveness Draco added in an undertone, “But we did fuck a fair bit, in sixth year.”

“Hello, chaps!” Macmillan greeted. “I say, Harry, what on earth is the matter with you?”

“Nothing!” Harry said, closing his mouth with an audible click of his teeth. “Hi. Thank you for helping us out.”

“No problem at all! Happy to be of use!”

They gave Macmillan three drops of Veritaserum from the batch they’d brewed a few weeks before. He smiled blandly as they waited for it to take effect.

“All right, Ernie,” Hermione said. “I want you to try to lie, okay? What’s your name?”

“Ernest Herbert Macmillan,” Ernie said promptly. Then, “That wasn’t a lie, in case you didn’t know my middle name.”

“Right, okay. Good. Here, let’s… Even if it doesn’t work, it will be perfectly safe, I’m sure of it…” She was right, but Macmillan did not seem encouraged by the assurance. He hesitated, but held out his tongue nonetheless. Draco loved Hufflepuffs.

“Right. Let’s try again. What’s your name?”

“Albus Dumbledore,” Macmillan said.

Draco sat down heavily on his stool.

“Good lord,” Macmillan said. “You actually did it.”

They’d actually done it. Fuck. Draco was protected. He’d never be forced to reveal anything. He could stay hidden, stay safe, for the entirety of the next two months. They’d been given an impossible task and, between the three of them, they’d done it.

“Bloody good show,” Macmillan said, standing. “Our group never even made it past distilling the toad water! Definitely worth the Obliviate, I’d say.”

“The what?” Harry asked sharply.

“Well, once Sluggy reports that you worked out the recipe for the antidote to Veritaserum, the Ministry will be right over, won’t they? They’ll hardly be happy with the risk of someone releasing the recipe. Especially”—he glanced at Draco—“you know.”

The bubble of hope in Draco’s chest popped. “We won’t tell, then,” he said quickly. “We’ll tell Slughorn that it didn’t work.”

But it turned out that a Death Eater suggesting they all lie to the Ministry of Magic was not a particularly convincing argument.

Macmillan narrowed his eyes. “Sir,” he said loudly. “Professor Slughorn. This lot have done it, sir. They brewed the antidote.”

Draco fucking hated Hufflepuffs.

Macmillan—the horrible, fair-minded prick—told Slughorn everything before Slughorn had even come to a halt in front of their table. Slughorn peered into the cauldron and hooted his praise for Harry and Hermione’s superior Potions abilities.

“Of course,” he added with a beam, “it will have to be tested to make sure it’s effective! But from what I can see here, you’ve made a perfect specimen, so I’m sure there’ll be nothing to worry about!”

“I’ll test it,” Harry said. “Right now.”

Draco blinked, sure he’d heard wrong.

“Harry,” Hermione hissed.

Harry shrugged. “Why not? We know the antidote works, don’t we?”

“Oh ho ho!” Slughorn said. “What fun! I don’t see why not! There was nothing too dangerous on your list of ingredients, was there? No, indeed!” Slughorn clapped his hands. “Gather round, everyone! You’re about to see an example of some absolutely incredible brewing by your Gryffindor classmates! Oh, and Malfoy, too, of course.”

The other students pressed in curiously and Draco shrunk backwards, feeling sick. There were too many eyes on him. There was nowhere to hide. The Ministry was going to come for them. They were going to get Obliviated—stern-faced men holding him down, pointing their wands at his head, don’t think about it, don’t think about it—

“All right, my boy! Three drops of Veritaserum—from my own stores, no less!—followed by three drops of your brilliant antidote… There.” Slughorn stood back, beaming. “All right, Harry, my boy! Do your best to lie to me, this one time only! What is your name?”

“Harry James Potter,” Harry said. He paused, then tried again. “My name is Harry James Potter.”

Slughorn pouted like a giant baby who didn’t like the toy his parents were offering him. “It should only take a few seconds for the antidote to take effect… But maybe you managed to make a more slow-acting batch, hmm? What Hogwarts house are you in, Harry? Remember, try to lie.”

Harry frowned, and seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, before blurting, “Gryffindor.”

Relief warred with crushing disappointment. The antidote hadn’t worked after all. Their success with Macmillan had been a fluke— Maybe they’d even fucked their batch of Veritaserum? And if they’d fucked that, they’d been developing an antidote to entirely the wrong potion. They’d been wasting their time for weeks.

But the Ministry wouldn’t need to be called. Nobody would be pointing their wands at Draco. He let out a shaky breath.

Murmurs had broken out amongst the other students. “Who was your first kiss, Harry?” Michael Corner called out.

“Cho Chang,” Harry said, flushing.

“Have you ever snogged Hermione?” Terry Boot tried.

“No.”

“Have you ever wanted to?”

“No.” Harry winced at Hermione. “Sorry.”

Meanwhile, Ernie Macmillan was turning an unpleasant shade of puce. “He’s pretending! He’s obviously pretending!”

“Well, I don’t know about that.” Slughorn was clearly torn between defending Harry’s honour and defending his Potions abilities. “It’s a very complex recipe, you know. In all my years of teaching, no more than two students have ever…”

“Ask him something embarrassing!”

“Now, really,” Slughorn said. “There’s no need for—”

“What’s the most intense sex dream you’ve ever had, Potter?” Zabini asked, smirking.

“I say!”

“It was with Ciaran Connolly,” Harry said. “The Beater for the Irish national team.”

Draco’s stomach dropped. The muttering and giggling in the classroom stopped abruptly.

“Yeah?” Zabini said, his smirk now a fully fledged evil grin. “What happened?”

“It was after their team practice—I went into the changing rooms to tell them they’d played well, but when I got there the others had gone and Ciaran was in the shower, all soapy and wet—”

“Sir, I think we’ve heard enough!” Hermione said loudly.

“—and then I realised I was naked too, so I went up to him and—”

“Goodness me,” Slughorn said. “Yes, of course— Silencio!”

Harry, by now bright red, carried on talking, but no sound accompanied the movement of his lips. A small, horrible part of Draco was disappointed he wouldn’t get to hear how the dream had ended.

“Well!” Slughorn said, flustered. “I think we can conclude you didn’t quite get the antidote right. Very close, though! Very close indeed! When you asked me for the gold cauldron, I really thought you had it…! But never mind, eh! Harry, follow me up to the front, dear boy, we’ll get you a proper antidote. Here we go…”

The other students drifted back to their own workstations. Boot, Corner and Goldstein had their heads together, whispering and glancing at Harry. Zabini looked like Christmas had come early.

Draco’s head felt like it was about to burst from the frantic thoughts swirling around it. To try to focus himself, he dragged his gaze from the other students and peered into their cauldron.

It was obvious, now he knew they’d failed. The potion was indeed not quite the impenetrable black he’d thought it was. There was something else there, the faintest flecks of brown.

He’d really thought…

But there were only two months left. In two months, he’d be in France, or Italy, or Spain, and nobody would want to slip him a truth potion. Nobody would care at all about anything he had to say. He was getting away. He would be fine.

“I was so sure,” Hermione muttered. “I was so sure we had it.”

Draco flicked through their notes, trying to figure out what they’d missed.

“If only I had spent more time on it with you! I’m so sorry, Draco.”

“No, you were right. We were never going to figure it out.”

“Maybe. Still, I wonder what we missed…”

Draco frowned at the parchment spread over the desk. But his head was ringing—from the threat of the Obliviate, from the crash back down to earth once he’d realised they’d failed.

And from the shock of Harry’s most intense sexual fantasy being about a wizard. Draco knew the appeal of Ciaran Connolly—he’d kept a lot of memorabilia from the World Cup for that very reason, in fact—but he’d expected Harry’s tastes to be much more…acceptable.

Much less…

You know.

Gay.

What had Harry been thinking, volunteering to test the antidote in front of everyone if he had something like that to hide? It was quite one thing to kiss a wizard who was sharing your bed because you were horny and lonely and bored (which Draco would have preferred Harry not admit to either, thank you very much). But it was quite another to admit that you fantasised about other wizards. That you were interested in them.

Fuck. Harry was interested in them.

The backlash was going to be huge. The attempts at Veritaserum dosing were surely going to increase dramatically as every publication in wizarding Britain scrambled to get more information on Harry Potter’s sexuality. The Howlers would be non-stop. The Weasleys might even disown him.

The small, horrible part of Draco reared its head again. Draco could be there for Harry as the rest of the world turned against him. Maybe even Draco would be a viable option, if nobody else wanted to be associated with him once they knew he—

“What a nightmare,” Harry muttered, slumping down at their workstation, wrenching Draco guiltily from his musings.

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” Hermione said, her eyes wide. “I really thought we’d done it right, otherwise I’d’ve never let you take it. You must be so upset.”

Harry blinked. “Oh—no, I meant Slughorn, just now. He tried to give me an ‘understanding teacher’ talk. Told me about a fling he had with Dumbledore back in the twenties.” He shuddered. “I reckon I’d go for that Obliviate, after all.”

Draco, the pathetic little queer that he was, considered whether Slughorn might have been attractive seventy years ago.

“That aside,” Hermione said, looking disturbed. “I can’t believe he let that go on for as long as he did! He should have silenced you the second Zabini asked his question.”

“Nah, he loves the drama, doesn’t he?” Harry glanced over his shoulder and leant towards them. “Besides,” he added in a low voice, “I’m glad he let me talk. Made it all much more believable, I thought.”

Was Draco going mad? He might actually be going mad. “Believable?”

Harry grinned, grabbed his schoolbag and held it open for them.

Inside was a single bottle of pure black potion.

“This is all I managed to get before I spoiled it. I took a few drops myself then dumped a load of dandelion powder into the cauldron just before Slughorn showed up. It was the only thing I could think of that would neutralise it without poisoning me, but I was sure he’d spot it floating around in there.”

Draco really was going mad.

“You sabotaged it?!” Hermione hissed.

Harry grinned.

“But why? Harry, we brewed the antidote to Veritaserum. That’s a once-in-a-generation achievement!”

“Well, they weren’t going to let us keep it, were they?” Harry said, shrugging. “Ernie said they’d come and Obliviate us. Didn’t fancy that, myself. And now we have protection, in case someone sneaks us something again. It’s only one bottle, but it’s enough for a few drops each every morning, for us and Ginny. It’ll see us through until the end of school, easy. And we can always brew more if we need to now we know how.”

The urge to duck under the table and hide until the world made sense again was overwhelming.

“You made it up?” Draco asked weakly. “The thing about Ciaran Connolly? What the hell is wrong with you? Don’t you know the consequences?”

Harry laughed. “Nah, I didn’t make it up. You think I could come up with something like that on the fly? Though it wasn’t actually my most intense sex dream. I’m glad I didn’t actually have to share that one.”

Was it Draco’s imagination, or did Harry twitch his eyebrow at him meaningfully before he cleared his throat and went back to his notes?

He was definitely, definitely going mad.

Chapter Text

“Open your mouth,” Harry said.

He was so close that Draco could have counted every stray eyebrow hair, if he’d cared to. Heat prickled at the back of his neck, and the urge to drop to the floor and look up at Harry through his eyelashes was pressing on his shoulders. His knees tensed, bracing for the impact of cold tile.

But he remained standing, held Harry’s gaze, and opened his mouth.

“Tongue.”

Draco put out his tongue. What would he do to feel the weight of Harry’s cock on it? To watch his eyes darken as he twisted his hands in Draco’s hair and pushed himself forwards into Draco’s eager mouth?

Warmth, as Harry held Draco’s chin in place with gentle fingers. Draco couldn’t stop his eyelids from fluttering at the touch—did Harry notice?

He gave no sign of it, if he did. His hands were steady as he dripped three drops of Veritaserum antidote onto Draco’s tongue and stepped away.

“Done,” he said brightly. “I’ll see you out there, yeah?”

Draco nodded. Harry gave him a cheery wave and left the bathroom.

It had been happening for over a week. Harry and Hermione had decided, in their infinite wisdom, that Draco shouldn’t keep any of the antidote on his person in case one of the teachers finally listened to Ernie Macmillan’s outraged squawks and decided to search their belongings. If Harry or Hermione were caught, they’d get away with a slap on the wrist. If Draco was caught—

Well. Nobody had needed to say “Azkaban”, but they’d all thought it.

Draco appreciated their concern. Truly—the idea of having any kind of run-in with authority made cold sweat break out all over him. It was nice that Harry and Hermione cared.

Except—

The antidote lasted twenty-four hours, so Draco needed to get a dose every day if he was to be protected. And, obviously, nobody could know what they were doing—which meant they had to find somewhere, every day, where Draco could be alone with one of them.

There had to have been other possibilities. Surely. But Harry had suggested the first-floor boys’ bathroom before breakfast (since everyone did their business in the dormitory bathrooms before heading to the Great Hall), and Hermione had nodded distractedly, and the plan had been made.

And now, every morning, Draco had to stand inches away from Harry and open his mouth while Harry held his chin and dripped the antidote onto his tongue.

It had occurred to Draco that he could take the dropper and give himself the antidote. It was a bathroom—there were even mirrors he could use, if accuracy was a concern.

He didn’t say so, though. He emerged from the bathroom every morning unnerved and painfully turned on, and he didn’t say so.

Because it had also occurred to him that Harry had wanted to give the antidote to Ginny Weasley, too. Draco hadn’t asked whether they’d given her a bottle, or whether Harry was going through the same intimate process with her. But if it was the latter, Draco would be damned if he let her be the only one to enjoy it.

He straightened himself up and joined Harry and Hermione at the breakfast table a few minutes later. Harry glanced at him and smiled blandly, then went back to listening to Hermione recapping everything she knew about Chameleon Ghouls for their first-period Defence lesson. Draco pretended to be similarly unaffected. He poured himself a coffee from the pot waiting by his plate.

As Draco had predicted, the news of Harry’s wet-and-soapy Ciaran Connolly confession had spread through the school like Fiendfyre. And, as Draco had predicted, Harry had indeed faced consequences—but they were not the sort of consequences that Draco himself would surely face if people found out about him.

For example, in the last week and a half, Harry had been propositioned no less than six times by male members of the Hogwarts student body. To Draco’s outrage, one of the six had been Archie Campbell, the Ravenclaw seventh-year Draco had spent October to January wanking off in various empty classrooms around the school.

Gratifyingly, Harry had swiftly rejected every one of the hopeful students. Draco hadn’t been able to resist a smirk when it had been Campbell who was sent packing.

There had been articles too, of course. Several publications had printed Harry’s confession almost word for word—thanks to Zabini, no doubt—and with them had come a flurry of letters from journalists asking for interviews. Harry had set fire to each of those, right there at the breakfast table.

“Read them first, at least!” Draco had said the first time. “They could be offering some serious money!”

But Harry had been so obviously disgusted with the suggestion that Draco had felt like shit all day—he’d clearly fucked up at being a person again. He was never going to get it right.

But with Harry ignoring all interview requests, the press’s Veritaserum campaign had stepped up a notch—they were catching potions in the pumpkin juice almost every morning, and an increasing number of younger students had taken to casually milling around the Gryffindor table, quills in hand. Of course, Draco no longer needed to care about that, thanks to Harry Potter’s quick thinking, his apparently-excellent-after-all acting skills and his maddening daily antidote delivery.

But strangest of all, even the initial articles had been…supportive. They’d all ended in some perky variation of “…whether it’s a witch OR wizard, we wish Harry all the best finding his true love!”

Not one of them had condemned him. Not one of them had mentioned what a shame it would be if he didn’t carry on the Potter bloodline.

It was different, maybe, because Harry was a half-blood, and the Potters weren’t part of the Twenty-Eight, and Harry had saved the world.

Whereas Draco…

Well. It still wasn’t an option for Draco. Nothing had changed.

“And then, of course, after Defence I have Ancient Runes,” Hermione was saying. “What are you two going to do?”

“Probably library,” Harry said. “I need to recap Weather-Modifying Charms, I still don’t really get them.” He nudged his foot against Draco’s ankle. “I could use your help, Draco, if you’re around?”

Draco blinked and let his mouth slide into a small smile. “Yeah, I could brainstorm with you a bit.”

“Good, good,” Hermione said vaguely. “And then we can do Transfiguration this afternoon, when we’re all together.”

“That sounds fair,” Harry said, catching Draco’s eye and grinning.

That was another thing that had changed over the last few weeks—when Hermione was in Ancient Runes, twice a week, Draco had started to spend his free period in the library with Harry.

Like the morning antidote meeting, it was agonising.

Like the morning antidote meeting, there was no way Draco was giving it up.

Harry had started it, obviously. On Mondays after lunch, Draco usually left the Great Hall with Hermione, then went back to his dormitory while she was in Ancient Runes. After an hour had passed, he’d head up to the library to join them both, and the three of them would study together for the rest of the afternoon.

But last Monday, as Draco and Hermione had stood, Harry looked up and said, “Don’t you have a free period next, too, Draco?”

Draco had nodded slowly.

And Harry had said, “Cool. Would you come to the library with me? I never did get far with that transubstantial transfiguration stuff,” and that had been that.

It had happened three times, since. Each time, Harry would have some topic he wanted help with, and each time Draco would warily agree to talk it over with him.

Each time, Harry would casually cast a Muffliato around their table as they sat down. There was no need for it—they never discussed anything other than schoolwork—but Draco was glad of it. Each time, the spell wrapped around them and Draco would immediately feel safer, reminded of the curtains closing around Harry’s bed, back when Draco had been allowed to share it.

Because even though they still studied together in the Gryffindor common room every evening, Draco had not let himself slip again. He’d gone so far as to find a spell that made his wand buzz every ten minutes and would cast it immediately after dinner. At every buzz, he’d check the clock. And at half-past ten, he would pack his things away, bid Harry and Hermione goodnight, and return to his cold, empty bed in the Slytherin dormitories.

And it was good. Fine. For the best. Yes, Draco still thought about that kiss constantly, still remembered the feeling of Harry’s breath against his skin every time Harry let out a sigh of impatience or a huff of laughter. But Harry gave no sign of remembering it at all.

Which, again—fine, good, et cetera. Not even unexpected. Obviously Draco would have liked it if the memory of the kiss haunted Harry as much as it haunted him. Obviously he would have liked it if Harry shot him yearning looks across classrooms or got flustered when Draco opened his mouth for him, blatantly needy, every morning.

But it was for the best that it had been a mistake. A one-off, driven by confusion and loneliness, just like Hermione had said it was.

It was just—frustrating.

The thing was, Harry’s forced friendliness was driving Draco mad. He seemed to be on a campaign to reassure Draco that they were pals. Mates. Two bros, who hung out, talked about homework and sports, and definitely, one hundred percent, did not think gay thoughts about one another.

As well as the occasional overly casual “mate”, Draco was subjected to the following: bracing claps on the shoulder, nudges on almost every part of his body to get his attention, comments murmured into his ear during classes, smiles, grins, greetings, a steady stream of compliments and, of course, the maddening daily grip of his chin while Harry murmured, “Open your mouth.”

Draco had had his fair share of crushes on other wizards. But he’d never been so fucking horny for anyone in his life.

Friday passed like any other day—a blur of studying and simmering arousal. But Saturday was worse, even though it brought with it one of Draco’s favourite things: Quidditch.

It was the final match of the season: Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw. Hermione refused to go—“There are only four weeks until exams! You’re all mad!”—and Draco resigned himself to staying inside with her, but Harry wouldn’t hear a word of it. He dragged Draco down to the pitch and sat him down firmly in the Gryffindor stands.

“I’m so glad you’re here, mate,” he said reverently, and Draco swallowed. “Hermione has no idea about Quidditch. No idea at all.”

“She doesn’t like sports,” Draco said, in the way one might say, “Hippogriffs have feathers.”

“Yeah, I know. ‘They create pointless divisions’ blah blah, ‘I was made to play football at primary school and I didn’t like it’ blah blah. She just doesn’t get it. Not like you.”

It was stupid to let that fill him with warmth. And yet.

But Draco had to admit it was fun, watching Quidditch with Harry. Despite being surrounded on all sides by people yelling and screaming, something Draco would ordinarily go out of his way to avoid, he found that with Harry by his side, his habitual fear remained a prickle at the back of his neck rather than the usual surge of terror clawing its way up his throat.

Little by little, Draco found himself relaxing. As Harry kept up a running stream of his reactions to the match, Draco began to allow himself to comment, too, spurred on by the fact that Harry would grab his arm and say, Yes, exactly, yes when he agreed, and would scoff and elbow him with a That’s a load of shit when he didn’t.

Of course, Ginny Weasley was one of the Gryffindor Chasers, which dampened Draco’s spirit somewhat. Harry was quick to praise her and cheered extra loudly whenever she scored a goal—but he was also quick to hiss when she fumbled a shot, even once going so far as to say, “That was an easy one, she should have got that.”

“Snitch,” Draco said, five minutes later. It was hovering over the Hufflepuff stands, a glint of gold against the pure blue sky.

“Oof, nice one,” Harry said with an approving nudge. “Though they’re both too busy feinting each other to actually bother looking.”

Indeed, at the other end of the pitch, Woodruffle was chasing Kowalski out of a steep dive. By the time they had straightened up again, the Snitch had gone.

“Snitch,” Harry said, after Ravenclaw had scored another two goals. “Just going by that Bludger, look.”

“Fuck, I never would have spotted that.”

“Only because you’re too busy staring at Ritchie Coote’s arse.”

Draco, who had been doing exactly that (though he’d never bothered to learn the Gryffindor Beater’s name), flushed. He glanced over his shoulder, but the rest of the Gryffindors were too fixated on the match to have heard Harry’s comment. “Well,” Draco said, trying to sound dignified, “it’s quite a nice arse.”

Harry hummed, but further arse discussion was thwarted by one of the Gryffindor Chasers scoring a spectacular goal from about a hundred feet away from the goalposts.

Draco and Harry spotted the Snitch another two times each before Draco saw it flitting near Madam Hooch’s ankle. “Snitch,” he said, but Harry’s fingers had locked tight around his wrist before he’d even got the word out.

“They’ve noticed it too, look! Fuck, look at Anna go, she’s definitely going to get it—”

“No way, Woodruffle has a new Comet, Kowalski’s only on a Cleansweep Seven—”

“Look at her, she’s pulling ahead—”

“Where did it go—?”

“By the stands, look—”

“Oh, she might actually—”

“Come on come on come on—”

“She’s got it, surely she can’t miss now—”

“YES!”

The stands erupted into roars as Anna Kowalski’s fist closed around the Snitch. Harry yelled, his voice slipping into hoarseness, and yanked Draco into a firm celebratory hug.

Draco had almost been carried away by the Gryffindors’ enthusiasm, but all thoughts of Quidditch fled at the press of Harry’s body against him, at the overpowering scent of him as Draco’s face was suddenly full of wild black hair.

He froze, and Harry pulled away with a grimace of apology, but he was quickly dragged into a group of rejoicing Gryffindors. Draco was left there, alone and silent, surrounded by celebration.

The Gryffindors’ cheer lasted the rest of the day. Draco gratefully rejoined Hermione in the Gryffindor common room, burying himself behind Duels that Changed the World. But the feeling of Harry pressed against him was lodged in his mind, stuck amongst the smell of him, the pleasure of his easy conversation, his casual touches, his reverent I’m so glad you’re here. Crookshanks climbed onto Draco’s lap for the first time in over a month, nuzzling and purring—but even that wasn’t enough to shake the scent of Harry from Draco’s nose.

After a few hours, Harry joined them at the table, the muffling spell that surrounded them warping for a second as he broke through.

“Holy shit,” Harry said, panting, collapsing next to Hermione. “Wow. It’s much quieter over here.”

“Not quiet enough,” Hermione muttered, glaring out at the common room, where it seemed every other Gryffindor was determined to continue the festivities well into the night.

“You planning on rejoining the party?” Draco asked mildly, only allowing himself a glance at Harry’s flushed face before turning back to his book.

Harry blew out a breath. “Dunno,” he said. “Might stay here with you two, actually. It’s a bit much, all that, isn’t it?”

Draco made a non-committal noise and turned a page. Crookshanks gazed at Harry, his tail flicking, then stretched luxuriously and leapt to the floor, his duties as Chief Draco Comforter apparently satisfied. After a few minutes, Harry pulled Hermione’s copy of Winogrand’s Wondrous Water Plants towards himself and started to take notes. He shuffled, getting comfortable, and his leg came to rest against Draco’s—the barest, most deniable amount. Draco could have moved away. He didn’t.

His wand buzzed every ten minutes for the next two hours. At half past ten, the Gryffindor party was still going strong, and, for the first time in weeks, Draco considered ignoring the time. There were enough distractions in the common room that it was feasible that he simply didn’t notice. And after curfew, Harry—dedicated as he was to his pretence that they were good friends, buddies, pals—would surely offer to share his bed with Draco.

Draco wanted to feel him pressed against him again. He wanted to bury his hand in that long hair, wanted to see him flushed, his eyes alight. He wanted to hear hoarseness slip into his voice as Draco opened his mouth and invited Harry to fill it properly.

He’s quite a bit more vocal than you’d expect, Ginny Weasley had said.

Draco cleared his throat. “It’s half past ten. I’m going to head off.”

Harry looked up and smiled. “All right, mate,” he said, and moved his leg away from Draco’s. “See you tomorrow, yeah?”

Chapter Text

As the end of May approached, Draco’s resolve weakened. He’d be in the Gryffindor common room and the clock would tick over to half past ten and he would bite his lip, trying to force himself to continue to do the right thing.

He started leaving it later and later. One day it was ten thirty-five; the next it was ten forty. Curfew was at eleven. It took fifteen minutes to get to the Slytherin common room from Gryffindor Tower. Ten, if he ran.

The day that the weather was so unexpectedly warm that Harry shrugged off his robes and spent the evening in a Muggle T-shirt, Draco left it until ten forty-two before he said anything.

Two days after that, the day Harry bit his lip as Draco opened his mouth for the Veritaserum antidote, Draco left it until ten forty-four.

The Thursday when Harry complained at length about how funny he thought Draco was, he left it until ten forty-six.

Now, Harry’s leg was once again resting against Draco’s under the table, and Draco watched the minute hand slide from ten forty-seven to ten forty-eight.

The thing was, he reminded himself every night, it wasn’t about him. Obviously he wanted to stay. He wanted to do anything that meant spending more time with Harry—especially if that time involved Harry being soft and sleepy and horizontal.

But Harry didn’t want that. Harry had said he wished he had a Time-Turner so he could stop himself from ever kissing Draco. He’d said he wanted to pretend it had never happened.

Draco cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, closing his copy of Advanced Potion Making and standing, “I should probably get going.”

“Did you finish the Wolfsbane notes?” Harry asked.

Draco grimaced. “Not quite. I still need to do that last section on the sixteen prototypes.”

Hermione, who had finished the notes hours ago and had written three pages more than Slughorn had asked for, made a sympathetic noise.

“You might as well stay until you’re done, then,” Harry said. “What will that take you? Twenty minutes?”

Draco glanced at the clock. “It’s nearly ten to eleven.”

“So? Stay here. Bed’s big enough, isn’t it?” Harry’s face was perfectly neutral, which Draco thought was unfair given the stupid expression that he himself was surely sporting.

“Harry,” Hermione said, when Draco failed to summon a response. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why not?” Harry asked, so genuine that Draco wondered, not for the first time, whether Harry hadn’t actually wiped his own memory of their kiss. “I mean, you don’t have to, obviously. Just thought it would save you running back to the dungeons. Up to you though, mate.”

This was exactly the sort of decision that shouldn’t be up to Draco. He looked at Hermione for help—she was widening her eyes, shaking her head. She wanted Draco to refuse.

But Harry had offered.

When Draco had been sent back to school, terrified of wands and authority figures and drawing attention to himself, he had vowed to keep his head down, to not attract attention, and to not break a single rule.

By and large, he’d stuck to that vow.

But it had turned out that the only thing that could outdo his cowardice was his queerness: within a month of coming back to Hogwarts, he’d started sneaking around and getting off with Archie Campbell in various out-of-bounds areas around the castle. He’d been scared shitless of being found out, of course, but not quite scared enough to turn down the opportunity to have a mouth against his, to have someone want him.

And now, with eleven minutes to go before curfew and Harry Potter offering Draco a spot in his bed, there was only one decision that Draco was ever going to make.

“If you’re sure?”

“Yeah, ’course,” Harry said easily. “We’ve done it before, haven’t we? We managed not to kill each other then.” He grinned, as if he was telling a joke rather than ruining Draco’s life.

“I suppose it would be nice to have these notes finished…”

Harry shrugged. He dipped his quill into his ink pot and carried on writing, as if he didn’t care either way.

Draco sat down.

Hermione’s gaze burned into him, but he studiously ignored her. He rifled back through Advanced Potion Making for the chapter on Wolfsbane.

Of course, concentrating on Potions was easier said than done with blood rushing from his brain determinedly downwards, so it took much longer than twenty minutes to finish. It was almost midnight, the common room empty of everyone but them, when Draco put down his quill. Harry noticed immediately.

“Done?”

Draco rubbed his chin, rereading his final few paragraphs. “I started fudging it a bit around fourteen and fifteen, so I’ll need to check over it tomorrow—but yes, I think so.”

“Nice one. Mine’s still a pile of shit.”

“Want me to read over it?”

“Nah. Not right now, anyway. All I can think about is being in bed.”

Draco knew the feeling.

“Hmph.”

Draco slanted a guilty look at Hermione; he’d almost forgotten she was there. Her pursed lips suggested she suspected as much.

“How about you?” he asked politely. “Productive evening?”

“Not as much as I wanted it to be,” she said. “But I don’t think there’s much more I’ll be able to get done tonight.”

Draco nodded. He wasn’t going to be the one to suggest it, but it sounded like—it was almost time to—

“Are you two heading up, then?” Hermione asked, obviously trying to hide her disapproval and not quite succeeding. But if Harry noticed, he hid it well.

“Yeah, I reckon so,” he said. “Unless there’s anything else you want to get done, Draco?”

“No.” Draco’s voice came out funny. “No, I’m ready whenever you are. If you’re still sure I can…?”

Harry snorted and stood. “No, I’m gonna make you curl up on the tatty old sofa.” He rolled his eyes and headed for the stairs to the boys’ dormitories. “Come on. Night, Hermione.”

“Goodnight,” she called after his retreating back, but her gaze was fixed on Draco.

He lifted his hands in a What was I supposed to do? gesture, which she answered with a tut.

“Go on, then,” she said. “But I’ll want to know the details of what happened tomorrow.”

Draco raised an eyebrow.

“I didn’t mean like that! Don’t mess him about, Draco.”

“It’s after midnight and we’re both absolutely shattered. I’ll probably pass out as soon as we lie down.”

Hermione looked at him sceptically, which was fair enough. Draco didn’t believe himself, either.

Harry was waiting at the top of the stairs.

“I didn’t see any of the others come back yet,” he said in an undertone, “but just in case.”

“What will you do if they’re there?” Draco whispered.

Harry shrugged. “Tell them the truth.”

“Which is?”

Harry looked at him, amused, and pushed open the door.

The room was empty. Draco wasn’t sure whether or not he was relieved—he would have been interested to know what Harry considered to be “the truth”.

“Here.” Harry grabbed something off his bed and tossed it to Draco. Draco caught it before he realised what it was: Harry’s pyjamas. The ones Draco had worn last time he’d been here. The night they’d—

But Harry had grabbed them off the bed. Not from his trunk. Not from a cupboard, or a drawer, or a wardrobe. From his bed.

“Didn’t know when you’d be back,” Harry said defensively, correctly interpreting Draco’s slack-jawed stare. “I haven’t worn them since, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

But why would he keep them on the bed? It had been weeks. Why hadn’t he put them away?

Draco knew what he wanted the reason to be. If he’d had a pair of pyjamas that Harry had been wearing, he would have slept with them too. He would have buried his face in them every night, groaning into the smell of Harry’s sweat and shampoo as he pulled himself over the edge. He’d’ve bundled them into a ball, cast a Warming Charm on them and wrapped himself around them as he fell asleep, allowing himself to imagine that the heat was coming from a body, not a spell.

“I should bring a toothbrush next time,” he said, forcing his voice into humour. “Leave it in the bathroom.”

Harry cocked his head. “Maybe not in the bathroom, but you could keep one in my trunk if you want. Spells aren’t really the same, are they?”

“Oh, I was joking. I wouldn’t presume—”

“Presume all you want,” Harry said, waving a hand. “You can stay here whenever you need to. Whenever you want to.”

Draco gripped the pyjamas very tightly. “Well. That’s very generous. Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’d do the same for me, right?”

Would Draco issue Harry an open invitation into Draco’s bed? Of course he would. “Not that you’d ever want to stay in Slytherin,” he said. “For one, Zabini snores louder than Longbottom ever…than he…er…”

Harry had taken off his robes while Draco was talking, which was nothing unusual—maddeningly, Harry had been stripping down to his Muggle T-shirts most evenings as the warm weather continued. But then instead of going to the bathroom to get changed like a reasonable person, he pulled his shirt over his head, as casual as you like, and was currently half-naked, fiddling with his pyjama top.

His back was angled towards Draco, so Draco could see the flex of his shoulders, the lines of his muscles, the dip of his spine. His skin looked so soft and Draco ached to run his hands over it, to feel Harry’s warmth against his fingers. Harry turned to look at him questioningly when Draco fell silent, but that meant Draco could see his chest, the ridge of his hip, the dark line of hair that led from his navel downwards.

“You all right?”

Draco wrenched his gaze away and turned his back, his face flaming with heat. “Yes!” he said. “I thought someone was coming. Er, up the stairs, I mean.” What the fuck was he supposed to do with himself now he knew what Harry Potter’s nipples looked like? That was not information Draco was supposed to have. He was not equipped to handle it.

“Maybe it was someone from one of the other years?”

“Yes, you’re probably right.” Dark and round, they were. Pinched by the chill of being freshly uncovered. Incredibly, painfully biteable.

“D’you want to use the bathroom first?” Harry asked. “I still have a few bits to do out here.”

“Yes! Good idea. I’ll just be, er. In here.” Without turning around, Draco edged his way to the bathroom, slamming the door behind himself when he finally reached it.

Weeks ago, when he used to regularly stay in the Gryffindor dormitories, he would rush through his pre-bed activities, worried that one of the others would come back and hex him for pissing in their toilet. But that night, he needed a few minutes to calm down, gripping the edge of the sink and staring at himself in the mirror, watching his face slowly return to its normal colour.

He took an extra moment to admire himself in Harry’s pyjamas. He couldn’t say the long-sleeved grey shirt (in the Muggle style, no fastenings down the front) and the loose tartan trousers suited him. He drank in the image he made anyway, twisting around, checking every angle. A waft of something familiar reached his nostrils. The pyjamas smelled like Harry. The pyjamas that Draco had worn and Harry had been sleeping with.

He needed another few minutes to calm down again after that.

He avoided looking at Harry when he emerged from the bathroom, just to be safe, and by the time Harry was done too, Draco was in bed, trying not to be too obvious about how much he was inhaling the scent of the pillow.

Harry laughed at the Draco-shaped lump under the covers. “Sleepy?”

Draco made a vague noise of agreement, though he’d never been less sleepy in his life.

“Me too.”

The mattress dipped as Harry got in. The curtains around the bed fell closed with a soft flump, and a heady sense of comfort and safety immediately washed over Draco. It was so much better than a Muffliato around a library table.

Rather than lying on his back, or on his side facing the drapes, Draco lay facing Harry, because he was selfish. But because he was trying not to be, he kept the covers bunched up over his mouth, a physical barrier between them.

Harry was facing inwards, too. Once he’d finally settled, their faces were less than two feet apart.

For the first time in weeks, Draco let himself look.

“Thanks for offering to check over my Wolfsbane notes, by the way,” Harry said. He was talking quietly, but his voice was loud in the hush of their curtained sanctuary. “I would actually appreciate it, if you’re still willing. Maybe during tomorrow’s free period?”

“Of course,” Draco said. “Though I’m not sure how much help I’ll be.”

“Are you kidding? If I pass NEWTs this year, it’ll be because of you.”

Draco scoffed.

“I’m serious! You should be a teacher. You’re really good. Way better than Herm— than anyone else in this place.”

Draco had no intention of ever becoming a teacher. Warmth bloomed in his chest at the compliment anyway.

“Though I suppose you don’t have to think about it yet, do you? If you’re travelling after we leave school.”

Draco couldn’t stop staring; Harry looked so different without his glasses. His eyes were shaped like almonds. There were slight wrinkles underneath them, making him look older than his eighteen years. His eyelashes were short but ridiculously thick. Thick, like his hair had been, when Draco had dug his hand into it. When they had kissed.

“Are you still planning on doing that?” Harry asked.

“What?”

“Travelling. After school.”

“Oh. Yes.”

“Do you know where you’re going to start?”

“Mmm. France, maybe. Or Italy.”

“What’s in France?” Harry asked. “Or Italy.”

“It’s what’s not in France that’s appealing,” Draco said, pulling down the covers so Harry could see his smile.

“Yeah? So what’s not in France?”

“Everyone in Britain.”

An exhale of half-laughter. It was a politeness, more than anything, but another rush of warmth spread through Draco nonetheless. Would he ever get over the pleasure of making Harry laugh?

Voices drifted through the closed door. Draco held his breath, bracing himself for the arrival of Thomas and Finnegan, but there was a slam from further down the tower and the voices faded. They were still alone.

“France,” Harry said thoughtfully. “Hermione goes to France sometimes. With her parents.”

Draco nodded as if he’d known that.

“I thought she’d decided to aim for a Ministry position out of school, though. Muggle Relations or something, wasn’t it?”

“This week it is, at least.”

“Ha. Right.”

Draco had spent weeks being frustrated by Harry’s casual touches. But just then, it was the distance between them that was maddening. They were lying so close together, yet there wasn’t a single point of contact between them.

His heart pounding, he casually shifted his legs closer to Harry’s side of the bed. An invitation.

“So she’s definitely not going with you? Hermione? She’s not taking a break before she jumps into trying to change the world?”

“Not sure yet,” Draco said, echoing what Hermione had told Patil the last time the subject had come up.

Harry chewed the inside of his cheek. He hadn’t accepted Draco’s silent leg-touching invitation. “Long-distance relationships must be tougher for pure-bloods.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, owls are quite slow, aren’t they? Muggles have these things called telephones, do you know about those? Everyone has a special number that you can use to talk to them in real-time, no matter where you are in the world.”

“Like a two-way mirror?”

“Yeah, I suppose. But you can use it to talk to anyone, not just whoever has the other mirror.”

“How bizarre.”

“You might have to learn to use one, if you want to stay in touch with Hermione. Since she’s probably not going with you.”

“I might,” Draco said doubtfully.

Another half-laugh. “You could get lonely, if you don’t.”

It was Draco’s turn to be amused. Lonely was spending the summer in a house filled with murderers, terrified to say or do anything lest one of them take too much of an interest in you. Lonely was latching on to the first queer wizard who didn’t look at you with pure disgust, not caring that they didn’t actually like you if it meant you could indulge in your secret, forbidden desires. Lonely was being in the Gryffindor stands at a Quidditch match, reeling from the closeness of the person you’d been half in love with for years as he disappeared into a crowd of people who knew exactly what a piece of shit you were.

“Maybe,” Draco said.

He should turn over, pretend to go to sleep. The easy camaraderie he remembered from sharing a bed with Harry had vanished—now, something new, something charged, hung in the air between them.

“You know,” Harry said, “I’ve never even left Britain.”

“What?” Draco said. “That’s absurd.” Then, cursing himself, he amended, “Sorry, I mean— I know it can be difficult for some families to afford international travel.”

Harry laughed properly then. “Very sensitively put, Lord Malfoy.”

“Ah, my father is still Lord Malfoy, technically.”

For some reason, this made Harry laugh harder. He turned his face into the pillow so it came out muffled. The bed shook from the force of it.

Draco’s stomach sank, but he forced a smile. “Did I say something wrong?”

Harry lifted his head, still grinning. Without his glasses, the shine of mirth in his eyes was fucking brutal. “No, no,” he said. “It’s just—” One last huff of laughter, slightly bitter this time. “Money wasn’t the problem, actually. My family went abroad. I just didn’t go with them.”

Draco frowned, but Harry shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. The point is I’ve no idea what other countries are like. You’ll have to write to me and tell me all about your adventures.”

“You would want that?”

“Yeah. Definitely. Or you could ring me. On the telephone. If you’re getting one to talk to Hermione, that is. She’d probably like it if you did.”

“Right. Then I suppose I’ll get one.”

“Though to be honest, I’ve almost forgotten what she even talks about apart from NEWTs,” Harry said. Then he winced. “Wait. No. I didn’t mean that. That was a shit thing to say. I don’t know why I…”

Draco watched as a dull flush crept over Harry’s skin.

“Sorry,” Harry said. “I’m just…”

“Just?”

“Just… I dunno. I’ve been a shit friend to her this year, haven’t I?”

Hermione had said something similar, but the other way around—that she’d been a bad friend to Harry, because she’d been preoccupied with studying and with sneaking around.

Draco’s only experience of friendship had been with Crabbe and Goyle—who he had thought of as idiots to be ordered around—and Pansy Parkinson—who he had thought of as a useful back-up plan if no other pure-blood witch could be convinced to marry him. Whereas Harry and Hermione obviously cared about one another. They looked out for one another. They were better friends to each other than Draco had ever been to anyone.

“I think you’re quite a good friend, actually.”

Harry gave him a look. “Come on.”

“What?”

“You know what.”

Was he talking about the kiss? Did he remember after all? Draco played it safe. “I really don’t.”

“Well, even just tonight. I’ve hardly been…” He sighed. “You know.”

Draco tried to think back to the common room, to the evening’s interactions between Harry and Hermione. But he’d been so distracted by the searing heat of Harry’s leg pressed against his under the table that he struggled to remember anything else. “I don’t know what you mean. You’ve been fine.”

“Draco,” Harry said flatly, “I talked you into sharing my bed, then spent the last twenty minutes trying to convince myself you and her are going to break up so I feel better about how much I want to kiss you.”

Draco’s breath left him in a rush.

Harry grimaced. “God, sorry. That was— I shouldn’t have said that.”

He did remember.

He wanted it to happen again.

Draco was hypersensitive, aware of every brush of fabric against his skin. Fuck, what was he supposed to do? He was in Harry’s bed. He was wearing Harry’s pyjamas.

“Seriously, can we pretend I didn’t say that? I wish I could blame my stupid mouth on Veritaserum, but I’m just this much of a fucking idiot, apparently.”

There was that desire again, the desire to pretend nothing had happened. It was clear he meant it, too, his mouth pulling down at the corners, his almond eyes gone round.

But Draco had been pretending for weeks. And Harry wanted to kiss him.

“Hey.” For the first time since they’d come upstairs, Harry touched him, nudged his foot against Draco’s cold toes for a too-short moment. “Don’t go quiet on me again. Please say something, before I die of embarrassment.”

Say something? Draco had never felt less qualified to say anything in his life. “I don’t know what the right thing to say is.”

“Well, I’m clearly not worrying about saying the right thing, so I don’t see why you should bother. Just say whatever you’re thinking.”

Wild laughter wrenched its way out of Draco’s throat—the words followed before he could stop them. “Mainly I’m wondering how I’m supposed to pretend you didn’t say that when kissing you is already all I think about.”

“Oh,” Harry said. It was more a shocked exhale than it was a word.

“I—” The distance between them was far too much and far too little. “I’m sorry, I…”

“No.” A shaky laugh. “I asked.” His gaze lingered on Draco’s mouth. “Fuck.”

Heat had buried its way into Draco’s core and was spilling up his neck, down his limbs, pooling low in his belly. He wanted to adjust himself, to lessen the growing pressure on his cock—but Harry would know. Harry would know.

But—

But even if Draco really had been with Hermione, there were no rules about knowing, were there?

Even so, he tried to keep his movements subtle when he reached down the front of his pyjama bottoms—Harry’s pyjama bottoms—and rearranged himself. He made a small, automatic noise of relief. It wouldn’t have been audible if there had been any other sounds in the room.

But there weren’t. So Harry heard.

A sharp intake of breath. “Are you…?”

“I’m not wanking,” Draco said defensively, snatching his hand away. “Just—adjusting.”

“God.” Harry sounded like he was in pain, but the word trailed into a laugh. “I was going to ask if you were turned on, but now I’m picturing…”

Oh, hell. Now Draco was picturing it too, as he’d pictured it thousands of times before. What would Harry look like when he was touching himself? Would that soft mouth fall open, revealing a glimpse of that sweet-tasting tongue? How far down would the flush of his cheeks go? Would his eyes fall closed? Would he whimper Draco’s name?

Draco swallowed.

“God,” Harry said again. “I should take a leaf out of your book and shut up forever. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Draco said roughly, automatically.

“Because you liked it? That’s what you said last time.”

Draco bit his lip, then said, “Yes. Because I liked it.”

Harry stared, then huffed another small, shaky laugh. “Fuck.”

Fuck, indeed. Draco’s hand was still tantalisingly close to his own erection. A few inches and he could wrap his hand around himself and pleasure would shoot through him.

There probably were rules against that.

“Are you?” The words hung in the air, and for a moment Draco didn’t realise he’d been the one to say them.

“Am I what?”

Even if he hadn’t meant to ask, Draco knew what he’d been wondering. “Turned on.”

Another laugh. “With you in my bed, saying you think about kissing me? I’ve never been more turned on in my life.”

Draco made a small, desperate noise and moved closer to Harry. He stopped himself just before he reached out. There were only inches between them now. Maybe less.

Harry was turned on. Harry wanted to kiss Draco. Harry had been sleeping with Draco’s pyjamas next to him for weeks.

“I want—” Harry’s hand found Draco’s arm. He didn’t hold it, didn’t grip it, just rested the backs of his fingers against him. Even that simple contact sent sparks of magic shooting over Draco’s skin. “I know it’s awful. I know I shouldn’t even be thinking about it. But I want—”

“I thought you’d forgotten it ever happened,” Draco said helplessly. He couldn’t look away from Harry’s mouth.

“I tried.” Harry licked his lips. “I really tried, but I haven’t been able to. I haven’t been able to stop myself from—”

“I thought it was just me.”

“God. I thought it was just me.”

Draco struggled to remember what Hermione had told him—the many, many reasons why it wouldn’t be a good idea.

There had been the Veritaserum risk, but they’d fixed that. (Open your mouth. Tongue. Yes, good, just like that.)

There had been the threat of people finding out, of being cruel to Harry, but Harry had already told people he was interested in wizards, and it had been fine.

There had been the worry that Harry wouldn’t be able to hide it, but Harry was saying that he had already been hiding it, that he could pretend.

There were more reasons, Draco was sure of it. But with Harry there, so close, wanting him, Draco couldn’t for the life of him remember what they were.

“Draco,” Harry said, sounding wrecked, and distantly, Draco realised that he had to be the one to make the move this time. Harry had promised he wouldn’t kiss Draco again. Draco couldn’t let him break that promise, or else Harry would feel like an even worse friend than he already did.

But if Draco initiated it, Harry could blame him. He could rest easy in the knowledge that he hadn’t been the one to cross the line. And the role of villain was one Draco was familiar with, after all.

“Do you have any idea,” he said shakily, “what hearing you say my name like that does to me?”

It was a last strained attempt to stop himself. If Harry laughed, Draco would laugh with him. If Harry asked what Draco meant, Draco would make a joke and change the subject. If Harry told him he was out of line, Draco would apologise and back off.

But Harry wrapped his fingers around Draco’s wrist and said in a quiet, hoarse voice, “Draco.”

The next thing Draco knew, Harry’s mouth was under his.

It was frantic. Desperate. It couldn’t have been more different to their last kiss, which had been slow and tentative, soft brushes of lip against skin. This time, Harry’s breaths were harsh on Draco’s tongue as Draco pressed them together. This time, Harry’s fingernails were sharp as they clawed at Draco’s arms, his shoulders, his back. This time, they devoured one another.

The scrape of stubble on Harry’s jaw gave way to thick softness as Draco plunged his hand into Harry’s hair, desperate to get him closer after weeks of trying to keep him at a distance. And Harry—unexpectedly vocal, Weasley was right—groaned low and deep. Draco swallowed it greedily.

Draco took three sugars in his coffee. He was partial to dessert. He’d eaten his way through three sugar quills, two bags of Whizzless Fizzbees and a handful of chocolate frogs since the last time they’d kissed. But nothing came close to the sweetness of Harry. Nothing matched the way the taste of him melted against Draco’s tongue. Nothing Draco could eat would ever produce the rush he got from hearing Harry gasp into his mouth, “God, Draco—”

Draco’s fingers clenched in Harry’s hair. “I can’t believe you— Potter—”

Harry’s quiet breath of laughter dissolved into a moan as Draco slid his hand over the hard planes of Harry’s shoulders. “You haven’t called me that in weeks.”

“Harry,” Draco breathed, and it made it more intimate, more intense, so he did it again. “Harry. Harry, fuck—”

“God.” More hot kisses, more grabbing hands. “Now I’ve definitely never been more turned on.”

And part of Draco had been being trying to keep it at a kiss, just a kiss, but then he couldn’t stop himself from running his hand down Harry’s back and yanking him closer and fuck, fuck, fuck, Harry really was turned on. The hot, hard line of his cock pressed against Draco, and sharp pleasure shot through him. His ears were roaring so loudly that he nearly missed Harry’s gasp—but he didn’t, and he could never un-hear it, he’d be hearing it in his mind for ever and ever and—

“God, this—” Harry’s mouth was open against Draco’s, kissing him urgently between words as if he couldn’t help himself. “This feels so good, I can’t think—”

Draco thrust against him helplessly—they were both still fully clothed, but their pyjamas were thin, and Draco could feel Harry so clearly against him, strength and hardness and heat and—

He propped himself up on one elbow so he could lean over and press Harry against the mattress, their bodies lining up all the way down, chest and stomach and hips and legs, and Harry opened his knees so Draco’s thigh slipped between his and fuck. Draco rolled his hips. Harry shuddered beneath him.

Draco pressed closer, closer, and Harry’s arm slipped under the hook of Draco’s elbow, gripping his shoulders and groaning into his neck. His breath and his skin and his body were so hot, so fucking hot and—

“Fuck,” Harry said, his voice completely unrecognisable. “Draco, this— If you— If you carry on like this, you’re gonna make me come.”

Draco faltered as the world unravelled. His limbs were no longer his—all of his strength had been washed away by the flood of incoherent, impossible desire. Harry was still clutching him, his fingers digging in, panting into Draco’s skin, and—

If Draco didn’t stop now, Harry would feel guiltier than ever. It would eat him up—a kiss was bad enough, two kisses even worse, but they could be rationalised as mistakes, as bad decisions made in the heat of the moment. But anything further…

It was the ultimate temptation. The ultimate test of whether Draco could be a good person.

Draco pressed his nose against the side of Harry’s face, breathed him in, and slowly, deliberately, rolled his hips.

“Fuck.” Harry widened his legs, pressed closer. “Fuck, I mean it. I’m already—mmh.”

Draco kept up his slow, intentional movements. Harry hadn’t said to stop. He’d just said that if they didn’t stop, he would come.

Fuck, Draco wanted to make him come.

The thought filled every crevice of his mind as he licked at the salty skin of Harry’s neck. Harry threw his head back and clung to him, moaning deep in his throat. Draco couldn’t hold back his own desperate little noises—he had spent hours contemplating what quite a bit more vocal than you’d expect might be like, had let the thought of it fuel his fantasies for weeks—yet the reality was beyond anything he could have dreamed.

Sweat prickled down Draco’s back as he kept moving, kept thrusting. Every now and then, one of Harry’s gasps would have an edge to it, his tongue touching the back of his teeth, forming a breathless, bitten-off Drac–! Each one would be accompanied by a full-body shudder and lust would surge through Draco anew, driving him closer to Harry, closer to the edge, though it felt like he’d already fallen—everything else was so, so far away.

Another tantalising almost-word and Draco pulled Harry’s head up to kiss him again, sweet overtaking salt on his tongue for the briefest moment before Harry wrenched his mouth away and buried his face in Draco’s neck. “Oh god, I’m actually—”

His thighs tightened around Draco’s, his arms squeezed Draco’s shoulders and a quiet sob burst over the skin of Draco’s throat.

“God, I’m gonna—”

“Yes, do it,” Draco growled. “Do it, come on, let me feel you—”

“Fuck, I’m—!”

Every muscle in Harry’s body tensed. He was clenching, juddering. Coming, in Draco’s arms.

The breath had been punched from Draco’s lungs. He held Harry through it, barely able to think. It was all so fucking unreal, so absolutely, stupidly incredible. His cock was so hard it ached, but the burning need of release felt distant, secondary to the need of noticing everything in case he woke up from this dream: the strained little sounds Harry made as he trembled; the way he loosened, pressing sloppy kisses to the underside of Draco’s jaw; the way he lifted his head and smiled, almost sheepish. Draco wanted to look at him forever. He wanted to hex out his own eyes so Harry in the half-light was the last thing he ever saw.

He brushed Harry’s long, wild hair away from his face. He couldn’t be real. He was too perfect. Too warm and too open and too utterly, utterly perfect. His mouth was red, swollen from Draco’s kisses. His lips were soft when Draco bent to kiss them again, slow and wet and tender.

“I have a confession,” Harry whispered against his mouth.

“Yeah?”

“I really like you. I’m sorry.”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead against Harry’s, against the scar that was famous all over the world. “Don’t be sorry,” he said. “Don’t ever be sorry.”

“Because you like it?”

“Because I like it.”

Harry exhaled. His fingers curled at the back of Draco’s neck.

His guilt would be beginning to settle in. And, sure enough, Harry’s voice had lost its humour when he said, “Draco…”

“No,” Draco said. “No, don’t.” He kissed Harry again and Harry allowed it, leaned his face into it and let out an appreciative hum, but still—he pushed Draco away.

“Draco, we—”

“I have a confession too,” Draco said without thinking.

Because he suddenly needed to tell Harry everything, no matter what Hermione said. Harry was feeling bad, and Draco needed to stop it. He’d take whatever punishment, whatever consequences there were. It was his secret, really, wasn’t it? Not Hermione’s. He was the one who stood to lose everything by admitting that he’d lied, that he’d manipulated people into trusting him by pretending someone actually liked him.

“Yeah?” Harry shifted and Draco was momentarily distracted as pleasure shot through him. He was still hard, pressed against Harry, his cock leaking all over the inside of Harry’s pyjamas and fuck if that didn’t send another surge of possessive desire through him.

He bit back his noise of appreciation, tried to focus himself, but Harry’s gaze sharpened.

“Oh shit, are you still—?”

“It’s fine,” Draco said tightly. He tried to roll away, to disengage from the delicious solid heat of Harry—but a firm hand in the small of his back stopped him.

“No, I should have—” Harry bit his lip, then slid his hand over Draco’s side, around to the waistband at the front of his pyjamas. His fingers teased at the elastic, but went no further. “Can I…?”

Draco’s world narrowed to the heat of Harry’s fingers against the skin of Draco’s hip. One word, and Harry would dip his hand inside and touch Draco’s cock. One word, and Harry Potter would make him come.

But he—

He’d been about to confess. He’d been about to tell Harry everything.

He still could. He could do it, right now, and they could talk about it for five minutes, ten minutes, whatever—and they could carry on.

“Harry, I—”

But Draco had been lying to him. Hermione had been lying to him. And Harry would resent them for it—would resent Draco for it especially, since Draco’s cowardice was the reason Harry had lived for weeks thinking he had betrayed his best friend.

Draco should have told him immediately after that first kiss. When Harry had breathed, Fuck, I’m sorry, Draco’s response shouldn’t have been Don’t be. I liked it (selfish, selfish, awful, selfish). It should have been It’s okay, don’t worry, Hermione and I are faking it.

If he said something now, it could ruin everything. It could ruin the smiles, the casual touches, the maddening, incredible stream of compliments. Harry might not want to be anywhere near him.

But he couldn’t go on saying nothing. He couldn’t go on letting Harry feel like shit because of him.

Fuck. How was he supposed to know what to do? He was an idiot, a stupid, selfish, irredeemable cunt, and he was so fucking hard, so stupidly fixated on Harry’s hand on his skin, inches away from his cock.

He hesitated too long. Before Draco could make a decision—any decision, fuck—the warmth on his hip disappeared.

“Sorry,” Harry said. “That was too far, wasn’t it?” He made to detangle himself from Draco, but this time Draco’s reaction was instinctive: he tightened his grip on Harry’s shoulders, holding him in place.

“New rule,” Draco said. “You’re no longer allowed to say ‘sorry’.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “That’s a stupid rule.”

“You’re a stupid person,” Draco shot back, and immediately regretted it.

“Says the person turning down a handjob.” Harry’s tone was light, but he looked at Draco warily, transparently checking to make sure he was allowed to joke about it. Draco’s chest ached.

“I’m not turning down anything,” he said. Harry’s eyes flashed and his fingers found Draco’s waistband again—but Draco dropped his hand to Harry’s wrist, stopping him from going further. “But…not right now.”

His cock throbbed in protest. But for once, Draco felt good about the decision as soon as he’d made it.

Harry nodded. “Of course. Yeah.”

There was a moment of stillness wherein Draco should have rolled away, but didn’t.

Harry’s exhale played over Draco’s mouth. He smiled sadly. “I really fucked up, didn’t I?”

A distressed little noise bubbled its way out of the back of Draco’s throat. He stared at Harry, at his beautiful, impossible, guilty face, and couldn’t think of a single way to properly explain the truth, to explain how desperately unworthy Draco was of Harry, of Hermione, of any of this.

Instead, he allowed himself one last indulgence before he confessed: he poured his unspoken feelings into a kiss, clutching at Harry’s hair, willing him to understand Draco’s stupid broken head, his stupid broken heart.

And Harry opened his mouth and welcomed Draco in again, despite everything.

And Harry’s hand was still resting torturously on Draco’s waistband, and Draco was still so fucking hard, so stupidly fucking hard.

And Harry kept kissing him, his body coming back to life, shifting against him, pulling him closer. There was a voice in Draco’s head that was urging him, Go on, you might as well, you already made him come and his hand will feel so good, and Draco was on the very edge of listening to it when the dormitory door opened.

Draco tore himself away and shoved his face into Harry’s shoulder to muffle his ragged breathing.

Two pairs of footsteps padded across the stone floor: one obviously trying to be quiet, one apparently not bothering. Thomas and Finnegan, respectively.

Harry put his mouth to Draco’s ear. “Fancy seeing how quiet you can be…?” he asked, his fingers drawing a teasing pattern against Draco’s waistband.

Draco squeezed his eyes closed as his cock jerked, a tragic reaffirmation that he apparently had an exhibitionism kink on top of everything else. He opened his eyes to Harry’s delighted expression—and shook his head before Harry decided to crack on. His dick might think the risk of being caught was exciting, but the rest of him wanted to die at the very thought.

Harry covered his obvious disappointment with a long exhale and a smile. He pushed his hips against Draco’s aching cock one last time—the bastard—then pulled away completely, untangling his arm from around Draco and shuffling out from under him.

Draco rolled onto his back and let out a shaky breath. Harry watched him, his eyes bright even in the dim light.

Impulsively, Draco reached out and traced Harry’s arm, down past his wrist, until he found Harry’s hand. He joined their fingers.

No matter the consequences, he’d tell Harry in the morning. Even if it meant Harry never spoke to him again. Even if it meant Draco had to watch Harry move on and grow up and get married while Draco remained alone, living with the memory of Harry shuddering underneath him, of his sheepish smile, of his thumb rubbing gentle circles into the back of Draco’s knuckles.

In the morning, Draco would tell him everything.

Thomas and Finnegan were shuffling about, whispering as they got ready for bed.

Draco fell asleep holding Harry’s hand.

Chapter Text

Draco floated back to consciousness to the echoing splatter of water hitting hard tile. It wasn’t unusual for him to wake up while Zabini showered, but it sounded—wrong. It took a moment for his half-awake brain to realise it was because he was in the Gryffindor dormitory, not Slytherin. Sound carried differently up here. It was softer, somehow. Less harsh.

It took him another moment to realise that the weight on his shoulder was the head of Harry Potter, who at some point during the night had wrapped himself around Draco and was breathing, slow and even, into Draco’s neck.

Fuck, Draco didn’t deserve this. He hadn’t done a single thing in his life that was even close to deserving of this: this soft, warm morning with Harry asleep next to him, the sun hitting the crimson curtains, bathing them in delicate pink light.

As soon as the other Gryffindors had gone to breakfast, Draco was going to tell him. The thought came with no small surge of relief. No matter what happened, it was the right decision. Harry deserved to know.

“Morning,” came a hoarse voice from across the room.

“Jaysus, Nev, you sound rough. Bit of a late one, was it?” Finnegan had a way of saying things that made them sound suggestive even when they weren’t. Draco imagined the words accompanied by a roguish wink—though he suspected the reality was much more of a bleary-eyed squint.

“Not as late as you two.” Longbottom yawned hugely. “It can’t be good for you, staying up every night so close to NEWTs.”

“You’re usually out later than us, you hypocritical gobshite,” Finnegan said good-naturedly. “Yesterday was a one-off.”

Draco let the Gryffindor banter wash over him as he buried his nose in the top of Harry’s head and inhaled deeply. His hair was ridiculously thick, soft curls swallowing most of Draco’s face. It was musky, almost woodsy. Draco suspected he’d be smelling it in the fumes of Amortentia for the rest of his life.

Finnegan had pivoted to jovially accusing Longbottom of breeding a particularly affectionate variety of Devil’s Snare. The Slytherin dorm had never been like that, filled with teasing and good humour, even when it had had five residents instead of two. Would Harry normally join in, when he wasn’t stubbornly snoring into Draco’s skin?

“What’s this?” Thomas asked, emerging from the bathroom. “Neville’s got Dildo Devil’s Snare?”

“I don’t have Dildo Devil’s Snare!”

“His late-night greenhouse trips make more sense now, don’t they?”

“You weren’t out that late last night, were you, Nev? I thought you were back before us?”

Longbottom yawned again. “I only beat you by about ten minutes.”

Cold horror slid down Draco’s spine. For a second, he frowned, familiar with the sensation of terror but not yet comprehending its appearance.

But then he remembered two pairs of footsteps returning to the dormitory last night. He remembered Thomas and Finnegan shuffling around, changing into their pyjamas, whispering to each other as they got into bed.

He’d assumed Longbottom came back later, after Draco had fallen asleep.

But if Longbottom had come back ten minutes before Thomas and Finnegan—

He tensed, his heart pounding. Harry, not as unconscious as Draco had believed, lifted his head to squint at Draco through puffy eyes.

What? he mouthed.

Draco nodded jerkily towards the Gryffindor boys on the other side of the curtains.

“Dildo Devil’s Snare wear you out early last night, was it?” Finnegan was saying.

“I don’t have Dildo Devil’s Snare!” Longbottom repeated plaintively. “I came back last night the same time I always do! It was you two who were late!”

Harry frowned, his mouth forming the words Dildo Devil’s Snare?

“Ah, we figured we might as well go for another round, since you always wake us up stumbling into things when you get back. Don’t know how Harry sleeps through it.”

“Looks like he’s having a lie-in again, too,” Thomas said. “Oi, Harry!”

“Let him sleep,” said Longbottom quickly. “He’s got a free period this morning.”

“Lazy sod. Was he already asleep when you got in?”

Longbottom hesitated for a beat too long. Draco couldn’t breathe.

“Yeah, he was,” Longbottom said.

Harry’s eyes widened.

“Ah, couldn’t be a poster boy without his beauty sleep, could he?” Finnegan said. “Rather him than me, mind.”

“Agreed,” Thomas said fervently.

Fuck, Harry mouthed. Then he said something else, something longer, but Draco’s head was spinning too much to figure out what it was. His chest felt heavy, like someone was still sleeping on it, except there was nothing there. And it wasn’t nice and soft and warm like Harry had been—it was crushing him, not letting him take a full breath.

Longbottom had heard them.

They’d thought the dorm was empty, so they weren’t being quiet, and if he came back ten minutes before Thomas and Finnegan, it would have been right in the middle of—

Draco’s body felt weird, like he was shivering on the inside. His heartbeat was too intense, the thump of it taking up his whole torso. The Gryffindors were still chatting, their sleep-rough voices strengthening with use, and Harry was biting his lip while he listened, but it all felt so very far away.

Longbottom knew. He knew that Draco was—knew what Draco was. He was a pure-blood too, a member of the Twenty-Eight, so he knew just how wrong it was, and worse still: he thought that Draco was betraying Hermione. He thought that Harry was betraying Hermione.

And it was all Draco’s fault.

Something thick and ugly wound its way up his throat. It was as bad as it had been when Hermione had walked in on him and Campbell—as bad as it had been last year, at the Manor. Draco knew, he knew he shouldn’t have trusted his luck, shouldn’t have trusted himself, shouldn’t have been so fucking, fucking selfish.

He dimly heard Thomas and Finnegan leave and fought to control his quick, short breaths in the quiet that fell in their absence. Longbottom was still puttering about—and one glance at Harry made it obvious he was about to head out there and confront him, a whirlwind of determination and sincerity, and Draco couldn’t, he couldn’t handle it. He grabbed Harry’s arm—too tightly, but all his energy was going into stopping himself from screaming, he didn’t have it in him to be gentle. He shook his head, frantic. Harry hesitated just long enough. Longbottom’s footsteps reached the door of the dormitory.

“See you later, Harry,” he said. Then, after a pause, he added, “Malfoy.”

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

“So I think Neville might have heard us,” Harry said.

His tone was light, but his hands had clenched in the sheets when Neville had said Draco’s name. Draco had felt it happen, the delicate bones and muscles of Harry’s wrist going taut under Draco’s fingertips.

He wanted to respond in kind, to brush it off with a joke, but every atom of his being was screaming at him to run, to hide, to get away. If he moved, if he tried to say anything, his control would shatter.

“He won’t tell anyone. It’s Neville.”

But Harry’s hands were still curled into fists. Draco needed to breathe, needed to drag in air, but he could only manage small, quick gulps, like a rabbit on a hunter’s table, aware it was about to become stew.

“It’s shit that he knows, but he won’t tell anyone.”

Harry was trying to convince himself. It was obvious. Their lives were over and it was Draco’s fault. He needed to breathe. He couldn’t breathe.

The lash of a hex. The burning humiliation of emerging from an Imperius. The bone-grinding agony of a snarled Crucio. It all came flooding back, everything Draco had been forcing down all year. The heart-stopping fear of being caught doing something wrong, something against the Dark Lord’s wishes. The punishment that followed. The high, cruel laughter.

Draco clenched his eyes shut. The Dark Lord was dead. His father was in Azkaban. Nobody was going to cast Unforgivables on him. He might be disowned, he might never be able to show his face again, but he was leaving soon. The Dark Lord was dead. His father was in Azkaban. He was getting away. He would be fine. He would be fine. He would be fine.

“I’m so sorry, Draco.”

There was a soft touch on Draco’s arm and Draco hurled himself sideways away from it. It was only once his eyes opened, wide with terror, that he realised it was just Harry.

He would be fine. He would be fine.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “You’re right, I shouldn’t touch you. Sorry, I—”

“No,” Draco forced out, but it emerged as a strangled gasp, like the sound of someone dying—and Draco knew exactly what that sounded like.

The quiet, shocked cry as the final curse hit. The thud of a body hitting the floor. The threat: You see what happens to people who don’t obey?

“God, I fucked up so much. This is all my fault.”

Draco blinked, trying to push the memories back down, to focus. Harry was looking away, his mouth tugging downwards at the corners. The mouth that Draco had kissed. The mouth that Longbottom had heard gasping as Harry had fucked himself to completion with Draco on top of him.

“No—” Fuck, words were so hard. Draco had to force each sound out of his mouth, had to concentrate so much on the pattern of them: consonant, vowel, consonant. “Not your fault. Mine.”

Harry scoffed, staring miserably at the bedsheets. “Nah, it’s been me all along, trying to get you to… Fuck, Draco. I’m so, so sorry.”

Last year, Draco had learned to keep his fear from showing. He had learned to keep his limbs locked in place and his expression blank, his breaths quick but quiet. But each of Harry’s apologies cut him deeper, drove the knife further into his chest.

He was being stupid. The Dark Lord was dead. His father was in Azkaban. He would be fine. He would be fine.

“Stop saying sorry.” It came out somewhere between a wheeze and a snarl, caught on a harsh exhale of not enough breath.

Harry looked up from the bedsheets. His frown softened into bewilderment. “Wait. Draco, are you…are you having a panic attack?”

Draco didn’t know what a panic attack was, but if it made you feel like something evil was inside you, stealing the air from your lungs, making you sweat, making your heart race—then there was a chance that, yes, he was having a panic attack. He inhaled raggedly.

“Shit,” Harry said. “Fuck—sit up, against the headboard, come on—” He reached out again, but Draco wrenched himself away. He couldn’t bear the thought of Harry’s hands on him, not now, not while Draco was being dramatic and making everything about himself, even though it was his fault—

“It’s okay, I won’t touch. Just—try to sit up properly, if you can. You’ll be able to breathe a bit better.”

Draco couldn’t sit up. He couldn’t move. If he moved, he would run, he would hide, he would pull a pillow over his head and scream and scream.

But Harry was watching him, his sleep-puffy eyes wide with worry. He shouldn’t be worried about Draco. And he would be worried, until Draco calmed down, because that was who Harry was.

Another wave of horror lurched up his throat. He could feel it wanting to surge out of his mouth, to make him talk, to spill all of his thoughts at once, like he’d done at Hermione that day in the Charms classroom—but look at where that had got him. Draco forced it into his limbs instead, forced himself up against the headboard, anything to put Harry at ease, to get him to go away, to let Draco ride out his stupid selfish meltdown in peace.

“Take a deep breath, nice and slow.”

Draco tried, but the evil thing inside him was squeezing his lungs too tightly.

“No pressure, don’t worry,” Harry said, his voice so gentle, soothing, despite the fact that— “But it will help if you can.”

He was talking confidently, like he knew exactly what was happening. The thought was comforting—if Harry had gone through this too, at least whatever it was wasn’t about to kill him. “You—have this, too?”

But Harry shook his head. “Not me,” he said. “But I get—angry, sometimes. It’s similar, I think. That’s what the Mind Healer said. But Ginny has had them for years. Panic attacks, I mean. Try and breathe in again—follow me, come on.” He inhaled deeply and Draco tried to match him. It was so hard—Ginny has had them for years, it was such private, intimate knowledge—but Harry kept going, kept talking him through it—kept counting it out, one, two, three—and slowly, the grip inside Draco’s chest loosened.

“Good,” Harry said. “Nice one, you’re coming out of it. One more breath?”

Draco breathed, and it wasn’t easy, but it was doable. His insides were sore, tender—it felt like he’d just inhaled a pint of water and had coughed it out again.

“Thank you,” he rasped.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry I didn’t realise quicker. You’re usually so— I didn’t expect—anyway. Sorry.”

“Can you stop apologising? Please?”

Harry looked like he was going to argue, but he studied Draco’s expression and seemed to decide against it. “Sure,” he said. “If that’s what you want.”

What did Draco want? He wanted to run away. He wanted to escape. He wanted to stop being a fucked-up Death Eater with no moral compass and a sexuality that had managed to ruin his life after all.

He just had to deal with it for two more months, he reminded himself. He was getting away. He would be fine. He just had to get through NEWTs, get through the awkward last few weeks of school, and he could leave it all behind.

He could leave Harry behind, and Harry would be safe from him. Harry could go back to Ginny, who’d had panic attacks for years, and he could help her through them. He still cares about her, Hermione had said. You’ve seen how they are together.

Maybe he’d think of Draco every now and then. Even that would be more than Draco deserved.

Harry cleared his throat. “The Mind Healers said when you’ve had a panic attack, or whatever stupid version of them it is I have, it can be helpful to—to have a hug, afterwards. It increases oxy-toxin, or something.” He paused. “We don’t have to. But it would just be a hug. It wouldn’t mean anything.”

Draco hated himself. He hated himself so much.

He leant forwards into Harry’s embrace. “Yeah,” he said, the comfort of Harry’s hard, warm body already flooding through him. “Of course. It doesn’t mean anything at all.”

Chapter Text

Harry had tried. He’d really, really tried. He’d tried to shove Draco into the category of Friend. He’d tried to act like Draco was Ron—a mate, someone he was comfortable around, someone who he didn’t worry about how much he should be looking at or touching or talking to.

But over the last few weeks, his forced carelessness had become indulgence. The determination to touch casually—because not touching at all would have been suspicious!—had turned into finding excuses to nudge him, to lean in and murmur jokes into his ear, to grab his wrist and tug him down corridors and into classrooms and up staircases.

He’d vowed not to avoid Draco, because he didn’t want to upset Hermione. Somehow, that had turned into spending time with him at every opportunity. Harry sat next to him during lessons, went to the library with him during free periods, insisted they attend Quidditch matches together—then abandoned post-Quidditch celebrations when no amount of smuggled alcohol could recreate the thrill he got from casually resting his leg against Draco’s underneath the common room table.

He’d grown addicted to Draco’s attention, that was the thing. There was something almost magical about it. Whenever hot snarls of anger would lick at Harry’s stomach, he just had to reach out, to catch Draco’s eye, and it would fade to nothing. Something about the coolness of him, the sharpness of his gaze, the small, private smirks he shared with Harry (and only Harry)—something about those made everything else fall away.

Harry had told himself it was fine. He’d told himself it was all within the realms of platonic behaviour. He’d told himself it didn’t mean anything that he never brought up the possibility of Draco administering the Veritaserum antidote to himself—that it wasn’t immoral, to maintain that every morning, he simply had to step into Draco’s space, cup his jaw and watch him open his mouth at Harry’s murmured request. He told himself that, if he wanked himself raw to the image of Draco’s lidded eyes and pink tongue, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t doing anything.

And maybe it hadn’t mattered. Maybe it had been fine.

But then, last night—

Harry faltered, almost stumbling down the sixth-floor staircase. Even now, even while guilt was weighing down his every limb, he couldn’t suppress a flush of pleasure at the memory of Draco against him, of him rasping, Do you have any idea what hearing you say my name like that does to me?

Fuck. What had they done? What had Harry done, saying the things he’d said last night? He’d been so fucking inappropriate, inviting Draco to bed, admitting how much he wanted to kiss him, asking him if he was turned on—god, what had he been thinking?

When he’d asked if Draco wanted to stay, he hadn’t meant for anything to happen. He really hadn’t. He’d just— He’d missed the way things changed when they were in Harry’s bed. The way Draco used to relax so completely—the way he became sharper as he got sleepier, where most people would become softer.

I’m wondering how I’m supposed to pretend you didn’t say that when kissing you is already all I think about.

Had Draco just said it to make Harry feel better? It hadn’t seemed like a lie, not when it was followed by the urgency of Draco’s hands on him, of the hard, hot line of him against Harry’s aching cock…

It doesn’t matter, Harry told himself firmly. It doesn’t matter if he wants you too. He’s with Hermione. It can’t happen again. It shouldn’t have happened at all.

He swerved around a pair of giggling fourth years and forced his thoughts back to the present.

He’d left Draco in the dormitory. He’d seemed calmer by the time Harry left—but he’d always seemed calm, always seemed completely unruffled, the living embodiment of a coolly raised eyebrow and a quiet little jibe.

But then again, so did Ginny. Although Harry hadn’t really thought of her as “quiet” since she’d been a twelve-year-old with a crush, she had the same nonchalant confidence that Draco had, gave off the same impression that nothing in the world could get to her. Yet behind closed doors, Harry had seen Ginny break down, shaking and gasping for breath, tears pouring down her face. Somehow, it had never occurred to him that there was anything remotely similar under Draco’s mild, aloof exterior.

Had Harry done the right thing, leaving Draco alone up there? After the panic attack had abated, Harry had held Draco in silence. The sounds of the rest of Gryffindor Tower going to breakfast had been distant, muffled—the routine of a regular day insignificant compared to the chaos swirling through Harry’s mind.

Eventually, Draco had pulled away. Without making eye contact, he’d told Harry to go to breakfast without him. And what else could Harry do without looking like he was finding another excuse to hang around Draco—a sad little Crup who didn’t know when he wasn’t wanted?

He’d only hesitated when he’d lifted his schoolbag onto his shoulder and heard the quiet slosh of the Veritaserum antidote inside its bottle.

Even then, he’d tried to talk himself out of it, tried to think of a valid reason to keep the farce going. But his head had been too busy, his thoughts racing too fast for him to cling to anything coherent. He’d taken a few drops himself, then had left the bottle with Draco. If Draco realised it meant he could have been taking the antidote by himself the whole time, he didn’t mention it. He didn’t do anything—just sat there, in Harry’s bed, the covers pulled up to his shoulders and his face completely blank.

And now Harry was on his way to breakfast alone, dread at the prospect of sitting at the same table as Hermione and Neville mounting with every step.

How could he do it? How could he listen while she cheerfully talked about revision timetables and wellbeing clubs after what he’d done last night? How could he face her when not eight hours ago he’d been pinned under her boyfriend, thrusting against him, moaning into his mouth?

Fuck. Draco’s mouth.

Hermione’s boyfriend’s mouth.

Harry had made it to the Entrance Hall, but his feet would take him no further. The doors to the Great Hall loomed, huge and imposing. The murmur of breakfast conversation drifted out from behind them.

Hermione would be sitting at the Gryffindor table, a book propped against a jug of pumpkin juice and two slices of toast and marmalade cut into neat triangles on her plate.

Whoever had said that Gryffindors were brave had never considered the potency of a horny-guilty combo. With a grimace, Harry whirled around and ducked through the side door that led down to the kitchens.

He’d have to tell her. Right? The previous kiss, weeks ago, was one thing—it had happened before Harry had even processed it. It had basically been an accident. But last night was—it was almost premeditated. Harry hadn’t meant for it to happen, no, but he couldn’t deny that he’d wanted it to. He couldn’t deny that he’d invited Draco to stay for reasons that had much more to do with wanting Draco in his bed than wanting to make sure Draco finished his Potions revision.

Harry shivered. Draco, in his bed. Was he still there now? Was he still in Harry’s pyjamas? Or had he changed—was he changing at that very moment? Pulling his top over his head, revealing the pale skin of his stomach? Were his fingers hooking in the waistband of his pyjama bottoms and pushing them downwards over the swell of his arse…?

Harry shook his head forcefully, ignoring the strange looks he attracted from Hufflepuffs hurrying from their common room up to breakfast. What was he doing? Even aside from the fact that Draco was already in a relationship, Draco was still in Harry’s dormitory instead of in the Great Hall because he’d had a panic attack.

“Cowardly, selfish, insensitive dickhead,” Harry muttered.

“Oof, I thought killing that big ugly snake stopped that kind of talk.”

Harry froze. Fuck fuck fucking fuck. “Neville. Hi.”

Neville raised a hand in greeting. “Hey, Harry. What are you doing down here?”

“I…” Avoiding you! Avoiding Hermione! Running away from my awful decisions because I’m a spineless little shit! “Er. Just thought I’d have breakfast in the kitchens. Check up on the elves. You know.”

“Ah, right. That’s good of you.”

Harry shrugged. He tried to make himself meet Neville’s gaze. Tried not to remember that last night, Neville had been listening while Harry— “What about you? Kitchens too?”

“Oh—nah. I just needed to pick up the key to Greenhouse Seven. I accidentally left it with Pomona last night.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Pomona.”

Interestingly, Neville flushed. “Professor Sprout, I mean. Obviously. Erm.”

Harry raised the other eyebrow. “Neville. Your late-night sessions in the greenhouses…”

“My Mandrake-Tentaculas need a lot of attention! They’re very sensitive! Wow, is that the time? I’d best be off! Nice seeing you!” With a manic smile, Neville made to hurry past Harry—but Harry shot out a hand to stop him.

“Wait, actually— Can we talk for a minute?”

“I just love Herbology, Harry!” Neville said, a sheen of sweat visibly forming on his forehead. “Plants! Gardening! My greatest passion!”

“No, I know,” Harry said quickly. Holy fucking shit. “Totally. I fully understand your dedication to the noble field of Herbology. No further questions on that topic.”

Neville sagged.

Harry pressed on before he lost his nerve. “But I wanted to talk to you about, erm. About Draco.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.” Harry swallowed. “Would you— I mean, I know it’s a shitty thing to ask, but would you mind keeping it to yourself? Just while I figure out how to…you know.”

Neville looked at him strangely, but nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “No, of course, yeah.”

Harry let out a breath. “You mean it? Cheers, Neville. I really appreciate it.”

“You didn’t seriously think I’d go running to the Prophet, did you?” Neville grinned. “Come on.”

“Maybe not the Prophet, no.” But Neville was unerringly fair-minded. No matter what assurances Harry had given Draco, Harry himself hadn’t been convinced that Neville wouldn’t feel honour-bound to tell Hermione at the earliest available opportunity.

“Hmm, you’re right,” Neville said, and Harry’s stomach plummeted. “Witch Weekly would pay much higher than the Prophet for a story like that.”

“Ha. Yeah.”

“I’m joking. Don’t look so worried! Your secret is safe with me.” Neville nudged him and winked.

“Right,” Harry said, forcing a smile. “Brilliant. Thanks, mate.”

“How does it work, anyway?”

Harry blinked. Surely Neville wasn’t asking about…the mechanics of gay sex?

An image flashed through Harry’s mind: Draco underneath him, his back arching, his fists clenched in the bedsheets and his thighs spread. The back of Harry’s neck grew warm. Was it desire or guilt? It was becoming difficult to tell the difference.

“How does—” Harry swallowed. “How does what work?”

“You know.” Neville wiggled his eyebrows. “You three. Was Hermione there too, last night? Or can you go off in pairs?”

Harry blinked, thrown by the mention of Hermione. Individually, he knew what all of those words meant. But in that specific order…? Neville might as well have been speaking Mermish. “What?”

“Well,” Neville said. “Obviously, everyone knew about you, Ron and Hermione. But it felt like with them, it was an all-three-of-you-or-nothing situation. Is it the same? With Draco?”

Maybe Neville was speaking Mermish. “Everyone knew what about me, Ron and Hermione?”

Neville gave him a look. “Come on, mate. Can’t keep anything quiet in this place, can you? Although,” he said, cocking his head thoughtfully, “I never could work out where Ginny fit into it. Must have been weird when you started seeing her too, right? Is that why she and Ron cleared off?”

“Is that why…?” Understanding hit Harry like a Bludger to the face. “Oh my god. Neville. You think—? Oh my god.”

Neville smiled encouragingly. “Don’t worry, Harry, I’m not judging! I’ll admit, I was a bit stumped by it at first—I reckon I’m a one-person-at-a-time kind of bloke, you know?—but Ginny explained it all while you three were on the run.”

“Ginny expl—? Oh my god.”

“Honestly, whatever you got up to can’t have been worse than what went on in the Room of Requirement last year.” Neville slapped Harry on the shoulder bracingly. “Felt like it was non-stop, sometimes. I’m surprised you didn’t smell it when you showed up.”

Harry desperately missed the blissful ignorance of thirty seconds ago when he hadn’t understood a word Neville was saying.

“Anyway, no worries if you don’t want to talk about it yet. You know where I am if you want to chat, though. Until then…” He mimed locking his mouth closed and tossed an invisible key over his shoulder. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”

Harry stared after Neville as he strode towards the Entrance Hall. He’d assumed that after learning that Draco was not as cool and calm as Harry had thought, he’d reached his morning’s quota of world-altering realisations. It was not a particularly pleasant experience to be proved wrong.

Chapter Text

Harry spent his free period hiding in the kitchens, chewing his way through a tray of fresh croissants and trying to wrap his mind around the events of the last twelve hours.

This was what he knew:

He’d crossed a line with Draco last night.

He needed to tell Hermione.

Neville had heard them and thought Harry and Hermione had some kind of regular threesome arrangement.

Harry’s thoughtlessness had led to Draco having a breakdown.

His focus should have been Hermione. He should have been thinking about what he was going to say to her, how he was going to apologise, if there was anything in the world he could do to make it up to her.

But no matter how hard he tried to concentrate on formulating his confession, his thoughts returned unerringly to Draco.

It was strange. Harry had assumed, in an abstract sort of way, that part of the reason he’d been drawn to Draco was because he was so aloof and restrained. It had made a nice change—Ron, Hermione and Ginny were all still affected by the war in different ways, and fuck knows a day didn’t go by where Harry didn’t reach for his wand, defensive magic sizzling in his palm and anger churning in his gut, before he remembered that it was over, that they were safe.

So, if he’d thought about it, he would have suspected that he’d be put off by knowing that Draco hadn’t emerged from the last few years completely unscathed. He would have thought that it would break the spell of Draco’s appeal.

But instead, it felt like the knowledge had somehow lodged Draco deeper inside Harry’s chest. What had been an aching longing had transformed into a painful thorn that throbbed whenever Harry remembered him, remembered that he was Hermione’s, that he was off-limits, that he was upset and it was Harry’s fault.

Had Draco made it to breakfast? Had he told Hermione already? Harry should have been there—Draco would probably blame himself. Harry needed to make sure she knew Harry was the one who had fucked up.

He told himself to go and find them dozens of times. But walking to his death had been easier than walking to that particular conversation. He stayed in the kitchens, limbs heavy with dread, and watched the elves bustle around, their new uniforms (proper ones, tiny white shirts and neat black aprons) suiting them much better than the tea towels ever did.

He didn’t move when the bell marking the end of first period rang out. He might not have moved at all if Winky hadn’t crossly ushered him out of the corner he’d been lurking in. “We elves is appreciating the visit, Harry Potter,” she said. “But we is very busy, and you is being in the way.”

It was nice, seeing her sober and snappy and confident. Harry resented it nonetheless.

He was five minutes late to Potions. Slughorn waved him in without comment, but Harry lingered by the door.

Hermione had glanced over her shoulder when he’d entered. She’d looked back towards Slughorn immediately.

Draco hadn’t moved.

There were only nine of them in the classroom, so Harry had his choice of seats. But his usual spot was next to Draco.

If he avoided it, it might be suspicious. People might think something had happened. Or they would think he just didn’t want to interrupt the lesson further by walking across the classroom. It would make sense, slipping into a seat at the back of the room.

But then he wouldn’t be next to Draco.

Harry made his way to his usual spot and sat down.

Draco still didn’t move.

NEWTs were mere weeks away. Slughorn, like the rest of the teachers, was entirely focused on revision. He fired question after question at them for the whole double period. He called on Harry a few times, but after the fourth time that Harry’s response was “Er, what?”, Slughorn left him alone.

Harry was grateful. He couldn’t concentrate at all; all of his attention was on Draco and Hermione. Neither of them looked at him once.

It didn’t necessarily mean anything, Harry told himself. They were both dedicated students. They were both focused on the exams.

Still, Harry couldn’t stop his gaze from flicking sideways at every slight movement from either of them, analysing whether they were sitting further apart than usual, whether the greyish tinge to Draco’s face meant he’d recently been broken up with—or whether it meant that he’d had a panic attack and had skipped breakfast.

It felt like a full day passed before the bell for the end of the lesson rang out—Harry burst out of his chair as soon as it did, tapping his foot impatiently as Draco and Hermione packed their things away.

He’d had had all morning to think about it, but he still hadn’t figured out exactly what he was going to say to Hermione. But he needed to say something or he was going to explode from the nervous energy that was fizzing inside him. He’d drag them somewhere quiet and just tell her the truth. It would be awful. But it would be the right thing to do.

“Hermione,” he said, once they’d filed into the corridor. “Can we—?”

He was stopped by the sensation of cool fingers wrapping around his wrist. Draco, his eyes wide, shook his head quickly. Then he let go.

“Can we what?” Hermione asked vaguely, digging through her schoolbag.

Harry blinked. His mind had gone blank. The confession had been on the top of his tongue, but… Did Draco not want her to know? Should Harry tell her anyway?

“What, Harry?” Hermione repeated. She looked up from her bag, a textbook in her hand. “Are you all right?”

Draco had smoothly taken his place at Hermione’s other side. His head was turned away. Harry couldn’t see his face.

“Yeah. I…”

Harry had spent the morning sure that a confession was the right thing to do. But after the last month, could he trust that his motivations were honourable? What if his urge to confess was a front for his desire for them to break up? Did he just secretly want Hermione to know what Draco had said to him? What they had done?

Wanting to kiss you is already all I think about, Draco had said. Harry couldn’t deny that he’d felt a flash of triumph at the words.

No. He was trying to do the right thing. He was trying to be a good friend.

Wasn’t he?

“I just wanted to…”

Draco was still looking away, but there was tension in every line of him. His neck was stiff, his bony shoulders raised in sharp, defensive points.

“I just—wanted to ask if you could help me with my Manticore diagram later?” Harry finished lamely. “I can’t remember how many segments there are on the tail.”

“That’s easy. Five on the males, seven on the females.”

“Oh yeah,” Harry said, watching as Draco’s shoulders softened almost imperceptibly. “Yeah, thanks, I… I knew it was something like that.”

What was Harry supposed to do now?

Draco didn’t look at him again. He didn’t look at anyone—at lunch, he ate his sandwiches in silence, his head bowed. It was how he’d acted at the start of the year, curled in on himself, his body language begging people to ignore him, to forget that he was there.

Even back then, Harry had struggled to forget about Draco. Now, of course, it was impossible.

Hermione ignored everyone too, reading Morphology, Ancient Runes and You with a frown of concentration. It was only after Draco had disappeared off to Charms and Harry and Hermione were queuing outside the Transfiguration classroom that Harry felt brave enough to speak.

“So,” he said, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. “Hermione. How are you?”

Hermione frowned. “What?”

Oh, god. Had Draco confessed, after all? Was she wondering how Harry had the nerve to even talk to her? “Just—how are things?” he tried. “You know? How are you doing?”

Hermione blinked. “I’m fine. A little stressed, I suppose, with the exams so close. And we found a Mind Healer to lead the wellbeing club, finally, but it’s probably going to have to wait until next term now… Why? What’s going on?”

“No reason,” Harry said. God, he was sweating. “Just wondering. We don’t—chat much, these days, do we? I just wanted to…check in.”

“Oh, Harry.” The unthinkable happened: the next thing Harry knew, he had a face full of bushy hair and his arms full of Hermione Granger as she rushed forwards and hugged him. “You’re such a good friend,” she said. “I’m so sorry I haven’t been there for you much this year.”

Harry felt like he’d been punched in the gut. She definitely didn’t know, then. “What are you talking about,” he said gruffly. “Of course you have.”

“No, I—I’ve been so distracted. It really hasn’t been fair to you. And I inflicted Draco on you, with no warning at all—”

A flash of memory: Draco’s thigh between Harry’s legs, Draco’s mouth hot on Harry’s neck and the slow curl of orgasm approaching, shivering down his back, winding around the base of his cock.

“I haven’t minded Draco,” Harry said. It felt like someone else was saying the words, they were so absurd. “What brought this on?”

Hermione pulled away, brushing her hair out of her eyes. “Oh—nothing in particular. Just something I’ve been thinking about. I keep meaning to find time to spend time with you properly, but there’s just so much work to get through. I was going to try to make it up to you after exams.”

After exams, Draco would be leaving, learning how to use a telephone so he could keep in touch with Hermione. It made it all the more awful, knowing that Draco and Hermione only had a limited amount of time left together and Harry was getting in the way of it. No wonder Draco didn’t want to tell her what they’d done. Not yet.

“You don’t have to make anything up to me. Really.”

Hermione looked like she might hug him again. Harry panicked, needing to stop her, and blurted the first thing that came into his head. “How is Draco, anyway? He seemed a bit quiet this morning. Quieter than usual, I mean.”

“Oh, did he? I didn’t notice. He’s probably just focused on exams, same as me.”

What was it like, not being hyperaware of Draco at all times? Not overanalysing his every movement, his every word? It just showed how comfortable Hermione and Draco were together, Harry supposed. You didn’t have to be obsessed with something when you already had it.

They didn’t see Draco again until dinner. He looked at Harry only once—a quick, questioning glance, which Harry responded to with a shake of his head. Draco nodded, then folded himself into his usual spot next to Hermione and stared at the table for the rest of the meal.

Stupid, how much even that little exchange made Harry’s heart beat faster. He desperately wanted to talk to Draco, to discuss things properly, but it was obvious that Draco wanted to be left alone. Harry needed to respect that.

He also needed to respect Draco’s decision not to tell Hermione what had happened yet. It made sense—she was already stressed about exams, she’d said so herself. And she’d definitely never forgive Harry if he sabotaged her NEWT results on top of everything else.

It was just…

Even though Harry had been dreading having to confess, now that it looked like he didn’t have to, he was almost…disappointed. It had felt like something had changed last night. He didn’t know how he was supposed to carry on like it hadn’t happened.

“All right, gang?” came a familiar voice from behind Harry. “Budge up, will you? My lot won’t stop talking about the mock exam we just had in Defence. If I don’t get away now, I might literally murder them all.”

Unthinkingly, Harry scooted over to make room for Ginny. Then he remembered his conversation with Neville and scooted right back.

“You can stay standing, actually,” he told her.

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Bowtruckle up your arse, Potter?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Your brother’s, from what I heard this morning.”

“I beg your pardon?” Hermione said, looking up from her book.

“Apparently, Ginny spent last year telling all of Dumbledore’s Army that you, me and Ron were off fucking each other in the tent while we were looking for the You-Know-Whats.”

Ginny burst out laughing. “Oh yeah! I’d forgotten about that.” She leant over Harry and grabbed a bread roll from the centre of the table. “I’m surprised it took this long to get back to you. I thought it would be a month, max, before the Prophet asked whether your steamy three-way love affair helped you through the war. Who let it slip?”

“Neville,” Harry said. “I spoke to him this morning.” He heard Draco inhale sharply and hoped Ginny’s renewed laughter was loud enough that Hermione didn’t notice. He hesitated, unsure if he was making the right call, but ploughed on anyway. “Apparently he thinks it extends to Draco now, too.”

Ginny looked like NEWTs had just been cancelled. “He doesn’t!”

“He does,” Harry said grimly, determinedly not turning around to check Draco’s reaction. “He seems to think that Hermione and I exclusively work in threesomes. So if he says anything weird to you, that’s why,” he added to Hermione in a move that surely any Slytherin would be proud of. One Slytherin in particular, hopefully.

“Goodness me,” Hermione said faintly. She glanced at Draco—and Harry was jealous of even that, that she could look at him without worrying whether or not it was suspicious.

“I wish I could say that I’m sorry, Hermione, but”—Ginny cackled and took a blissful bite of her roll—“that really wouldn’t be true.”

“You’re a very strange person, Ginny,” Hermione said, and went back to her book.

“It’s the pure-blood inbreeding,” Ginny said cheerfully. “Right, Malfoy?”

“That would make sense,” Draco said. Despite how miserable he’d looked all day, his voice was as cool and dry as ever. (It was a bit of a turn-on, actually. Harry was so fucked.)

“Anyway,” Ginny continued, “Hogsmeade weekend this Saturday. Anyone up for it? Most of my lot are staying here to revise.”

“No,” Hermione said without looking up. “Exams are two weeks away, Ginny.”

“Exactly,” Ginny said. “That’s ages. Harry?”

A refusal was on the tip of Harry’s tongue. He’d avoided Hogsmeade like the plague all year lest he see Draco and Hermione disappear into the upper floors of the Three Broomsticks. But with Draco telegraphing his desire to be left alone and Hermione caught up in pre-exam cramming, it looked like Harry had a miserable weekend ahead of him. Spending time away from it all might be just what he needed.

“Yeah,” he said. “All right. Why not?”

“Excellent,” Ginny said, grinning. “I’ll tell the others.”

“Others? You said nobody else was going.”

“Most of them aren’t, but there’ll still be a few of us.”

Harry grimaced. A day in Hogsmeade with Ginny sounded fun, but a day socialising with a group of strangers did not. “Is there someone else I know going, at least? Your mate with the glasses. What’s her name—Laura? Lauren?”

“You mean Erin? Nah, she’s staying here. Honestly, the amount of revision people are doing, anyone would think NEWTs were actually important.”

Ginny winked at Harry while Hermione made a pained noise, and Harry smiled despite himself. Ginny’s casual attitude towards the exams was refreshing after so long spent with Draco and Hermione. It reminded him fondly of Ron.

An idea occurred to him. It was the most brilliant idea he’d had in months. He straightened.

“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll walk into Hogsmeade with your lot, but I’m not hanging around.”

Ginny pulled a face. “Why not? You’re not going to come running back to school and lock yourself in the library with these boring sods, are you?”

“Nah,” Harry said, and grinned. “I’m going to go and visit your brother.”

Chapter Text

Over the next two days, the plan to visit Ron was the only thing that kept Harry going.

In the face of Draco’s obvious misery, Harry vowed to leave him alone, to give him space. But it only took until Thursday lunchtime before he found himself slipping back into old habits—thoughtlessly nudging him, making jokes specifically in the hope of eliciting an unthinking laugh, asking questions he already knew the answer to in a desperate attempt to get him to call Harry stupid in that snickering, affectionate way he had.

But Draco didn’t react to any of it. He was back to monosyllabic responses in that awful, flat tone of voice. He was back to flinching at every sound—something Harry hadn’t realised he’d stopped doing until he started again.

And Harry’s bed smelled like him. The scent of his hair lingered on the pillow. His posh cologne (was it cologne? Or did wealthy pure-bloods just smell like that?) had re-permeated the spare pyjama top. Harry fell asleep thinking of him and woke up thinking of him.

But Harry would have been able to handle that. He would have been able to handle the memories, the guilt, the ache in his chest. It would have all been bearable, if Draco had at least still been his friend.

Saturday morning dawned bright and sunny. Harry met Ginny in the Entrance Hall—and was quite taken aback to realise that “the others” she had mentioned were three seventh-year boys, who Ginny casually introduced as her dates.

“What, all of them?”

“Yep,” Ginny said with a grin. “Thought it would save time, seeing three at once.”

The boys did not seem fazed by this declaration. Harry, on the other hand, found it difficult to contain his dismay. His nerves were so frayed after the last few days, he wasn’t sure he trusted himself not to snap at the boys in an unhinged display of protectiveness that would put even Ron to shame.

But it didn’t take him long to realise that he had nothing to worry about. On the walk to the village, Ginny was completely in control of the conversation, teasing and testing and playing the boys against each other—and winking at Harry whenever she made one of them flounder or blush.

It was actually a bit of a revelation, being the fifth wheel on Ginny’s date. Harry didn’t know how he’d ever worried he might be jealous of her. He remembered poking at his feelings, suspecting that he was just looking out for her but not being entirely certain. But now, watching as three boys trailed Ginny down the long Hogwarts driveway, it was bizarre that he’d even needed to think about it.

Because now, he was intimately familiar with what jealousy felt like. Over the last few months, it had coiled unpleasantly in his stomach whenever Hermione touched Draco, whenever Draco thoughtlessly prepared her breakfast, whenever the two of them discussed a piece of homework in the quick half-sentences of the obscenely clever. But that morning, with three people desperately flirting with Harry’s ex right in front of him, that feeling was completely absent.

Ginny and her boyfriends probably thought he was a lunatic. Harry didn’t care; he was grinning when he dropped them off outside Madam Puddifoot’s and wished the boys good luck—and emphasised that they’d need it. Ginny rolled her eyes and called him an arsewipe.

It reminded Harry of Draco. The smile slipped off his face.

When Ron had been accepted into the Auror programme, Harry had offered to let him stay in Grimmauld Place. Ron had shuddered and said he’d rather sleep on the street in a pile of Mundungus Fletcher’s dirty laundry.

Instead, he’d found a tiny flat in Croydon. It had four rooms, total—living room, kitchen, bedroom, bathroom—and could be crossed in its entirety in eight paces. There were dirty socks, plates and mugs in every corner and on every surface. The rent cost Ron most of his monthly salary.

Harry thought it was brilliant. Yes, he, Ron and Hermione had lived unsupervised for the majority of last year, but it felt awfully grown up, having a flat and being in charge of your own schedule—having to get yourself up in the morning and commute to your job.

“You’ll be doing it soon enough,” Ron said when Harry voiced his admiration. “Robards is all right, he wouldn’t make you wait for NEWT results before getting you in. You could be on the team with me in a couple of months!”

Harry smiled, though the idea made him feel a bit funny.

The funny feeling persisted as Ron told Harry stories of duelling practice (where misfired curses had sent him to St Mungo’s on three separate occasions), stakeouts alongside proper Aurors (where, Ron said proudly, he’d lost all feeling in his extremities and had had to take a potion to make sure his toes didn’t fall off) and the endless classes and tests.

“But they’re not about when the seventeenth Troll War was, or whatever. Nah, it’s how to knock someone out without your wand, how to heal yourself when a curse has split you open, how to deal with super Dark magic—you know, cool stuff.”

“Right,” Harry said.

“So, like I said, you’ll be good at it already!” Ron beamed. “It’s about battle instincts, mainly. And obviously you already have those.”

Anger flared in Harry’s stomach and he squashed it down impatiently. It was surprisingly difficult—he’d thought he was getting better at it, but here in Ron’s flat, there was no Draco to extinguish the fire with a raise of an eyebrow and a secret smile. He hadn’t realised how much he’d been relying on it.

It was stupid, anyway, getting angry. So what if Ron was talking as if Harry should be grateful for the war, for the fact that he’d had to develop said instincts or else he would have got even more people killed? He didn’t mean it like that. Harry knew he didn’t mean it like that.

He cleared his throat and tried to think of a way to change the subject, but Ron beat him to it.

“Shit, I didn’t offer you a drink, did I?” He rushed to the tiny kitchen that attached to the living room via a doorframe that did not have a door in it. “Don’t tell Mum, she’s been trying to drill housekeeping and hospitality stuff into my head all year. What do you want, tea? If not, I’ve got, er”—there was the sound of Ron rooting around in cupboards—“beer, water, or”—a tentative sniff—“pumpkin juice that might still be fine, if you’re feeling brave?”

The lingering sparks of Harry’s anger faded at the thought of Mrs Weasley’s reaction if she could hear Ron offering him gone-off pumpkin juice. “Tea would be good,” he said. “Need a hand?”

“No, no, I don’t want you to see the state of the kitchen! I swear I meant to tidy up this morning, but I only woke up about ten minutes before you got here. I’m such an idiot for going out last night, I knew Peterson wouldn’t let me get away with just one…”

The morning passed pleasantly. Harry had been right—it was nice, getting away from the castle, not having to worry about whether he was staring too much, or sitting too close, or flushing too obviously when he was caught daydreaming.

And it was nice to be able to talk to someone. Harry didn’t mention Hermione or Draco, but he told Ron about the Quidditch final, and NEWTs revision, and Hagrid’s most recent attempt at planting thorn-spitting rose bushes.

He even talked about Ginny, as they went for lunch at McDonald’s (“You have to try this, Harry! Why did you never tell me that Muggle food is amazing?”). He carefully downplayed Ginny’s admirers, but mentioned them enough to portray his own peace with the idea—Ron had taken their break-up worse than Harry or Ginny themselves had.

He still didn’t quite get the hint, though. “Ah, she’ll come round,” he said around a spoonful of McFlurry. “She’ll be begging for you to take her back in no time.”

“I hope not,” Harry said seriously, and Ron laughed.

They took the long way back to Ron’s flat. Ron pointed out the corner shop where he bought his milk (“I’m getting really good with pounds now! Still dunno how much anything is in real money, mind”), the park where he’d seen two foxes having sex once, and the local chippy. (“Curry sauce, Harry! I can’t believe you’ve been keeping curry sauce from me all these years!”)

“That’s about it,” Ron said once they’d done their second lap around the estate. “To be honest, I don’t spend much time round here. I’m usually at the Ministry. Or at the pub.”

“Let’s go back to yours, then. I’ll help you tidy up a bit.”

“Absolutely not. Mum would murder me, you’re a guest—”

“I was a guest this morning, now I’m just a mate.” Harry elbowed Ron, who pulled a face. “Don’t make me tell her how many socks I saw lying around.”

“Bloody hell. You can tell you’ve been spending all your time with Hermione.”

Harry hesitated, unsure how to react to the mention of Hermione, who Harry had been careful to avoid talking about all morning. But Ron rubbed his hand over his face and sighed. “Come on, then. But remember: you volunteered.”

It wasn’t that bad. Most of the mess was little things: jumpers draped over the backs of chairs and dirty plates left on tables—signs of someone used to their mum following them around, keeping things tidy. And Harry was grateful for the task. He had initiated the tidying session (and the lunch out, and the tour of the neighbourhood, and the conversation about Ginny) so he didn’t have to think about—

“So,” Ron said, picking up a bowl that had crusted cereal stuck to the bottom and studying it with interest, “How is it, hanging around with Malfoy all the time?”

Harry’s fist clenched on the handle of the plastic bag he was levitating crisp packets into.

“Oh, you know,” he said lightly. “I’ve done worse.”

Ron snorted. “Wish I could say the same for Hermione. Of all the ridiculous ideas she’s ever had…”

“Yeah.” Harry put the last bit of rubbish in the bag and turned around. “You know, I reckon I’ll go and tackle the kitchen.”

“Oh, yeah, can do,” Ron said, but ruined Harry’s plan of escape by following him into the kitchen and stacking dishes while Harry started on the washing up.

“So he’s not, I dunno…being mean to her, or anything?” Ron asked, nudging Harry away from the sink once it was filled with hot water. Harry, thrown by the question, let himself be manoeuvred out of the way.

“Being mean? No, of course not. Not at all.”

“Well, good. She said he’d changed, obviously, but I didn’t know what she’d be letting him get away with. Not that I think you’d stand for him being a cunt to her, of course,” he added generously.

With a pang, Harry remembered Draco staring up at the canopy of Harry’s bed, saying, Until I learn how to stop being such an irredeemable cunt, I’m trying not to do anything at all.

He swallowed. “No, he—he doesn’t say much, really.” Not unless he was with Harry in the Gryffindor dormitory, whispering confessions into the muffled silence of the night.

Ron snorted. “Well, if you have to put up with him, at least he’s quiet. Best case scenario, given”—he grimaced—“the circumstances.”

“Yeah.”

Harry realised he was standing there uselessly, his soapy hands still held aloft. He cleared his throat and busied himself sweeping the crumbs from the cracked tiles of the kitchen floor. Ron started humming something Harry vaguely recognised as a Celestina Warbeck ballad about heartbreak and lost loves.

Shit. Harry was being selfish.

“How are you doing, anyway, mate?” he asked awkwardly. “With the whole Hermione thing.”

“Me? Yeah, I’m grand. Told you, it barely makes a difference to me this year. Obviously, it’s a bit weird, especially after Mum read that Prophet article…”

Harry winced at the memory of Mrs Weasley’s Howler.

“…but she calmed down after I explained it all to her. Just wish one of you had warned me she was going to go that public.” He grinned over his shoulder.

“Well, people were bound to find out eventually,” Harry said. “How come you never told your mum in the first place?”

Ron shrugged. “Didn’t think there was much point. It’s not like it’s gonna be forever, this thing with Malfoy, is it? It’ll be all done with after you leave school.”

Harry had been moping over Draco for weeks, but even he couldn’t help but feel a stab of pity at the conviction in Ron’s voice.

“Yeah,” he said, then allowed himself a, “Hopefully.”

He regretted his slip almost immediately, but Ron was too busy frowning at the draining board to notice. “I swear I have more plates than this,” he said.

“I’ll go and hunt for them,” Harry said, propping the sweeping brush against the wall and trying not to appear too eager to leave the conversation.

Ron hesitated. “They’ll probably be in my room. It’s a right mess.”

“Don’t be stupid. You carry on in here. I’ll be back in a minute.”

To be fair, Ron’s room was a mess. Messier, certainly, than his bedroom at the Burrow had ever been, and with a much more pervasive dirty-washing sort of smell—but it was just as orange. It seemed that there were some things that Ron was not willing to leave in his childhood home, and a demonstration of his passion for the Chudley Cannons was one of them.

Harry spotted one plate immediately: on Ron’s bedside table, resting atop a stack of parchment. Notes from Auror training, Harry assumed. He eyed it with vague interest as he picked up the plate, wondering whether Ron’s notes would prove the curriculum to be less horrific than he had made it sound—but on second glance, it wasn’t Ron’s handwriting that covered the page. It was Hermione’s.

Another stab of pity surged through Harry. Ron had been rereading Hermione’s old letters? He must have been even deeper in denial than Harry had assumed.

Harry sighed and picked it up. He should take it out to Ron, confront him with it. It would be uncomfortable at first, but they clearly needed to have a proper conversation about Ron’s feelings, just like their Mind Healers had said—

But then he spotted Draco’s name in Hermione’s neat script, and couldn’t stop himself from reading further.

…exams are too close, I really don’t think I’ll be able to see you this weekend—I can’t afford the day away from revision.

There’s another Hogsmeade weekend on the 26th, the day after exams finish. I’ll come and see you then? Everyone will be so distracted by the end-of-NEWT celebrations, I might even be able to stay the night…

Only a few more weeks before I can end this thing with Draco and you and I can stop sneaking around! If NEWTs had left any space in my brain, I’d be counting the days. (Forty-six.)

We’ll be together again soon. I love you.

Hermione

Chapter Text

Harry sat heavily on Ron’s bed.

He reread the letter.

Then he read it again.

It didn’t make sense.

I’ll come and see you then?

I might even be able to stay the night…

We’ll be together again soon.

I love you.

Could she mean—as a friend?

But:

Only a few more weeks before I can end this thing with Draco and you and I can stop sneaking around!

Hot anger, worse than he had felt in months, licked its way through Harry’s body. He fought to control it, to remember his Mind Healer’s words. But the more he tried to breathe through it, the more suffocating it became.

For weeks, Harry had been consumed by guilt over his feelings, over that stupid, unthinking kiss—and the whole time, Hermione had been cheating on Draco.

Don’t forget to breathe, Harry.

He swallowed and stared around the room, trying to ground himself. He took in the framed Chudley Cannons posters that lined the walls and tried to pretend he was at the Burrow, tried to let memories of lazy, uncomplicated summers soothe him.

It helped, a bit. But then he caught sight of the open drawer of Ron’s bedside table.

More letters. A whole stack of them, with rows of small, neat cursive clearly visible.

Hermione, her letter-writing etiquette characteristically perfect, had dated each one of them—they had all been sent over the last few months.

Most were full of things Harry already knew—anecdotes from mealtimes, mentions of homework assignments, complaints about Ministry officials ignoring Hermione’s owls.

Some of them also mentioned Harry—how she was worried about him, how she felt guilty for not spending more time with him, for lying to him.

Only a few mentioned Draco—and always dismissively, reminding Ron that her relationship with Draco was temporary, and Ron was the one she really wanted.

All of them ended with We’ll be together again soon. I love you.

Harry’s hands were shaking. He didn’t want to believe it. But the evidence was right there, in black ink and neat handwriting.

At wandpoint, Harry would have admitted to having had some jealousy-induced unsavoury thoughts about Hermione over the last few months. But he’d banish them, horrified at himself, every time. Hermione was one of Harry’s favourite people. She was kind and clever and brilliant. She wanted to help, to do good, to make the world a better place.

But then she’d been unsatisfied with Draco, and she’d betrayed him.

Distantly, Harry was aware that he hardly had the right to be pissed off about someone cheating. But at least he had tried to hold himself back. At least he’d felt guilty about it. And Draco had been clearly horrified at himself, both times.

There was no such guilt in Hermione’s letters. The tone was impatient, grudging. I’ll keep it up until we’ve left Hogwarts properly, one note said. Of course, it’s a bit of a pain, but it’s the right thing to do.

Meanwhile, Draco didn’t want to tell Hermione about what Harry had done the other day, because Draco wanted to savour the remaining time he had with Hermione before he left the country.

Harry clenched his fists, crumpling the letters. Ron’s flat was too fucking small. There was nowhere to run. Nothing he could take his anger out on.

Magic crackled under his skin. The hair on his arms stood on end. Fuck, he needed to move—

One of the framed Chudley Cannons posters fell off the wall and landed on the floor with a crash, the glass front shattering on impact.

“What the bloody hell was that?” came Ron’s voice.

“Nothing,” Harry tried to say, but the kitchen was, after all, not far away, and Ron was there before Harry had managed to get the word out.

He surveyed the destroyed poster frame with a sigh. “Knew I should have got someone else to do the Sticking Charm on that,” he said. “Ah well. Nothing a Reparo won’t fix, I suppose.”

He looked up from the wreckage and frowned at the sight of Harry sitting on the bed, the stack of letters clenched in his fist. “You all right, mate?”

Harry, still off-kilter, didn’t come up with an explanation quick enough.

“Are those my letters?”

Thanks to Harry’s furious grip, they more closely resembled scrap paper you’d find at the bottom of an owl cage, but Harry supposed that the answer to Ron’s question was probably still “Yes.”

Ron strode over and yanked them from Harry’s grasp. “What did you do to them? What are you playing at?”

A loud buzzing filled Harry’s head. He’d been so happy to get away from the castle. He’d been so happy to see Ron again.

“You didn’t read them, did you? There’s private stuff in there.”

The flush of Ron’s ears told Harry exactly what he was worried Harry had read. But Harry had skimmed over the more risqué paragraphs, his eyes scanning ahead for the next mention of Draco’s name.

“Oi, dickhead, I’m talking to you. What’s wrong with you?”

Before Harry knew it, he was on his feet with his wand in his hand. By the power of some unknown spell, Ron was forced backwards, his socked feet sliding against the threadbare carpet. “Wha—?”

“She’s cheating on him,” Harry burst out.

Ron gaped. “What in the name of Merlin’s tits are you on about?”

“Hermione,” Harry clarified savagely. “She’s cheating. Don’t try to deny it.”

“Cheating? Hermione? Have you met her? She’d sooner fail everything than cheat on an exam. Here, you didn’t drink any of that funny pumpkin juice after all, did you?”

Harry, barely aware of what he was doing, raised his wand.

“Whoa! Put that down, yeah? You know what, it’s fine about the letters, I don’t mind if you read them—”

“She said going out with him was a pain.”

“Harry. Mate,” Ron said, uncharacteristically calm, “how about you put that away and tell me what all this is about?”

“Draco.” Harry’s voice caught on the name. “It’s about Draco. Just because you don’t like him doesn’t mean you and Hermione can go behind his back. It doesn’t mean you can talk about him like he doesn’t matter.”

Ron straightened, blinking. “Draco?” he repeated. “What’s he got to do with anything?”

“You say that again and I swear—”

“Whoa!” Ron raised his hands, palms open, and the scrunched-up letters he’d taken from Harry dropped to the floor.

Both of their fucking battle instincts caught on the unexpected movement, their gazes following the progress of the pages as they fell.

“Mate,” Ron said into the stillness. “Did you not know the Draco thing was fake?”

Harry jerked his head up. “What did you just say?”

“Oh, bollocks. I could have sworn you knew.”

“Could have sworn I knew what,” Harry snarled.

But Ron just grimaced. “Fuck, she’s going to kill me. Bollocks. Well, it’s done now, I suppose.” He picked up the letters and nodded his head towards the living room. “Come on, then. I’ll get us some drinks.”

Harry stayed in Ron’s room, forcing himself to calm down, to think.

What had Ron meant, fake? What was it that Ron could have sworn Harry knew?

He probably meant that Hermione was faking it. Well, maybe Harry hadn’t known that before, but he certainly did now—the ugly words from Hermione’s letters were practically burned into the insides of his eyelids.

It wasn’t even just the cheating. It was their fucking attitude. Hermione’s Of course, it’s a bit of a pain. Ron’s Draco? What’s he got to do with anything? Like Draco didn’t matter at all.

Ron hadn’t been at school with them that year. Ron hadn’t spent time with Draco, hadn’t got to know him, hadn’t been given the chance to realise how brilliant he was.

But Hermione had. Hermione knew him. And Draco knew her—trusted her. Loved her.

“Fuck this,” Harry spat, and stormed into the living room.

Ron was holding out a beer, waiting for him. “Before you say anything, have a drink.”

Because he needed to do something with the energy simmering inside him, Harry snatched the bottle and took a violent swig.

“It’s not real, the thing between Hermione and Malfoy,” Ron said. “It’s never been real.”

Harry furiously swallowed his bitter mouthful. “Maybe for Hermione it wasn’t real, but Draco—”

“It’s fake for him too,” Ron said. “Their whole relationship—they were both pretending, all along.”

The words were so nonsensical that Harry couldn’t think of a way to argue with them. He was thrown, too, by Ron’s sombre expression—it was a far cry from the eye-rolls and insults that Harry had expected. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“It’s made-up, mate. Me and Hermione never broke up, her and Malfoy never got together. It was all some weird plan to—hell, I don’t know. Fix up Malfoy’s public image, help him reform, that sort of thing.”

“What? That’s— You’re talking shit. That’s fucking stupid.”

“That’s what I said!” Ron shook his head. It was so familiar—Harry had seen him shake his head in disbelief at Hermione in that specific way hundreds of times before. “You really didn’t know? She said at the beginning she wasn’t going to tell you, but I thought she’d changed her mind.”

Harry was still scowling, still fired up for a fight, but his brain had gone completely blank. Ron wasn’t making sense.

“Here, look. She wrote to me about it back at the start of the year. Read it, go on.” He held out one of Hermione’s letters—crumpled, but perfectly legible. Harry snatched it out of his hand.

Dear Ron,

This is going to sound ridiculous. Please don’t get angry before you read the whole thing.

Firstly, I love you. I love being in a relationship with you. I don’t want that to change.

But I just bumped into Draco Malfoy. He was in a bit of a state, to be honest. I talked to him for a while—and I realised that there’s an easy way I’d be able to help him. But you might not like it.

The thing is: Draco’s gay, and he’s awfully worried about people finding out—it sounds like he’d be on the receiving end of all sorts of horrid things if other pure-bloods were to realise. I know you’ll say he would deserve it, but I think it’s different when it’s for something he can’t help.

So I had an idea. What if I were to pretend to be his girlfriend? Just until the end of school—just while you’re not here. Nothing would change between you and I at all. I’d just spread the rumour and spend a bit of time with him. That’s it.

It’s the perfect solution. It will really fix up his public image and get him out of the prejudiced pure-blood crowd. And I think spending time with Harry and me will be good for him if he has any lingering prejudices himself. It will help him see how unfounded and harmful his parents’ beliefs were.

And, obviously, none of it will be real. He wouldn’t be at all interested, for one—the gay thing, you know—and for another, he’s not my type. I much prefer them tall and red-headed, with big shoulders and a very impressive—

Harry stopped reading abruptly.

“See?” Ron said. “It’s not real.”

The moth-eaten sofa let out a tired groan as Harry sank onto it.

It was definitely Hermione’s handwriting. The date at the top of the page was from the beginning of this year, just under six months ago. Just before she’d got together with Draco.

The thing is: Draco’s gay, and he’s awfully worried about people finding out.

It wasn’t—

It wasn’t completely unbelievable. Harry knew first-hand Draco wasn’t entirely heterosexual, after all.

“This is…”

What if I were to pretend to be his girlfriend?

And Hermione coming up with a bizarre plan to help someone did sound more plausible than her callously betraying them.

“I… Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m bloody sure! Didn’t you read the letter? Unless she’s been lying to me, too.” Ron frowned. “Why, have you seen them do anything?”

A thousand touches and embraces and kisses popped into Harry’s head.

Except—

There had only been one kiss, hadn’t there?

One extremely public kiss, right at the beginning. The day Harry had said it didn’t seem like Hermione and Draco were a couple at all.

He’d revisited the memory over and over, so he remembered well Hermione’s determined expression, the way Draco had held his hands aloft, shocked into stillness.

And hadn’t Harry been telling himself all month that casual touches happened between friends all the time?

I have a confession too, Draco had said.

“You’re serious? It’s actually not real?”

“It’s one hundred percent manufactured dragonshit, mate.”

The heat in Harry’s gut had been replaced with a sort of giddy emptiness. “It’s not real.” He laughed and covered his face with his hands. “It’s not real. Fuck.”

Ron laughed too, audibly relieved. “Right? Isn’t it stupid?”

“It’s—” But Harry couldn’t think what it was.

It was—

It wasn’t real.

“Good on you, though, for saying something when you thought Hermione and I were messing around. Very decent of you.”

Harry let out another wild, incredulous laugh. He’d spent the last month thinking he was the opposite of decent—thinking that he’d been the cause of Draco betraying Hermione. But Draco hadn’t been betraying anyone at all.

It wasn’t real.

“I mean, I’d’ve preferred a bit less wand in my face, but I can’t really blame you, I suppose. Cheating’s a shitty thing to do. I hope you know I’d never—”

“I did,” Harry said, the laughter dying in his throat. “Fuck. At least I thought I was.”

Ron stared at him, his eyes wide and very blue. “You…cheated on my sister?”

“What? No. God, no.”

“Oh. Good. Then, what—?”

“I—” Harry hesitated, but he didn’t have to keep it to himself any more, did he? It wasn’t real. “I like Draco.”

Now the roaring in Harry’s ears was fading, he became aware of the murmur of traffic through the open window, of the wet plop of a tap dripping in the kitchen.

“Well,” Ron said, “Hermione reckons he’s not much of an arsehole these days, so I suppose it’s not too weird if you’re mates with him—”

“I’m not mates with him,” Harry said. “I tried to be, but…I like him, Ron. I really fucking like him.”

“You like him? You don’t mean in a…romantic way?”

Harry nodded miserably.

“Oh. Shit. I didn’t see that coming.”

Drip, drip, drip went the tap. Harry leant forwards and buried his face in his hands.

“And you…? You said something about—cheating?”

“Yeah. I kissed him.”

“Fucking hell.” Drip, drip, drip. “How long has that been going on, then?”

“Dunno. Few months. It only happened twice. The first time I didn’t really know what I was doing, but— Fuck, I felt so shit about it. I thought they were in love.”

Ron made a noise of disgust. “Gross. The thought of Hermione being in love with Malfoy, I mean. Your thing is— Well, I thought you and Ginny…? Hermione said you weren’t happy that she was seeing other people.”

Harry lifted his head. “You weren’t happy when Ginny started seeing people, either,” he pointed out. “It was the same, I think. But even that—I’m over it. She can handle herself.”

“So she says,” Ron said darkly.

Drip, drip, drip.

Ron took a swig of his beer. Harry looked around for his own bottle—he found it resting on the floor by his feet. He had no recollection of putting it there.

“What are you going to do now?” Ron asked.

What was Harry going to do now? His brain was stuck on the past—his thoughts whirling while he tried to rewrite the last few months in his head.

“It’s good that you know now, right?” Ron pressed. “You can go back and tell them that Weasley the Idiot let the Kneazle out of the bag, you can all have a big talk about feelings or whatever, then you and Malfoy can crack on.”

The image of the kiss between Draco and Hermione flashed through Harry’s head again. But this time, instead of Hermione yanking Draco down by the neck of his robes, it was Harry. The other students in the corridor would whisper and gossip just the same, but it wouldn’t matter, because Draco’s hands would settle on Harry’s shoulder, at the small of Harry’s back.

“Yeah,” Harry said, his voice hoarse. “Maybe, yeah.”

What would it be like to sit across the breakfast table from Draco and know he could look, could touch, could tell him how striking he was with the morning sun falling on his neatly styled hair?

What would it be like to invite Draco to spend the night in the Gryffindor dormitory, with both of them knowing what he was really asking?

“I don’t even know if he likes me,” Harry heard himself say. He tried to remember everything Draco had said the other night, tried to reinterpret it through the lens of this revelation. It had been fairly obvious that Draco’s body had reacted favourably to Harry’s. And yes, Harry wanted that—wanted Draco hot and hard against him. But he also wanted more.

“Pff,” Ron said. “You’re great. Who wouldn’t like you?”

Harry smiled at the outrage in Ron’s voice. “Cheers, mate.”

“You’re welcome,” Ron said. “Also, not being funny, but I’d much rather it was you who was going out with Malfoy, fake or not. Witch Weekly keep asking if I’ll comment on rumours that he’s got her pregnant. And other issues with that aside—with his nose and her old teeth? Imagine what that poor kid would look like.”

Harry’s laughter trailed into a sad little hiccough. “God. This is so fucked.”

“It’s pretty fucked,” Ron agreed. “You kissed my girlfriend’s boyfriend.”

Harry grimaced and looked up, but Ron was smirking. “I’m kidding,” Ron said. “Sounds like you’ve been having a right time of it. I’d say a couple of measly pecks is the least you deserve.”

Harry thought of Draco’s weight pressing him into the bed. He thought of how the rich smell of him, vanilla and clove, had been the thing to push Harry over the edge as he rode Draco’s thigh, as Draco growled encouragements in his ear.

“Yeah,” he said. “It was just a couple of measly pecks, after all.”

Chapter Text

Harry had intended to stay at Ron’s overnight and sneak back into Hogwarts through the Honeydukes passage on Sunday. But his knee bounced restlessly as he finished his beer, his eyes straying back to Hermione’s letter as Ron talked, and eventually Ron sighed and told him to fuck off.

“There’s no point you kicking around here when you could be at school feeling up your pointy little boyfriend.”

Harry sputtered a protest, but Ron was already chivvying him out of the front door.

“Seriously, get lost. Cheers for helping with the tidying. Don’t let Malfoy’s pasty arse distract you from NEWTs, Hermione really would kill me then.”

“But—”

“Mate. I’ll see you in a month. Tell Hermione I miss her, yeah?” Ron winked, for a moment looking remarkably like his sister, then slammed the door in Harry’s face.

Harry stared at the wonky, rusted number 9 that marked Ron’s flat. He could pound on the door, tell Ron that he’d missed him (true), that he was having a good day (debatable) and that there was nowhere he’d rather be than Ron’s tiny living room (untrue). Or he could Apparate back to Hogsmeade and be talking to Draco and Hermione within half an hour.

“Thanks for the beer,” Harry called through the door. “I’m sorry for—you know.”

“Why are you still here?” came the muffled response.

“I’m not,” Harry assured him, and Disapparated.

It was already late afternoon, but Hogsmeade was as busy as ever. On any other day, Harry would have taken a few minutes to enjoy the crowded streets, the careless chatter, the smell of meat pies and ale drifting from the Three Broomsticks—but just then, he had other things on his mind. He fought his way through the crowds, tossing apologies over his shoulder and trying not to feel guilty about the alarm he was leaving in his wake. (Apparently, the sight of Harry Potter running made people think something was under attack. Harry was vaguely annoyed at how reasonable that assumption was.)

Despite his panic-provoking haste, it was another twenty minutes before he found himself in front of Doreen, the portrait formerly known as the Fat Lady.

“I hate these fucking stairs,” he gasped at her. “Bandersnatch.”

“Now, really,” Doreen sniffed, but swung open without further comment.

The common room was busier than it ordinarily would have been on a Hogsmeade day, with fifth-, seventh- and eighth-year students huddled together in groups, textbooks and class notes spread between them. But even so, Draco and Hermione were not hard to spot: they were at their usual table, heads bent, both of them frowning in concentration.

Harry leant against the wall to catch his breath and let himself look. Draco was hunched over, somehow taking up much less space than a person over six feet tall wearing loose-fitting Hogwarts robes should. Hermione, by contrast, seemed to fill the entire opposite side of the table. Her finger was tapping restlessly on the shaft of her quill, her hair was frizzier than ever, and she had no less than five books open in front of her—she kept switching between them like a hummingbird darting between flowers.

They weren’t talking. They weren’t touching. Hermione kept swatting her hair out of her face and Harry remembered, with sudden vivid clarity, that Ron would gently put his hand on her wrist and tell her to breathe whenever she got this stressed.

Had Harry ever seen Draco touch Hermione without her touching him first? He tried to think, but nothing came to mind. In fact, Draco touched Harry more than he touched Hermione. Draco’s fingers would linger when Harry passed him something; his shoulder would lean casually against Harry’s whenever they sat next to each other; his leg would press back, tentatively, whenever Harry would nudge against it with his own.

Just then, Harry noticed, Draco’s legs were crossed at the ankle and tucked firmly out of the way of Hermione’s. A hysterical laugh threatened to burst out of him. He forced it back down.

Draco caught sight of Harry before Hermione did—his head flicked up as Harry approached, his mouth forming a soft Oh that Harry was still too far away to hear. Hermione looked up, frowning, and followed Draco’s gaze.

“Harry!”

“Hi.” Harry had managed to suppress the hysterical laugh, but he couldn’t stop himself from grinning at the clear line of space between Draco and Hermione’s things on the table between them.

“What are you doing here?” Hermione asked. “I thought you were at Ron’s until tomorrow.”

“Yeah, that’s the thing, he—” Harry glanced over his shoulder at the crowded common room; most of the surrounding students had their heads buried in books, but he had long since learned to recognise the quirk of an ear in his direction. “Actually, can we go somewhere else for a minute? The three of us?”

Draco paled. Hermione bit her lip.

“Is it important? I’m a bit behind where I wanted to be with my Arithmancy reading…”

“It’s important,” Harry said firmly. “And it won’t take long. Hey, Seamus?”

Seamus, the owner of one of the aforementioned quirked ears, looked up innocently. “Harry! Didn’t see you come in! How’s it going, there?”

“I need a spot nearby where me, Draco and Hermione won’t be interrupted. Do you know one?”

“Ah, you want the classroom next to the sixth-floor Trophy Room,” Seamus said promptly. “Hasn’t been used for years. Except by me and Dean, of course.”

“Cheers,” Harry said, grimacing at Seamus’s leer. “Draco, Hermione? Come with me?”

Draco and Hermione exchanged a glance and simultaneously began to gather their things together. Harry’s instinctive jealousy flared at the wordless communication, not yet used to the fact that there was nothing to be jealous of. He clenched his jaw and looked away, and pretended not to notice Neville smiling knowingly a few tables over.

“What’s this about?” Hermione asked as Harry led the way down the stairs. “Is Ron okay? Did something happen?”

The urge to laugh bubbled up inside him again. God, it was so obvious. He had been so stupid. “He’s totally fine. Everything’s fine. Better than fine, actually— Here, get in, I don’t want anyone listening.”

Hermione looked at him doubtfully but ducked through the classroom door that Harry was holding open. Draco went to follow her then paused on the threshold.

“What are you doing?” he asked Harry in an undertone.

The laughter that Harry had been suppressing burst out of him in a single harsh bark. He slapped a hand over his mouth and Draco’s neat eyebrows shot upwards.

“Just get inside, will you?” Harry said tightly through his fingers. He tried to smile at Draco with his eyes to communicate that there was nothing to worry about, but from Draco’s alarmed expression, he wasn’t sure he pulled it off.

The door was stiff. Harry had to shove it closed with all his might to get it in the frame, but the effort eased a little of his frenzied energy. He locked it with a Colloportus, added some extra privacy spells for good measure, then turned to Draco and Hermione. They were leaning against adjacent desks, twin expressions of apprehension on their faces.

“So, Ron told me,” Harry said, grinning. “About you two.”

Draco and Hermione exchanged a glance.

“About…us two?” Hermione asked.

“That it’s all fake. You’re not actually in a relationship. You’ve been with Ron all along.”

Draco went very still.

“Ah,” Hermione said.

“How come you didn’t tell me!” Harry’s grin was starting to hurt his cheeks. “I could have helped you convince people!”

“Oh, well, you know,” Hermione said. “You had quite enough to be getting on with. You still do, as a matter of fact—why on earth did he tell you?”

“It wasn’t his fault. He thought I already knew, for a start—but I found out by accident. I saw one of your letters when I was helping him tidy up.” Hermione straightened, her eyes widening, and Harry hastened to add, “I didn’t see much! Just enough to realise something was going on.” It was a lie—Harry had seen quite a lot, actually, but he was desperately trying to forget it all. All of it, that is, except the bits about Draco not actually being Hermione’s boyfriend.

The thought prompted another surge of giddiness. Harry grinned at Draco—then faltered at the lack of an answering grin on Draco’s face. Harry was aware of Draco’s tendency to hold himself back, so he hadn’t expected him to be jumping for joy—but he’d expected something. That quiet little smile that Harry liked so much, maybe. Something other than…blankness.

“Well, I’m glad we don’t have to keep it from you any more,” Hermione said, and Harry reluctantly turned his attention back to her. “But you really can’t tell anyone, Harry. Nobody at all—not even Ginny. If it gets out, it will all have been for nothing.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Are you sure you can manage to keep it a secret? I can Obliviate you if you like?”

“No! God, no. I won’t tell anyone, I swear. And if I do, I’ll let you know right away, so you can Obliviate them.”

Hermione pulled a face.

“I’m kidding! Come on, Hermione, you know the sort of things I kept quiet for Dumbledore.”

“If I recall, you shouted most of them from the rooftops, but everyone thought you were too much of a nutter to listen to you,” she said, smiling ruefully. “But yes, all right. I would actually prefer not to Obliviate anyone again, if possible. And accident or not, I am sorry you’re finding out now. You really don’t need the extra stress, not with NEWTs so close.”

“It’s fine, I’m not worried about NEWTs.”

“Oh, Harry, you really should be—they’re our last chance to prove ourselves before we can actually start making a difference—!”

Harry waved a hand, batting the words out of the air before they could reach him. “I just mean,” he said quickly, since Hermione was starting to look very put out. “I’m not worried about them because I’ve already been revising like mad, haven’t I? I’ll probably do the best I’ve ever done, thanks to you two.”

He looked meaningfully at Draco, hoping that the compliment would provoke a smile, at least. But Draco was still just watching him, his pale face completely devoid of expression.

“Well,” Hermione said, sounding unconvinced, “speaking of NEWTs—I really should be getting back to Arithmancy…”

“Wait. There’s something else I have to tell you.” Harry swallowed. “I, erm.” He took a deep breath. “I kissed Draco. I’m so sorry, Hermione.”

There was a beat of silence. Harry couldn’t stop his gaze from flicking back to Draco. Still nothing.

“Oh,” Hermione said. “Well. That’s quite all right. No harm done, after all.”

She sounded so reasonable. So understanding.

It was awful.

“It’s not all right, though, is it?” Harry said. “I didn’t know you weren’t together, did I? I thought the two of you were— God. I fucked up. I shouldn’t have done it. I was being a terrible friend and I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, Harry.” As she had done outside the Transfiguration classroom the other day, Hermione rushed forwards and pulled Harry into a hug. It hurt just as much as it had last time. “You weren’t being a terrible friend! You must have been awfully lonely these last few months. I appreciate you apologising, but I really do understand. I know you didn’t mean it.”

Hermione was obviously trying to be nice. So why did it feel like she was stabbing him in the gut rather than hugging him?

“Well, no, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Harry said. “But I—I can’t pretend that I didn’t mean to kiss him, because I did.”

Hermione pulled away, frowning up at him.

“I meant it.” Harry bowed his head. “I wanted it.”

“Oh. You—? I thought… You made it sound like it was an accident.” She glanced at Draco—but Draco’s face was still. fucking. blank.

“I suppose it kind of was, maybe, the first time. It happened so fast, I wasn’t even thinking. But the second time…I definitely knew what I was doing then.”

“The second time? You mean…the same night as the first? Two kisses, but one…kissing session?”

Something heavy curdled in Harry’s stomach. “No,” he said, forcing himself to meet Hermione’s gaze. “No, there were, erm. Two kissing sessions.”

“Oh. I… When?”

“The first one was just over a month ago,” Harry said gloomily. “The second one was, erm. A few days ago. Tuesday night.”

Hermione gasped. Her surprise was almost gratifying—it was much closer to the reaction Harry had expected. He braced himself for the anger he was sure would follow, but instead of getting upset at Harry, Hermione whirled on Draco.

“You said nothing happened on Tuesday!”

“I’m sorry,” Draco said, his voice small.

“We agreed it was a bad idea!”

“I know,” Draco said in that same horrible small voice. “I didn’t mean for— I’m sorry.”

“Wait,” Harry said. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh,” Hermione said. “No, nothing, it doesn’t matter—”

But the heavy thing in Harry’s stomach twisted into something hotter, sharper. “Hermione. Did you already know? About Draco and me?”

“Erm,” Hermione said. “No?”

Harry wanted to believe her. He really did.

But now he thought about it, she had tried to stop Draco staying in Gryffindor Tower on Tuesday. Harry had been so fixated on getting Draco upstairs that he hadn’t thought much of it at the time. But it was strange that she’d tried to talk them out of it, given that she had been the one to suggest the bed-sharing idea in the first place.

Harry shoved his hands in his pockets to hide his clenched fists. “Draco?” he asked. “Did you tell her already?”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Hermione said quickly. “I forced him into it. Truly—I shoved him into an alcove and pointed my wand at him until he confessed.”

She was trying to make him feel better again, but the mental image of Draco and Hermione pressed together in an alcove had not yet lost its sting.

“When?” Harry heard himself say. “How long have you known?”

“It was—the morning after the first time, I think.”

“The morning after— You mean last month?”

“I— Yes.”

Draco didn’t react well to confrontation, Harry remembered. He forced himself to breathe. His voice came out reasonably level when he said, “But if you’ve known all that time…why didn’t you tell me about you two?”

“Well, I didn’t want you to get hurt—”

Something inside Harry snapped. “You didn’t want me to—? Hermione, I’ve felt like shit for weeks. I thought I’d manipulated Draco into cheating on you—I thought you two were in love, and I just had to sit there and watch! What fucking hurt did you think you were saving me from?”

Hermione stepped backwards, wide-eyed. “I thought— Draco said it was an accident, I assumed he— What about you and Ginny?”

“There is no me and Ginny! I don’t want there to be a me and Ginny! I want…”

Draco had barely moved. To the untrained eye, he might have even seemed relaxed—he was still leaning against the desk, his long legs stretched out in front of him. But his knuckles were white where they gripped the tabletop, his shoulders sharper than they should have been. And, finally, finally there was a hint of emotion on his face—his mouth was open, his lips parted the barest amount. It was nothing, really. It was still enough to make something wild flare in Harry’s chest.

“I think perhaps I should leave the two of you to talk…”

Hermione was still standing close enough for Harry to touch. Her hair really was a mess—and she had bags under her eyes and tiny sores on her bottom lip, spots of red where she’d bitten hard enough to break the skin.

The flames of Harry’s anger sputtered and died.

“Fuck,” he said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t help being a knob these days.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Hermione said. “I’m sorry too, for not telling you. I really was trying to help. I didn’t realise you had…feelings?”

Harry swallowed and nodded.

“Right. Well. I suppose I’ll just— I’ll be back in the common room if either of you need me.”

She made to duck around Harry, but he grabbed her and pulled her into a hug, as she’d done to him. It didn’t hurt at all this time. “You’re brilliant,” he said into her hair. “I really am sorry. And—don’t forget to breathe, yeah? You won’t be able to take the NEWTs if you give yourself a heart attack from stress before they even start.”

“That’s not biologically possible, but I appreciate the sentiment,” Hermione said, a smile in her voice. “I’ll lock the door behind me. Try not to— Oh, just be careful with each other, won’t you? Both of you. I’ll see you later.”

The classroom felt bigger in Hermione’s absence. Bigger and quieter. Dust muffled Harry’s footsteps as he crossed the room towards Draco.

“Hey,” Harry said. “I’m sorry for losing my cool a bit there. Are you all right?”

Draco’s only response was a sharp, deep inhale.

“It’s just…you haven’t said much since I got back. You haven’t said much over the last few days, really.”

He didn’t say anything then, either. He just watched Harry, his eyes wary, his mouth open that tiny, almost imperceptible amount.

“I actually sort of thought that now I know about you and Hermione, you and I might be able to, you know…”

It must be getting late—Draco’s hair was starting to come loose at the front.

“But I’m beginning to think that maybe you’re not interested in that?”

Draco didn’t contradict him, and Harry swallowed hard. It had been shit to be rejected when he thought it was because Draco was with Hermione. It was worse to find out it was because Draco didn’t actually want him after all.

“Right,” Harry said, his heart sinking. “Okay. Well, I reckon there isn’t much for us to talk about after all, then.” He managed a smile. “Sorry about all this.”

He turned, ready to trudge back up to the common room and stare unseeingly at a textbook for a few hours. But:

“You said you’d stop apologising.”

Harry looked over his shoulder. There had been a definite waver in Draco’s voice, but his gaze was steady as ever.

“I suppose I did,” Harry said slowly. “But, you know. Extenuating circumstances and all that. I’ve made a pretty big tit of myself.”

“You—” Draco seemed to be having trouble speaking. To be fair, he was extremely out of practice. “Why aren’t you hexing me right now?”

“Do you want me to be hexing you?”

“No, of course I— But all this is my fault. You just said it to Hermione: you’ve felt like shit for weeks. Because of me.”

“Draco, I don’t think you can blame yourself for me liking you.”

“I can blame myself for encouraging the delusion that you like me,” Draco said. “When you don’t. Not really.”

“No, I’m pretty sure I do, actually. Hence the, you know”—Harry waved a hand—“feeling like shit thing.”

“But that’s not—” Draco’s emotionless façade seemed to be cracking. How did he normally keep it in place so well, when he seemed to feel so much? “When you said what you said, on Tuesday. That was—”

“When I said that I really like you, you mean?”

Draco let out a strained little huff. “Yes. But that’s the thing—I’ve been thinking about it all week. Whatever it is that you think you like, that’s not me. Maybe you like me now I don’t do anything, now I stop myself from saying every awful thing that comes into my head, but you’ve forgotten what I’m really like—”

“Actually, since I can hardly embarrass myself more, I might as well tell you that I like you most when you do say those things,” Harry said. “When you’re distracted and you forget to be polite. When you don’t stop yourself from making a joke because you think it’s too funny to keep to yourself. When you’re sharp and snooty and mean.”

A flush bloomed on Draco’s cheeks. He opened his mouth again, but no sound came out.

“And when I compliment you and you get all flustered,” Harry said softly. “I like that.”

Draco continued to gape, and Harry figured he might as well carry on—if Draco didn’t want anything else to happen between them, this was probably his last chance to say it. And Draco deserved to know. He deserved to have someone point out the good things about him. And, selfishly, Harry wanted to be the one to do it.

“I like how clever you are,” Harry said, “and how easily you make things make sense. I like how you’re funny and a little bit fucked up. I like how you know you’ve done some shit that wasn’t okay. I like how you’re trying to be better.”

Draco was getting steadily pinker, and Harry couldn’t take his eyes off him.

“And I like it when it gets late and your hair starts to fall out of its poncey little charm. Like it’s doing right now.”

Draco reached up to fix it, but Harry stepped forwards and caught his wrist before he could. “You’re always so cold.”

“Bad circulation,” Draco said hoarsely. “It’s the pure-blood inbreeding.”

“That would make sense.”

Harry had moved closer without noticing. The sun would still be up for a while, but the light spilling through the windows had that soft, intimate quality of late spring: a bit shy, the memories of cold, dark evenings still too recent.

“Harry,” Draco said in that same hoarse voice.

“Yeah?” Harry shifted closer, his thumb sliding over the fine bones of Draco’s wrist. His pulse was quick under Harry’s fingertips, and there was something in his gaze that Harry couldn’t quite place—it wasn’t exactly heat, nor was it longing, but it wasn’t too far removed from either. Harry’s own pulse sped up in response.

“I can’t give you what you need,” Draco said softly.

Harry froze. Fuck, he’d done it again. He’d got carried away, caught up in Draco’s reactions to Harry’s compliments—when Harry knew Draco was so starved of kindness that he’d react like that no matter who said it. Hadn’t that very thing been the reason Harry had started to be nice to Draco in the first place?

“Yeah, no, of course,” Harry said. He dropped Draco’s wrist and took a step back, forcing a smile. “Sorry, I was being stupid. You already said you weren’t interested—”

“You are being stupid.” Despite the wrenching in his chest, Harry felt his smile become genuine at the insult. “I don’t mean that I— I mean that I can’t. Obviously it’s nice having you say all those things, whether they’re true or not, but I… I’m not a good person. I can’t inflict myself on you, I can’t be in any sort of—of anything with you. I’m too…”

“Too what?”

“Awful. Broken.”

He looked like he believed it, too. His head was bowed, and the wispy strands of white-blonde hair that had fought loose from the neatening charm hung down over his eyes. Now Harry had let go of Draco’s wrist, Draco’s hands were free—but he made no attempt to put his hair back in place.

Harry had been prepared to leave. He had been prepared to retreat and lick his wounds. But—

“Are you saying,” he said slowly, “you don’t want anything else to happen between us because you don’t think you’re a good person? Is that—the only reason?”

“What other reason does there need to be?”

“If you don’t want it, for example. If you don’t want me.”

“Didn’t I just say that was stupid? Of course I fucking want you.”

Through the farce of administering the Veritaserum antidote, Harry had become intimately familiar with the way Draco’s jaw felt under his hand. It had always been so smooth, every morning—it had even been smooth in the middle of the night, when they’d kissed, when Harry’s own jaw was scratchy with stubble.

Draco’s jaw was smooth now, in the early evening, when Harry stepped into his space and lifted his chin. Half-perched on the desk as he was, Draco was shorter than Harry. When he looked up, his eyes were wide—grey lakewater under an ice-blue sky.

“Do you mean that?” Harry asked.

A shaky exhale. “I’m trying to do the right thing—”

“Draco. Please stop worrying about what the right thing is for a minute. Do you mean it?”

Draco’s prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. There was a glimpse of pink tongue as he licked his lips.

“Harry,” he said. “You pudding-headed halfwit. I’ve wanted you for as long as I can remember.”

Harry swore. He stepped closer, automatically leaning in. Draco made a helpless noise and tipped his face up, and it took every ounce of self-control that Harry possessed not to close the final distance between them.

“I’m not,” Harry said, feeling exactly as stupid as Draco said he was, “I’m not asking you for anything. Nothing you don’t want. I’ve just—I’ve really missed you these last few days. And if you just want to be friends, that’s fine. But I like you so much. Draco. I really, really—”

Draco lunged upwards and kissed him, and something huge and warm swelled in Harry’s chest—but too soon, Draco pulled away. “Shit, sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

But Harry cut him off with another kiss, slow and sweet and helpless, and Draco melted into it. His cold hand found Harry’s neck and Harry couldn’t help a quiet noise of pleasure. Draco was wrong: perhaps they shouldn’t have kissed before, but finally, finally, they should.

“Harry,” Draco whined into Harry’s mouth, and Harry shivered. “Wait, think about it. You don’t really want this—”

“God, you’re so wrong.” Harry ran a trembling hand through Draco’s hair. The neatening charm dragged against his fingers then popped as it broke completely.

“But— You’re Harry Potter—”

“Afraid so.” Harry pulled away long enough only to yank off his glasses—then he was back again, kissing Draco’s forehead, his nose, his cheek. “And I like you, Draco Malfoy. Tell me if you really don’t want this and I’ll stop, but”—a kiss to the corner of Draco’s mouth, the corner that would quirk up in a quiet smile just for Harry—“if you do want it…please. Please.”

Harry held his breath. He could feel Draco’s every shaky little exhale play over his skin.

“You prick,” Draco whispered. “I want it so much I can barely—”

But Harry didn’t find out what Draco could barely do, because he was kissing him, every frustrated, yearning thought he’d had over the last month pouring out of him through the press of lip-on-lip, through urgent, grasping hands.

And for all Draco’s apparent reservations, he met each kiss eagerly, his mouth opening with a low groan, gripping Harry’s neck, his shoulders, his waist. He lurched to his feet and Harry stumbled backwards, but he was never in any danger of falling—Draco was all over him, grabbing him, pulling him closer in what felt like seven different places at once.

Distantly, Harry was aware that the kiss lacked finesse. Their last one had, too—Harry had been so desperately turned on, so overwhelmed by having Draco close, of having Draco want him. It occurred to him that he should be embarrassed about it, about how unrefined he had been then and was being now, moaning and gasping and dragging at Draco without any thoughts of technique—but, god, there was no room inside him for anything other than the surge of heat and the relief at having this, of not needing to feel guilty. Draco wasn’t with Hermione. He wasn’t with anyone. And he wanted Harry.

“Fuck, I want to suck you off.” Despite Draco’s rough grip, Harry nearly did fall then, his knees weak at the desire thick in Draco’s voice. “The way you gave me that fucking antidote was killing me. Why the fuck didn’t you let me do it myself?”

“Because I was so stupidly horny for you, you tit,” Harry gasped, tilting his head as Draco bit a path down the side of his neck. “I thought it was—ah—the only way I could touch you like that.” He still couldn’t quite believe that it wasn’t—after all, only a few hours ago, he’d been in Ron’s kitchen, trying not to snap the handle of the sweeping brush as Ron asked how nice Draco was being to Hermione.

“You can touch me however the fuck you want,” Draco growled, and possibilities spiralled through Harry’s mind, flashes of pale skin and arched backs and spread limbs.

“I don’t…” Harry trailed off, because how on earth could he know where to start, with an offer like that? But then it became suddenly, blindingly clear.

He lifted his head with difficulty, bumping a kiss to the top of Draco’s hair—vanilla, clove—and murmured, “Hey, c’mere.”

Draco dragged his nose against Harry’s jaw, his cheek, then kissed him, slowly and deeply. Harry lost himself in it for an endless honeyed minute, then he broke them apart with a gentle hand on Draco’s chin.

Draco’s eyes fluttered open, and desire throbbed through Harry at the sight of his huge pupils, his flushed cheeks. “God, you look good like this,” Harry breathed unthinkingly, and Draco swayed forwards, his gaze dropping to Harry’s mouth. “Wait, hang on—”

Draco blinked, and Harry knew he had to act quickly, before Draco remembered himself, before he retreated again. He cupped Draco’s jaw, the way he’d done those times he’d indulged himself in that first-floor bathroom, and ran his thumb over Draco’s swollen bottom lip.

“Open your mouth,” Harry said hoarsely. Draco’s eyes darkened further—then, obediently, he parted his lips.

It was different, and yet it was the same. Draco’s lips were pink, full from the force of Harry’s kisses. His breath was quick and shallow, puffing over the pad of Harry’s thumb. His hair was in complete disarray, sticking up at the back, falling over his forehead, brushing his cheekbones.

But the heat between them—that had always been there. The way desire flooded through Harry at the glimpse of Draco’s tongue was achingly familiar. The way his entire being was alight at having Draco like this, pliant and waiting, an edge of sharpness hiding just out of sight. That wasn’t new at all.

Dazed, Harry traced Draco’s bottom lip, marvelling at the soft, pink plumpness. Draco allowed it for a single slow back-and-forth, then he sucked Harry’s thumb into his mouth.

Harry’s breath was punched out of him. Draco’s mouth was so soft and wet, his tongue a constant caress. It was stupid to be so turned on by someone holding your gaze as they sucked your thumb, but Harry was pretty sure it was one of the sexiest things that had ever happened to him. And Draco said he wanted to do that to Harry’s cock.

Harry had assumed he was being quiet—staring, silent and gormless—but Draco’s mouth slackened, and he drew off and said, “Fuck, the noises you make.”

Harry remembered Ginny saying something like that the day she’d been dosed with Veritaserum. Heat prickled up his neck. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

Draco shook his head and crowded Harry back against the classroom wall. “Don’t you dare be sorry about that. Don’t you dare—” Then he was kissing Harry again and every other thought left Harry’s head entirely—until Draco breathed, “Seriously, though. Can I suck your cock?”

Harry’s fists clenched in the fabric of Draco’s robes. He tried to say something in response, but the only thing that he could manage was an incoherent “Guh?”

“Fuck. Please. Please let me.”

And what was Harry supposed to say to that, except another Guh, accompanied by a frantic nod.

The corner of Draco’s swollen mouth curled up in a half-smirk. “I’m going to take you apart,” he promised, and dropped to his knees. His gaze dragged over the bulge at Harry’s crotch and Harry had to take several deep, gulping breaths. “Undo these for me,” Draco said, a touch of his old imperiousness in his tone. “I can’t work Muggle trousers.”

Harry couldn’t either, it turned out—his fingers were clumsy as he unfastened the button of his jeans, as he struggled to tug the zip over his straining erection. Once he’d finally managed to shove them down, he went for the waistband of his underwear—but Draco batted his hands away.

“This bit, I can do,” he said—and then he did, his cold fingers making Harry’s stomach jump as they dipped inside the elastic.

Both of them held their breath as Harry’s cock was revealed. He was embarrassingly turned on, his cock dark and angry and so, so hard—but Draco let out a desperate little noise that made Harry feel slightly better.

“You…” Draco licked his lips. “Fuck, you’re…” He looked up at Harry hungrily. “Tell me again.” And when Harry just blinked, completely stupid from the sight of Draco looking at him like that, of his face so close to Harry’s dick, Draco clarified, “Tell me to open my mouth for you.”

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. “Draco,” Harry rasped. He reached down and ran his thumb over Draco’s cheek. “Open your mouth.”

Harry had only just felt himself react to the wicked glint in Draco’s eyes when Draco swallowed Harry’s cock and the entire world fell away. Harry groaned, a long, low Fuuuuck, but all the curse words in the world combined would not have accurately portrayed the depth of his feeling.

The sensation of Draco’s mouth around Harry’s thumb had been nothing, nothing, compared to the bliss of the soft, wet heat that surrounded his cock. Over the last few months, Harry had wanked dozens of times to the thought of this—but he’d had no idea. He’d been so stupid. Fuck. It felt— It felt so good—

“You’re so—” he tried, but there really were no words to describe the way Draco’s tongue slid over the head of Harry’s cock, the way his eyes fell closed, the wet, obscene sounds of his mouth. “Fuck, Draco, you— This feels— This feels amazing.” He couldn’t think where to put his hands, fluttering them from Draco’s head, through his dishevelled hair, over the sharp line of his cheekbones (even sharper than usual due to the unholy hollowing of his cheeks). “God, you look so good, all messy like this.”

With a hum of approval that sent shudders rippling down Harry’s thighs, Draco drew off Harry’s cock and rubbed it over his face, smearing pre-come and saliva over his lips and chin, looking up at Harry with that devilish glint in his eye. Harry sucked in a ragged breath.

“You’ve no idea how much I’ve thought about this,” Draco said, his face wet and voice rough, and lowered his mouth again. Harry let out a strangled groan and thrust his hips, gasping when the head of his cock hit the back of Draco’s throat. Draco hummed encouragingly and tugged Harry forwards, but Harry shook his head, biting his lip—it had felt too good, had made the heat simmering at the base of his spine swell threateningly.

Somehow, Harry had thought that Draco would be tentative, doing this sort of thing. It was stupid—he had replayed their kisses in his head thousands of times, and during both, Draco had easily taken control, had obviously known what he was doing. But Harry had grown so used to Draco holding himself back in every other aspect that in his fantasies, Draco was shy, and Harry would coax him out of his shell over long nights spent locked away together, both of them slowly learning how to make each other feel good.

He couldn’t have been more wrong. Draco was alive like this in a way Harry was completely powerless against. There was nothing shy about him: he had one hand around the base of Harry’s dick and one on Harry’s hip, holding him steady, strong and sure. He never stopped moving, his mouth sending constant, torturous waves of pleasure crashing over Harry. And, perhaps worst of all, he looked like he loved it, his eyes closed in bliss, thick moans escaping him whenever Harry failed to stop the twitching of his hips.

Draco’s mouth on him was the best thing that Harry had ever felt. But it was his confidence, his smirks, his uncharacteristic shamelessness that meant that, even trembling with the effort of fighting it, it wasn’t long before Harry was clenching his eyes shut, clinging to the edge.

“Draco, please,” he whimpered. “Please, you’re gonna make me come.” It was a warning, a plea, a desperate request to slow down—but Draco didn’t falter.

Harry had no control over his own limbs. He was upright only because of the wall at his back, of Draco’s grip on his hip, his cock. “Draco,” he tried to say, but he couldn’t quite get it out, his tongue clumsy and his body straining, so close, so fucking close. “I’m serious, I’m—”

The hot, wet heat was consuming him. It didn’t feel real, didn’t feel like he was a person with a body standing in a classroom—he felt like nothing but pure, throbbing pleasure. In a wild attempt to ground himself, Harry opened his eyes and stared at the blurry wooden beams of the classroom ceiling—but then he made the mistake of glancing downwards and saw Draco watching him through his lashes, his eyes so dark they were almost black, shining with an unmistakable gleam of smugness.

Harry’s entire body seized. He felt himself let out a hoarse, desperate cry, but he could barely hear it over the roaring of his ears—though he was agonisingly aware of the wet sounds of Draco’s mouth, his throat, as he swallowed Harry’s release, and fuck if that didn’t make renewed waves of it surge through him, orgasm over orgasm over orgasm, Draco’s fine hair clenched in Harry’s hand and his mouth coaxing out impossible amounts of juddering pleasure from his cock.

He came back to himself slowly. He became dimly aware of a muscle twitching in his thigh and an ache in the back of his skull from where he’d thrown his head back against the wall. It took several deep breaths before he felt able to look down—Draco was running his lips over Harry’s dick, leaving soft, wet kisses up and down the length of it. Harry shivered, and one last sad little bead of come grew at his slit. Draco licked it up, his tongue dragging over the oversensitive head.

“Shit,” Harry murmured, stopping himself from flinching away—he wasn’t ready for it to be over.

Draco grinned up at him, messy and unselfconscious, and Harry knew with an unnerving clarity that he would do anything to have Draco look like that again. But Harry stared, awed, for a moment too long—Draco’s grin faltered, and a faint crease grew between his eyebrows.

“I—”

Harry fell to his knees and kissed Draco before he could say anything else, remembering too late what had recently filled Draco’s mouth. It tasted weird—sort of tangy, almost sweet. But it wasn’t hugely unpleasant, and Harry would have suffered far worse to have Draco melt against him, to feel the urgent press of him against Harry’s naked hip.

“If I remember right, I owe you a handjob,” Harry murmured. He felt stupid saying it, his attempt at seduction pathetic compared to what Draco had done to him, but Draco shuddered.

“You don’t have to.”

“Do you not want me to? Because I really, really want to.”

A shaky exhale. “Well, in that case—it won’t take much…”

And it didn’t. Once Draco’s robes had been discarded and his cock was thick and hot in Harry’s tentative hand, Draco was trembling and clinging to Harry almost immediately. It was hard to know where to look—because Draco’s cock was in Harry’s hand, but also his face was right there, his cheeks flushed and his mouth open, letting out short, breathy whimpers. Harry had never seen anything like it, ever in his life.

He said as much—or he said something similar; he was still operating on much-less-than-optimal brain capacity—and Draco whined and came, shuddering, spilling into Harry’s fist.

Harry felt a stir of interest again at the sight of it, at the feel of it—of Draco, uncontrolled, which was Harry’s new favourite thing in the whole world. The interest sharpened into desire when Draco kissed him, long and deep.

“God, I’m so glad you’re not seeing my best friend,” Harry said fervently into Draco’s mouth.

Draco let out a huff of not-quite-laughter and pressed his forehead against Harry’s. “I am sorry. For not telling you. I know it doesn’t mean much, but I did want to. I nearly did, a few times. It just never— I couldn’t—”

“S’okay,” Harry said, still boneless and languid and more than a little distracted by Draco’s proximity. “I know you had your reasons. Though if the reason is just that you’re not a good person, I think it’s a shit one.” He pressed a kiss to the corner of Draco’s mouth, amazed at how brave and brilliant that small action felt even though Draco’s come was still cooling in his palm.

“That might have been a factor,” Draco admitted. “But as well as that—I can’t have anyone know about me. That I—that I’m not interested in witches.”

Harry frowned. “Oh. Why not? I thought wizards didn’t care about that. Not like Muggles.” Hermione’s voice rang in his head, reminding him not to tar all Muggles with Uncle Vernon’s foul brush. “Some Muggles, anyway,” he amended.

But Draco surprised him. “Hermione says that Muggles are worse, too. I don’t know anything about that, but I— My parents would— The Malfoys have a responsibility as members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.”

“That’s the thing Neville mentioned once? Something about stuffy pure-bloods getting annoyed if you don’t make icy-fingered inbred babies?” Harry cleaned his hand with a quick Scourgify and tangled his own fingers with the aforementioned icy inbred ones—though said inbred fingers were warm now, and twined with Harry’s without hesitation.

“Yes,” Draco said. “There’s so few of us left, so many of them dead, and if I don’t— If they know I’m refusing to obey them…”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Harry said, instead of what he wanted to say, which was Who the fuck cares? But Draco’s breath had started to quicken, and Harry pulled him close and held him, vanilla and clove mixing with the lingering smell of sex, until Draco shuddered and loosened again.

“It is okay,” Draco said. “Because I’m leaving. After NEWTs, I’m getting away from them all. I’ll be fine.” The words had a rhythm to them, as if Draco had said them hundreds of times before. But they seemed to give him strength nonetheless—his voice was much firmer when he continued, “But until then, nobody can know about me.”

“Well, all right. I was going to mention it in my weekly owl to Lucius, but I’ll keep it to myself for now.” Harry grinned and leaned in for another kiss, but Draco turned his head away.

“The thing is,” he said. “The thing is, I have to still be with Hermione. At least until the end of school.”

Harry’s muscles tensed of their own accord. He reminded himself that it wasn’t real, Draco and Hermione. Draco wasn’t interested in witches. He’d just said so.

“Right,” he heard himself say. “Yeah, I get it. But— When nobody is watching, we can still…? I mean, I don’t need to take an ad out in the Prophet, personally, so…”

“But would you be happy with that? With hiding who you really are? With looking over your shoulder and worrying and having to pretend all the time?”

Harry’s immediate reaction was Yeah, I don’t care, that doesn’t sound hard at all. But Draco looked so distressed that he made himself think about it.

He felt like he’d already been hiding things, for as long as he could remember—even before the Horcruxes, there had been the prophecy, and Sirius, and the frequent unintentional trips into Voldemort’s head.

But he couldn’t deny that it had been harder, that year, to hide his feelings for Draco. The Horcruxes, the prophecy, the dreams—they had been…abstract, almost. Harry had been able to momentarily push them aside, to focus on other things. Whereas Draco was always there, always so close—never close enough.

“It might be tough,” Harry said tentatively. Draco nodded and started to pull away, but Harry tightened his grip. “But it would be worth it if I could still spend time with you,” he said. “If I could look at you from across the breakfast table without feeling guilty about how much I like you.” He leaned closer and dropped his gaze to Draco’s mouth. “And if I didn’t have to pretend at all when we were alone. If I could kiss you. If I could touch you.” He let his voice go low. “If I could make you come again.”

Draco’s fingers were tight on Harry’s arms. “Mother of Merlin,” he breathed. “Weasley was right when she called you intense, wasn’t she?”

Harry ducked his head, but Draco pulled him into a kiss—their slowest, softest one since that very first time in Harry’s bed, when moonlight had brushed Draco’s skin, when the revelation of Draco had still been fresh in Harry’s mind.

“All right,” Draco murmured. “If you’re sure. If you’re sure you want that—I want it, too.”

Giddiness bubbled up inside Harry again—and finally, it was not misplaced. “Yeah? You mean it?”

“Yeah. Yes. If you— If you’ll take me, under those conditions.”

Harry grinned and pushed Draco to the floor, both of them falling onto Draco’s discarded robes. “I’ll take you under any conditions you want,” he said, moving his hips suggestively and snickering into Draco’s shoulder.

“Oh, very clever. Ouch, by the way. You’re a lot heavier than you look, you know.” But he wasn’t pushing Harry off—on the contrary, he was shifting, spreading his legs so Harry fit snugly between them.

“I’d be happy to switch if you’re not comfortable,” Harry suggested. “I liked that, on Tuesday. I liked you on top of me.”

“Did you,” Draco said, in a voice that sent shivers down Harry’s spine—then he froze. “Wait, what time is it? It’s starting to get dark—is it after curfew?”

“I’ve literally never cared less about curfew,” Harry said, nuzzling his face into Draco’s hair—but Draco did push him off then.

“I’m serious, Harry,” he said. “We’re a floor away from Gryffindor Tower. There could be any number of teachers and prefects between here and there.”

“Oh, right, your teacher thing. Look, it doesn’t matter—”

“It doesn’t matter to you, maybe!” Draco scrambled to his feet and tugged on his underwear. “But I can’t get in trouble, I can’t, I—”

Harry knelt up and grabbed Draco’s arm, stilling his frantic motions. “Hey,” he said. “Listen: it doesn’t matter, because I have an Invisibility Cloak.”

“You…”

“I have an Invisibility Cloak, yeah,” Harry repeated. “It’s in my bag, I was going to use it to sneak back into the castle tomorrow. I can walk you back to the dungeons with it if you want. Or you can stay in Gryffindor. Whichever.”

Draco opened and closed his mouth like a pointy, confused goldfish. “Mother of Merlin,” he breathed, “I can’t believe I forgot about your…” Then his face twisted. “You shit. I’ve been panicking about being in Gryffindor Tower after curfew for months and all along you had a fucking Invisibility Cloak!”

He lunged at Harry, pushing him back to the floor. Harry allowed it, laughing. “Well, to be fair,” he said, easily rolling them so Draco was underneath him again, “if I had let you use the Cloak, you wouldn’t have stayed over.”

“You horny, scheming prick! Get off me right now, Potter, I swear—”

“Potter,” Harry mimicked, plumming up his accent and cackling when Draco squawked in outrage.

Harry was stronger than Draco, but let him gain the upper hand as they wrestled—he hadn’t been lying: he had liked it very much when Draco had been on top of him. And Draco’s outrage didn’t last long at all once Harry was the one pinned to the floor.

They never did find out whether it had been past curfew when Draco had asked—but it certainly was by the time they left the classroom several hours later.

And it turned out that sharing an Invisibility Cloak with Draco Malfoy was not at all as awful as Harry had previously feared.

Chapter Text

Draco still couldn’t believe it.

Harry Potter liked him.

Harry Potter liked him in a more-than-friends sort of way. In a confessions-murmured-into-the-skin-of-his-throat sort of way. A hips bucking, back arched, moaning-through-clenched-teeth sort of way. It was at least twelve of Draco’s longtime fantasies fulfilled all at once. It was completely impossible—beyond anything he could have ever imagined.

But in all of Draco’s fantasies, a boy declaring that they liked you (and then regularly getting off with said boy) solved everything.

He should have known better. It had never been like that with Zabini or Archie Campbell, after all—although to be fair, neither Zabini nor Campbell had ever said they’d actually liked Draco. And being with Harry was infinitely better than being with the other two. Unmeasurably so.

But even with Harry Potter (Harry Potter!) somehow being deluded enough to want to kiss Draco instead of curse him, things were far from perfect.

For one thing, Harry was tactile.

Draco had known that, of course. He’d already endured weeks of Harry’s constant touching, had been driven half-mad by it—but now Draco was allowed to touch back.

And, god, Draco touched back—when they were alone in Harry’s bed at night; in empty classrooms during free periods; during rushed bathroom snogs when he’d shove Harry inside a cubicle and press him against the wall, both of them too worked up to remember to be careful.

But the rest of the time, even though Draco was allowed to touch, he couldn’t. Not without risking someone else finding out about him.

So in public, he remained stoic. He met Harry’s touches with rolls of his eyes and indulgent shakes of his head, as if Harry’s physical affection was something he tolerated for Hermione’s sake.

Or, at least, he tried to.

True to his word, whenever they were around other people, Harry gave no sign of the thing between them. (That was how Draco always thought of it—The Thing, as if giving it a name would scare it off, would snap Harry out of his delusions.)

Hermione, too, acted exactly the same as she ever had. In fact, if anything, she and Draco were coming across as more of a couple than ever—Harry had taken to whispering tips into Draco’s ear, pointing it out when Hermione was getting too stressed, when she couldn’t find the quill that she’d shoved behind her ear, when her morning cup of tea needed refilling.

But it felt like everything Draco had learned over the last two years about keeping his head down and hiding his feelings had vanished the moment Harry had said those impossible things, that evening in the classroom next to the sixth-floor Trophy Room.

Because how could Draco not smile helplessly whenever Harry complimented him? How could he not thoughtlessly lean into it when Harry’s shoulder pressed against his? How could he not stare now he knew the shape Harry’s mouth made when he gasped Draco’s name?

Having Harry Potter like him was everything Draco had ever wanted. It was making him messy.

So that was the first problem.

The second was their looming deadline.

The end of school had felt so distant, the NEWT exams forming a seemingly impenetrable barrier between Hogwarts and freedom. But the last two weeks before the exams passed in a blur of Harry and revision and more Harry (and more revision), and before Draco knew it, the exams were on them.

They lasted a fortnight. Draco was taking six subjects (one more than Harry; one less than Hermione), and all of them except History of Magic required both theory and practical tests. For all Harry’s teasing, Draco didn’t actually consider himself to be all that preoccupied with academic success, but he found himself consumed by the NEWTs, fixated on the idea of proving himself, of leaving behind a string of impressive results so when they were published in the Prophet (as they were every year), everyone would read them and know that Draco Malfoy wasn’t entirely useless after all.

His only blip came during the Charms practical.

His examiner was old Griselda Marchbanks, who, as well as being a Governor of the Wizarding Examinations Authority, was a member of the Wizengamot. She had been at Draco’s trial. Draco couldn’t even remember which way she’d voted. But he still froze when he saw her, his vision blurring and his chest tightening.

If she recognised him, she gave no sign of it. She peered at him through her tiny spectacles and loudly told him not to be nervous, young man, it was only an exam. Draco forced himself to breathe and approach her, but his hand was shaking so much during his Weather-Modifying Charm demonstration that he conjured a whole snowstorm when he was supposed to be making it drizzle, and he botched his Bubble-Head Charm entirely.

But thankfully, that was the worst of it. Draco didn’t have to interact with Madam Marchbanks again, and after his Defence Against the Dark Arts theory exam on a sunny Friday morning at the end of June, the NEWTs were over.

But the relief that Draco expected to accompany the end of exams never came.

They still had two weeks left until the end of term. Lessons were casual; the teachers taught them small things that were useful for young adults making their way in the world: cleaning charms, hangover cures, budgeting—and one particularly mortifying sex education session delivered by Professor Jones, where Draco was faced with a diagram of a naked witch and valiantly tried to pretend to be as interested in it as the rest of the boys in his class were.

Without homework, Draco, Harry and Hermione floated around the castle and grounds, all of them having forgotten what to do with themselves when they didn’t have to revise. A free period the Wednesday after NEWTs found them lounging by the lake in the sun: Draco lying on the grass, Harry and Hermione sitting with their backs propped against the big beech tree.

Hermione, a report from the Ministry’s most recent Being and Beast Summit on her knee, had carefully positioned herself between them and the other students who were milling outside. Draco was grateful; it meant that nobody could see how Harry’s hand kept drifting to Draco’s hair, determinedly ruining his neatening charm—and how Draco was making no attempt to stop him.

“You know, Hermione, I think you might be the only person to ever read that,” Draco commented. “Amos Diggory only hosts those summits so he can order a dozen crates of elf wine and have the Ministry pay for it.”

“It’s rather illuminating, actually,” Hermione said. “Perhaps if more people did read these reports, there wouldn’t still be so many inconsistencies in the classification of magical creatures.”

“You’ve decided on magical creature regulation, then?” Harry asked Hermione idly, his thumb skidding over Draco’s forehead. “For a job?”

“Hmm, still not sure,” Hermione said. “Though I don’t think it would be a bad start. From the state of this report, there’s a lot that needs to be done in the department. I’d love to have a discussion with some of the division heads—assuming I get good enough NEWT results, of course.”

Harry snorted. “What do they need, a few A’s? I’d say you’ve got a good chance.”

Hermione made a non-committal noise.

Draco smiled to himself. He rather suspected that the Ministry would need to invent an entirely new grade to accurately assess Hermione’s NEWT results. Double-O, perhaps: Obscenely Outstanding. WAYETTEYCAE: Why Are You Even Taking This Exam, You’re Clearly An Expert.

“The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures,” Harry mused. His fingers meandered down to Draco’s temples. Draco’s eyes slid closed. “I bet it’s one of those jobs that sounds fun, but all you’ll be doing is dealing with old ladies’ Doxy infestations. I wouldn’t do that even if they paid me in Firebolts.”

“Being paid in Firebolts is an awful idea,” Draco said lazily. “You know you can use money to buy a broomstick if you want one?”

Harry gasped. “What? Why didn’t McGonagall mention that in the budgeting lesson on Monday?” His voice was warm, his touch affectionate. Draco felt like he was floating on a cloud rather than lying on the grass.

“How about you, anyway, Draco?” Hermione asked. “When are you leaving? Will you wait for exam results first?”

“Hadn’t planned on it,” Draco said, his eyes still closed. “I’m not quite going to Apparate to Paris directly from platform nine and three-quarters, but I don’t intend to linger.”

Harry’s fingers stilled. Draco resisted the urge to nudge his head up into them like a cat not yet satisfied with the amount of petting it had received.

“You’re starting in Paris?”

Harry’s voice sounded strange. Draco blinked his eyes open and looked up at him, but his expression was hard to read upside-down.

“Well, I already know my way around the Parisian wizarding districts. Place Cachée and the like, you know. I thought it might be a nice way to ease into it all.”

“Plass kashay,” Harry repeated. “Sounds very…French.”

“With brains like that, you should join Hermione at the Ministry. The Department of International Magical Co-operation would be tripping over themselves to have you.”

Draco’s teasing usually earned him at least a breath of laughter, but Harry didn’t even smile. “And that’s, what?” he asked. “In a couple of weeks?”

“Ten days, if I leave the day after the Hogwarts Express takes us home.”

“Ten days,” Harry said softly. “That’s so soon.”

Hermione cleared her throat and turned a page in her report. The ground beneath Draco suddenly felt less like a cloud and more like a boat adrift on a choppy sea. This was the moment—the opening he’d been waiting for.

He sat up. His head felt awfully bereft without Harry’s hand stroking it.

“Listen,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about it. You should come with me.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“You don’t fancy the Aurors, right? Then come with me instead. I’ll show you Paris—there’s this incredible patisserie on the Rue des Licornes that makes macarons that can predict the future. And you probably won’t be recognised as much outside of Britain, same as me. I have it all planned out for at least the first few years. We’d see so much. The whole world. It would be perfect.”

Draco’s heart was beating loudly in his ears. He’d been meaning to ask for days—now the NEWTs were over, it felt like no time at all before he’d have to leave Harry behind, and he didn’t want to, damn it. Draco already missed him when they were in separate classes, and that was only for an hour at a time. And if they had to go weeks, months, between seeing one another, Harry would definitely forget about him. He’d definitely find someone else—someone better. Draco’s only chance at keeping him was to keep him close.

He held his breath. But Harry’s face twisted, and he said, “Draco. I can’t.”

“Oh.” Draco had thought he’d braced himself for it, but it hurt much more than he’d expected it to, a sharp pain between his ribs. Why had he even asked? He could have enjoyed their last few days together, could have lived in hope. Now he had the certain knowledge of their end date. “No, of course, quite right,” he heard himself say. “The macarons can only predict boring events, anyway. Portkey delays, that sort of thing. It was stupid of me to think— I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Hey.” Harry reached out and squeezed Draco’s shoulder. Draco clenched his teeth against the pathetic sound that threatened to spill out of him. “I can’t even think about how shit it’s going to be, not seeing you every day,” Harry said.

“Please, you don’t have to baby me, I understand—”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry said.

Draco scowled and closed his mouth.

“I’ve thought about it, too,” Harry said. “I’ve thought about begging you to stay, but I know that wouldn’t be fair. And I’ve thought about begging you to take me with you, but…” He sighed. “I couldn’t live anywhere else. Grimmauld Place was Sirius’s, I can’t just sell it— And the Weasleys, and Hermione, and Hagrid…everyone I know is here. Plus I’m shit at languages.”

“Oh, European languages are easy to pick up,” Hermione said. “Especially French. So much of English is related to French, you know. It’s really interesting, actually; it’s all due to the Norman Conquest of the eleventh century—”

Draco quelled her with a look. “There are translation spells,” he tried, though he knew it wasn’t really the languages that were the problem. How unfamiliar it was to have something you didn’t want to leave behind. “And you could come back whenever you wanted. Portkeys aren’t that expensive—”

“Or,” Hermione suggested, “you could both go, and then both come back.”

Draco frowned. “No,” he said. “I’m never coming back.”

She leaned forwards, her eyes wide. “I’ve been thinking about it, too. You could do really good things here, Draco. You’re clever and resilient, you know things about every Ministry employee under the sun, and, to be frank, you have an awful lot of Galleons.”

“I think you’re forgetting something else I have.” Draco gestured to his left arm, covered by the long sleeve of his robes despite the summer heat.

“I’m not forgetting that,” Hermione said, “which is why I’m not trying to stop you from travelling altogether. A break would probably be good for you—both of you. But maybe after a year or two…”

“I could live abroad for a year or two, I reckon,” Harry said thoughtfully. “If there are translation spells.”

“I…” Draco looked between them—Hermione’s wide-eyed intensity, Harry’s tentative smile. “But I can’t,” he said plaintively. “I’m going to leave, I’m getting away—”

“You know that Mind Healer the Ministry had me talking to last summer?” Harry said. “He asked me—when I get angry, what am I even angry at?”

Draco frowned, aware he was being distracted but unable to stop himself from commenting anyway. “What, did he not know who you were? What did he think you were angry at?”

“That’s the thing, though,” Harry said. “When we really got into it, it wasn’t Voldemort, or Dumbledore, or any of the Death Eaters. Most of the time, when I get pissed off, I’m pissed off at myself.”

Draco remembered well the force of Harry’s anger. If he turned his head, he knew he’d see the disturbed earth where, months ago, Harry had heaved up rocks and flung them into the lake. It had been terrifying to witness—even more terrifying to walk up to. Draco still wasn’t sure why he’d done it.

“My point is,” Harry said, when Draco failed to respond, “when you’re running to France, or Italy, or anywhere else that isn’t here—what is it that you’re running from? Is it other people? Or is it yourself? The person everyone thinks you are? The person you think you have to be to please them?”

Draco opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. “That’s not—” he tried. “You may have found answers in that sort of frippery, but I—” He paused, then snapped, “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Potter.”

“That’s true,” Harry said with an easy smile. “There are still ten days to think about it anyway, aren’t there? Come here.” He opened his arms.

The urge to fling himself forwards and bury his head in Harry’s shoulder had Draco swaying—then he remembered himself. He jerked his head to the rest of the grounds, the rest of the students, stoutly ignoring Harry’s voice in his head saying The person you think you have to be to please them? “Can’t,” he muttered. “Not here.”

“Of course you can,” Hermione said briskly. She shuffled over, leaving a space between her and Harry. “Though apparently everybody thinks we have regular threesomes, anyway, so I’m not sure a hug between you two will be quite the talk of the school you think it will be.”

Even so, Draco glanced at the surrounding students before he wedged himself between Harry and Hermione, his back against the tree, their bodies pressing in on either side of him. Their proximity calmed him—the pressure of them against his shoulders, the small movements as Harry breathed, the sound of Hermione’s little sniffs as she read through the final pages of her report. Draco stretched his legs out in front of him, took several deep, fortifying breaths and let his head fall sideways onto Harry’s shoulder.

It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. Even more so when it was joined by Harry’s arm snaking around Draco’s lower back, out of sight.

Draco wanted this. He wanted Harry. He wanted to be free.

Maybe these awful, wonderful Gryffindors were right.

Maybe it was time to stop running.

Chapter Text

“Don’t be mad,” Harry said, digging through his pockets for the third time in case they’d magically filled themselves since he last checked, “but I’ve lost the Portkey paperwork.”

“No, I’ve got it,” Draco said distractedly, fiddling with the strap of his satchel. “After Nepal, you lost paperwork rights.”

“Nepal was not my fault.”

Draco slanted an amused look at him.

“It wasn’t!”

But it sort of had been—and even if it hadn’t, Harry would have happily taken the blame if it meant that Draco smiled that morning.

It had been two years and four months since Draco had been in Britain. Harry had been back loads—for every birthday, Christmas, promotion, engagement and memorial. Harry always invited Draco along; Draco always said he wasn’t ready.

But six months ago, an owl arrived at their window in Bali—or rather, an owl tumbled through the window and collapsed immediately. Draco (who, Harry had been delighted to learn, was a bit of a mother hen when it came to animals) fussed over it while Harry read the letter.

Dear Harry and Draco,

Ron and I are getting married! Surprise!

We’ll be sending out official save-the-dates etc soon, but I wanted to get this to you both first—goodness knows how long this poor owl will have to fly to reach you. (The Post Office assured me she’s specially trained for long journeys and can look after herself, but I’m sceptical. You’ll have to tell me if she’s okay when she arrives—I’ll be doing an official investigation if she’s not; I still have connections at Magical Creatures.)

Harry looked up. The owl was cradled in Draco’s bare arms, hooting happily as he offered her water from his mug.

The wedding will be in November—I know it’s a bit soon, but Ron’s already asking why we’re not just having a do at the Burrow followed by a few drinks at the Leaky, so it’s a reasonable compromise, I think.

You’re both invited. Not that I don’t enjoy spending time with you alone, Harry, but Draco—it really would be lovely to see you. And that position in Mysteries that I mentioned in my last letter is still available, and we’re inviting Saul Croaker to the reception. No pressure, obviously, but could be worth a chat…?

Anyway, keep an eye out for a proper invite! I convinced Ron to splash out a bit on the stationery, so please do be effusive about it when you speak to him next.

All my love to you both,

Hermione

Harry held out the letter to Draco with a “It’s a good thing, don’t worry,” and took the owl off him. The owl, whose leg tag said was called Hilda, fluffed herself up and spun her head around to stare forlornly at Draco.

“I know,” Harry murmured, taking in Draco’s long hair, curled from seawater; the patch of pink skin on his neck that Harry’s thorough application of sun-cream had missed; his quick, clever gaze darting over the parchment. “He’s lovely, isn’t he?”

Hilda hooted in agreement.

That had been at the end of May, just before they celebrated Draco’s birthday in Taiwan, watching the sun rise over the Sea of Clouds. They’d since been to the Eyrie in Bhutan, visited the gravity-resistant trees in Nepal and spent a whole month at the Chinese Fireball sanctuary in Zhangjiajie. Now they were sitting on a wooden bench inside the Wizarding High Commission in New Delhi, waiting for their Portkey to London. Ron and Hermione were getting married in two days’ time, and Harry and Draco were going back to England. For good.

“For a while, to see how it goes,” Draco corrected, his voice tight. “I reserve the right to scurry away with my tail between my legs at any moment.”

“For three months, at least, at which point we’ll have a proper talk about it,” Harry amended, used to this discussion—but he wasn’t worried. It had taken two years, weekly fire-calls with a Mind Healer, countless breathing exercises and pages and pages of journal entries that Harry was not allowed to see, but the Draco perched next to Harry on this little wooden bench was a far cry from the boy who had hunched in on himself, flinching whenever anyone mentioned his name.

This Draco insisted on holding Harry’s hand in public and openly glared at anyone who did a double-take. This Draco wore short-sleeved shirts when it was hot, the Dark Mark a greyish smear on his smooth, pale skin. This Draco kept up a running commentary of his thoughts on the food, the people and the scenery in every new place they happened upon.

He was, in short, his old talkative, sarcastic, snobbish self again.

And Harry adored him.

He’d liked the Draco he’d got to know at school, sure—his quietness had come across as being cool and aloof and yeah, that had been hot. But it was nothing—nothing—compared to how Harry felt about Draco now, with his neediness and his sharp edges.

It had been hard for Draco to show them at first. He’d been convinced that every decision he made would be the wrong one, that every thoughtless remark would make Harry hate him, that every request would come across as bratty and entitled. But over the last few years, comforted by the anonymity of travelling, by his Mind Healer’s support, by the fact that Harry was still with him—his façade had cracked, then shattered. Harry was now so used to Draco’s constant stream of chatter that the silence between them as they sat in the Portkey Waiting Area was deeply unnerving.

“Have I told you today how much I like you?” Harry asked, knowing full well that he had—six times.

“Hmm, I don’t think so.” Draco’s fingers stilled against the strap of his satchel. He cast a sideways glance at Harry through his lashes. “Tell me again?”

Harry smiled. “I like you so much. You’re so funny and clever and brave. I’m so proud of how far you’ve come over the last few years. I’m so proud of you for coming back with me.”

“And I’m pretty?” Draco asked, his mouth quirking. So much had changed, but Draco’s quiet smile was the same one Harry had fallen in love with back at Hogwarts.

“And you’re pretty,” Harry confirmed. “The most stupidly gorgeous person I’ve ever seen.”

“You hopeless sap,” Draco said, and kissed him, soft and slow.

“Bakshi, Donalds, Khan, Langford, Malfoy, Potter and Singh—11:14 Portkey to London, England.”

There was a bustle of movement from the benches surrounding them, but Harry and Draco didn’t move.

“Hey,” Harry said, pressing his forehead against Draco’s. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Idiot.”

“Gentlemen?” came the smooth voice of the Portkey attendant. “The 11:14 Portkey to London will be leaving in five minutes. Are you ready for your journey?”

Draco gave Harry a final peck and stood. “Yes,” he said, and squared his shoulders. “Yes, thank you. I do believe we are.”