Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Fuck.

Okay.

Okay, he could deal with this. It couldn’t possibly be that bad. 

It wasn’t like he hadn’t been expecting there to be drama during his Eighth year at Hogwarts. He was an ex-convicted Death Eater, after all—it would’ve been foolish to hope for a quiet, uneventful year.

Just…why did it have to be this kind of drama?

“I want to present you with something unexpected,” Professor O’Neill had said, ardently. “Something challenging. I want to teach you to think outside of the box and see beyond everything you’ve been taught thus far. To be creative. To have fun. To explore the Muggle customs—to combine them with your Magical ones and see how easily they can come together if given the chance. And I want you to experience the comings and goings of a normal Muggle student’s life.”

‘What the heck is normal about any of this?’ had been the thought on Draco’s mind for the remainder of their first Muggle Studies lesson. That, and the determination that this teacher had to be somehow related to Trelawney. No one else could possibly be capable of such eccentricity. Except for Luna, perhaps.

“For next Monday, you will read the script over and learn a few dialogue lines from the characters you like the most. We will all meet in the Great Hall, and no one will leave until everyone has auditioned. Is that clear?”

Those had been O’Neill’s final words. Draco had wanted to protest, and the words were still straining to escape him hours later as he stared at the booklet she’d handed out to them. ‘Hercules,’ read the title. He hadn’t opened it yet.

Greg dropped beside him on the sofa, and Draco couldn’t hold it in any longer. He needed to vent.

“Why in the name of Salazar Slytherin’s smelly feet do we have to do this? It’s such a waste of time that we could spend studying for our NEWTs! If she wanted us to do something Muggle, she could have just made us wear some of those hideous…jeans the Muggle-borns wear all the damn time! But a drama play? That’s just absurd!"

Greg nodded dutifully. “Why don’t you put an end to it? If you contact your father, maybe he can—” 

“My father,” Draco cut in angrily, “is on probation, Goyle. Don’t you understand? One wrong move and they’ll throw him in Azkaban.” 

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Greg frowned. “But there must be something else you can…”

“There isn’t. There’s nothing I can do.” The worst part was that he couldn’t even be mad. This, after all, was what he deserved. “I need the best grades in every subject if I want to have a single chance of finding a job in the wizarding world, which means I need to participate in this stupid thing so I can get an Outstanding in Muggle Studies.”

“So you’re actually going to audition for a character?"

Draco looked down at the script in his hands. He couldn’t take any chances. He needed that Outstanding. “I’m going to audition for them all.”

***

“You’re not going to audition? At all? Harry, you need to participate in this subject! You know what McGonagall said, it’s the most important one this year!”

Draco rolled his eyes at Granger’s scolding tone. Even the almighty Harry Potter and his idiotic sidekicks had been forced to take Muggle Studies this year as part of the reform project Kingsley Shacklebolt had drawn up in the obscure, confusing days that had followed the Battle of Hogwarts. 

Although he felt particularly pleased Shacklebolt had caused Potter an inconvenience, Draco couldn’t help but dislike the new Minister. After all, he’d been the one to leave both his parents on probation, to force Draco to come back to Hogwarts, and, worst of all, to convince McGonagall to house all of the Eighth-years in the same bloody common room.

“You’re doing it again.”

Draco lifted the script from his lap as Pansy rested her head there, sprawling her legs on the sofa armrest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he claimed, “I was merely trying to repeat one of Magera’s lines in my head without looking.”

“Megara.” Pansy smirked. “And you happened to be staring right at Potter while you did so? How coincidental.” She sighed, bringing the back of her hand to her forehead in a gesture she knew full well was over-dramatic. “Anyway, I don’t have time to remind you why it’s a bad idea to hate him this year. I have a problem.”

“Does it concern me?”

“Of course not, you’re not the bloody centre of my universe anymore. No, it’s about—”

“Then why exactly do I have to listen to you? Can’t you go tell Daphne? I’m busy here.”

“—About Margaret O’Neill, and you will listen to me because I let you rant about how you can’t stand seeing Potter’s lousy head around the common room all day. And because you owe me three chocolate frogs already, you twat.”

Draco sighed and dropped the damn script on the couch beside him. He hadn’t read a single word of it in the last fifteen minutes anyway. “Fine. But I get to keep the frogs.”

“In your dreams,” Pansy snapped. “So, O’Neill. Please tell me you’ve noticed how beautiful her smile is.”

“Seriously?” 

“Yes, seriously. God, she’s so breathtaking. I think I may even enjoy Muggle Studies because of her. And I wouldn’t say that about that many people.”

“Weren’t you just saying something similar about that seventh year the other week?”

Pansy smacked him. "Her name is Roslyn Vanburen and it’s not my fault she’s finally discovered the right potion to treat her locks! But as I was saying—O’Neill’s smile. It has broken hearts before, I’m sure of it. And opened quite a few doors for her, probably. It’s just so…”

“Beautiful, okay, I get it.” Draco rolled his eyes. “What exactly are you going to do about it? Ask her out tomorrow after class?”

“Ew!” Pansy winced. “She’s a teacher! Ugh, why do I bother talking to you? You’ve never even had a crush, you don’t get it.”

Draco huffed. “Don’t ask me. And no, I most definitely haven’t, thank you very much.”

Pansy sat up with a groan. “I’m gonna go talk with Greg. He’s a far better listener than you are.”

“Oh, I’m honoured." There was a snarky remark at the tip of his tongue about Greg not being able to form a coherent reply if he tried to, but he kept it in. That wasn't who he was anymore.

Pansy stood up. “You’re a prick, is what you are.”

“I love you too,” he retorted, then picked up the booklet from the sofa. He really needed to learn some damn lines.

***

Monday came faster than it should have, and found Draco desperately trying to remember what in Merlin’s name it was that Elderly Theban said right before Hercules’ introduction in Thebes.

He hadn’t even read the whole script yet. It was kind of a personal rebellion. He wanted to prove this play was the stupidest idea any Hogwarts teacher had ever had, and that he could master it without even trying. Pansy had rolled her eyes at him, and Greg had nodded and stared at him in awe as Draco explained his plan to them. He hadn’t really expected them to understand how he felt. He needed an Outstanding, yes, but he craved his little silent revenge. After all, through all his experiences of being ordered around and made to do things he didn’t want to, he’d never been good at not being stubborn. There was always something, a little thing, a tiny detail, he could control—and he always did the same stupid thing and held on to it. 

“Draco!” Luna’s sing-songy voice resonated through the halls as she approached him. “Hi!”

“Morning.” He gave her a small smile even though he only felt like scowling. “Shouldn’t you be in Care of Magical Creatures?”

“Oh, I asked Hagrid if I could attend the Eighth Year lessons instead,” she said, grinning. “I wanted to be free during this period—I’m going to participate in the play too!”

“You’re going to audition?” There already weren’t as many characters as there were Eighth years, and Draco couldn’t risk not getting a role.

“Oh, no, Dean and I are going to take care of the decorations—by the time we’re finished, the audience will be convinced they’ve been transported to Ancient Greece! It’s going to be so much fun, don’t you think?”

Draco huffed. “Yeah, no. Absolutely not.”

Luna gave him an understanding look. “You don’t want to be here, do you?”

“You mean in front of the Great Hall at 9 am about to audition for a damn play? Or back in Hogwarts, the place where I’ve fucked up everyone’s lives, and my own, the most? Because the answer, in both cases, is no. I don’t want to be here.” And why the fuck exactly did Dean Thomas get to decorate instead of auditioning?

“Okay, lads, come on! Great Hall’s ready for your brilliance!” 

Everyone started walking in, chattering. Luna graced Draco’s arm and gave him one of her too-kind, too-sweet smiles. “Well,” she murmured, “I’m glad you’re here.”

“That’s because you’re weird.”

Her smile widened. “A lunatic, some may say.” 

He huffed, and she squeezed his arm, quickly pressing her cheek to his shoulder. 

The Great Hall looked smaller than it usually did. The four house tables were gone, as was the teachers’. In their place, a rectangular stage stood tall, its sides covered by heavy red curtains that reached both ends of the Hall and fell from the ceiling—a clouded, almost-rainy morning sky—to the floor. In front of the stage were several rows of chairs—the same chairs that they’d had to sit on during their OWLs, when the tables that filled the Hall had been individual desks. 

They all shuffled towards the chairs, no one sure what to do, no one too eager about stepping on the stage. He caught a glimpse of the Golden Trio, quickly making their way to the last row of chairs. With a scowl, he followed Luna to the front row, just ahead of where Theo, Blaise and the rest of the Slytherins were flocking together. Greg caught sight of him and sent him a worried look, and Draco rolled his eyes as Greg ran to sit beside him.

“Don’t be nervous,” said Draco. “This is just some pointless nonsense.”

“But…but what if I mess up in front of everyone?” Greg whispered.

“Well, then you’ll be doing the exact same thing you’ve been doing in Charms class for the last seven years.” 

That made Luna elbow him in the ribs with a snicker, and made Greg nod slowly, his shoulders slumping in relief.

“That’s true. Thanks.”

“See, I know how to reassure him,” Draco breathed in Luna’s direction, cheekily. She rewarded him with a grin and a loud peck on the cheek. 

“I know you do, you sweetheart.”

“That had better not have been a kiss!” a voice announced just as a heavy body leaned on Draco’s back, Pansy’s head appearing on his shoulder, arms draped around him. “Do I need to get the girl off you, sweetie?”

Draco tsk’d, but otherwise just leaned back into Pansy’s comfortable embrace. “As if Luna would be silly enough to fall for me.”

Before she could reply, O’Neill walked out of the side of the stage.

“Welcome, students, to your first drama lesson. I can see you have your scripts with you, good. That’s already more than I was expecting on the first day.” She eyed them for a moment, and Pansy sighed in Draco’s hair when the teacher glanced their way. “Well, what are you waiting for, then? Up, up you go, the first of you. Who’s…?” She looked down at an already tattered piece of paper and called out, “Hannah Abbott? Yes, yes, up with you, come on!”

“I bet she’s as bossy in bed,” murmured a dreamy Pansy. Draco made a gagging sound and pushed her off his shoulders.

“Banned! You’re banned from my body. For a week.” She giggled and went to sit between Theo and Daphne on the row behind theirs. Draco threw her a murderous look and hissed, “Impregnate my mind with disgusting images again and you won’t be lying on top of me for a month!”

She threw him a kiss and said, “Whatever you say, love!”, to which he flipped two fingers before turning forwards. At his sides, Greg was shaking again and Luna was smiling into her script. She’d already filled the pages with doodles.

Surprisingly, Hannah didn’t make a fool of herself. Not that Draco was paying attention to the whole thing, of course—he couldn’t have cared less about the stupid play. He was simply bored, plain as that. And Hannah was making such big gestures as she acted out whichever character that, really, it was impossible not to look.

After Hannah came Susan, and then Terry, and then Mandy and Millie. Michael Corner made a right fool of himself—he hadn’t even opened the script, apparently—and then Tracey got jokingly cat-called by Theo, which resulted in them all having to go through a ten-minute lecture on how it was unacceptable to interrupt an actor or actress while they were on stage. 

“—the vilest, most disrespectful and most distasteful of all the things you can do in a drama theatre, and if I catch anyone doing it again, I can assure you, right here and now, that that person is not going to easily pass this subject!”

Justin sneezed in the middle of his performance, which had Luna conjuring a tissue for him from the audience whilst Greg sniggered until a snort escaped him, which, as always, made him halt with a start. 

Greg was the first one of them to audition. For all Draco was pretending not to care, he couldn’t help but cross his fingers for his friend. He tried to tell himself he only cared so that he wouldn’t have to hear his cries at night, but really—he wanted the idiot to have a good experience. He’d had enough on his plate for a good few decades. And if Luna saw the way Draco clutched his hands as Greg shuffled to the centre of the stage, she didn’t say a word about it. 

“I—” Greg started, a murmur. He cleared his throat. “I decided I liked Pegasus the most, but...he doesn’t really talk, so…”

“Pegasus is not for you,” O’Neill declared, as though it was something she’d known all along. “Have you rehearsed any other character’s lines?”

“Huh…I read some of Nessus ’s, but…”

“Go on, then.” 

In the end, Greg didn’t do terribly. O’Neill didn’t seem impressed, but he did get some pats on his shoulder on his quick way back to his seat, and as soon as he’d shrunk on the chair, Luna passed her arm over Draco’s lap to gently touch Greg’s hand.

“Well done, honey.”

Greg smiled shakily. “Thanks.”

Draco pointedly didn’t pay attention to Granger’s act, but rather spent the whole thing making faces at Greg to match the Gryffindor’s words and cheer him up. After two or three minutes Greg giggled a bit, and pride filled Draco’s chest.

Longbottom, then McMillan, made their way through the stage, and then Draco’s name reverberated through the Great Hall. 

He stood up, straightened his robes, and walked to the stairs at the side of the stage, suddenly very aware that he had no idea what O’Neill thought of him. 

He did, however, know what everyone else thought of him. This only made him raise his chin as he strode up the stairs. He was going to outsmart each and every one of them, and the knowledge made him feel powerful and strong. He hadn’t read three-quarters of the script, and yet, when O’Neill asked him which character he was auditioning for, he proudly said: 

“Which one would you like me to audition for, Professor?”

“Am I to choose that?” she wondered aloud, then took a few steps, frowning in concentration. “Very well. Hades, perhaps?”

“Of course.” He turned the page to the one he’d marked—one of the first scenes, and almost the only one he’d read with that character in it. He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and closed his eyes. A moment later, he dropped the script on the floor.

Thud.

“How sentimental. You know, I haven’t been this choked up since I got a bit of moussaka caught in my throat!” He sneered, made a big gesture with his arms, and pretended there was a little crib in front of him when he said, “Ah, there’s the little sunbeam!” There was a line from Zeus there, which he recited mentally, and then, “I’d love to, babe, but unlike others, I regrettably have a full-time gig; that you, by the way, so charitably bestowed on me, Zeus. So I’d love to, but no.”

He shot a glance at the teacher. She was studying him cautiously, eyebrows raised. There was a slight pull to the corner of her lips that made Draco’s heart jump.

“That was something, Mr Malfoy,” she said, “that was certainly something. Have you rehearsed any oth—” 

“Yes.” He was nervous, he realised. He had to uncurl his fists and press his sweaty palms to his sides. “I’ll—do whichever character you want me to try, Professor.” He wasn’t being stared at, he told himself. He wasn’t being stared at by Potter. Potter, who hadn’t—hadn’t had the decency to spare him a single glance since they’d arrived at Hogwarts. Potter, who wasn’t even going to audition, he’d said. Potter, who—

“Hercules, then.” 

“Okay.” ‘Concentrate, Draco. Come on, you can do this.’ He didn’t walk back to where his script was lying on the floor. Instead, he closed his eyes. Breathed in, slowly. “But…” he said. Then, louder, “But I am a freak! They’re right! I’m not like everyone else! Sometimes I feel like I don’t—like I don’t belong here. And I don’t even know if that makes any sense!”

“No,” O’Neil cut him off. “Yes, but no.”

“Hmmm,” was as astonishing a reply as he could muster.

“Megara. Yes, try Megara.” She seemed to be talking to herself, rather than to Draco. Draco, for his part, was disappointed. The female love interest? Was that really what she thought would suit him? But he needed that Outstanding, he reminded himself. And so, taking another deep breath, he started:

“Well—” He swallowed. “Well, you know how men are. They believe that ‘no’ means ‘yes’ and that ‘piss off’ means ‘take me, I’m yours’.”

“More emphasis! Megara is a flirty character—pour your heart into it! Seduce the Hercules in front of you!”

Draco swallowed. “Well, thanks for everything, Herc! It’s been chicken and rice.”

“Yes, yes, go on. Another line from her, please,” O’Neill said, a businesslike, clipped command. She was smiling.

“Uh...Megara. My friends call me Meg, or at least they would if I had any friends. S—So,” Draco stuttered. “Did they give you a name along with all those rippling pectorals?”

Merlin, that felt wrong to say. He could hear the giggles of his classmates, and he inevitably tried to recognise Potter’s snickers among the audience even as he stared at the floor to avoid meeting anyone’s gaze.

“Ahhh, uh, er…” 

O’Neill was suddenly standing beside him. Reading the script. Acting with him. Draco picked up quickly, saying, with a sneer, “Are you always this articulate?”

“Hercules. My…” She puffed her chest out, raised her chin. Her voice was deeper, stronger, when she finished the line. “My name is Hercules.”

“Tsk! I think I prefer Wonderboy.” 

“So! How did you get involved with the bigwig?”

“Well, you know how men are,” Draco repeated, feeling more confident this time. “They think that ‘no’ means ‘yes’ and that—” O’Neill was gesturing at him to come closer to her. ‘Seduce the Hercules in front of you,’ she was telling him again, with her hands and her eyebrows this time. “And that ‘piss off’ means”—he leaned toward her, smirked—“‘take me, I’m yours.’”

“Yes!” she declared, triumphant. One instant later, though, she was back to her brisk self, walking to the side of the stage, reading her papers. “Yes, very good, Mr Malfoy. You can sit down. The role is yours.”

It wasn’t until he was back beside Greg, until Luna was hugging him and whispering about how he’d done amazing—until he heard a low whistle from behind him, saw Pansy’s wiggle of eyebrows—that he understood what exactly had happened on that stage. 

He’d gotten a role. No one else had been assigned yet. And he was the female love interest. Fuck, Pansy wouldn’t leave him alone about that for the remainder of the year. And Blaise. Oh, Merlin, Blaise would be insufferable—and Theo would follow along for sure. And who knew who’d play Hercules? He hadn’t even checked if there was a kiss scene, but Merlin, the mere idea of having to kiss someone, to pretend to be in love with someone from his year was making him sweat. Surely it wouldn’t be anyone who hated him, or—shit, or a Muggleborn, right? Surely the teacher would be understanding about the role he’d played in the war.

He didn’t hear a single word of the following auditions, not even Theo’s or Pansy’s. It seemed as though his eyes wouldn’t focus on the stage, wouldn’t take anything from his surroundings in.

It wasn’t until Potter made his slow way up the stairs that Draco snapped to attention.

Potter’s stance was hunched when he made it to the centre of the stage. He’d hid his hands in the pockets of his robes and was looking at the teacher rather than at the audience.

“Well?” said O’Neill.

“I haven’t read the thing,” Potter mumbled. His cheeks pinked a bit.

The teacher leaned forward. Her coarse eyebrows, that never seemed to stay in place, flew up in a mixture of astonishment and scepticism. “And why is that?”

Potter shrugged. “I just—don’t want to participate in this. I don’t feel like…” He gestured around him, at everything and nothing.

“Mr Potter.” She was walking now, pacing again. “Do you believe I am a fool?” 

“Oh my god,” Draco heard Pansy murmur from behind him, “I may ask her out after all.” 

“No, Professor.”

“Do you believe having saved the world makes you deserving of special treatment?”

“No, Professor.”

“Do you believe,” she repeated, emphasising her words with a wave of the script in her hand, “that it is a waste of time to try to bring Magical teenagers closer to the Muggle world they’ve been taught to hate? That it is a lost cause or a bad idea?”

And again, eyes fixed on the floor, Potter said, "No, Professor.”

“Good. Good, because that would have made you an idiot, Mr Potter. And I don’t think that’s what you are in the least. Now, do you have your script with you?”

Potter pulled the folded thing from his pocket. He was scowling, and his blush had deepened, and Draco was fairly sure his own face looked pretty much the same. What right did the git have to walk onto that stage without having touched the script, when Draco had wasted hours of his life trying to memorise all those damn lines, and still get the same chance at auditioning as Draco? 

“Open it to page eleven, Mr Potter, if you please.” O’Neill was back at the centre of the stage, her own script in hand, waiting for Potter to find the right page. When he did, he gave her a questioning look, to which she replied with, “Read Hercules; I’ll read Phil.”

Draco’s heart turned itself around in his chest. He glanced in Greg’s direction, but his friend seemed to be too concentrated on biting his nail. He didn’t have so much luck with Luna; she was trying to suppress a smile and looking back at him with a funny look. 

“It’s only the first character she’s making him play,” Draco hissed, knowing too well what she was thinking, “it’s not the one she’ll give him in the end!”

“Oh, I know,” she said. “But that doesn’t make the look on your face any less hilarious.”

“Great, now you’ve done it!” exclaimed O’Neill, making a big gesture of annoyance in Potter’s direction. Draco used it as an excuse to look away from Luna and to will his thoughts away from the images that had formed in his mind. “Can’t one stare at the nymphs without being interrupted? What’s the matter, have you never seen a satyr before?”

Potter cleared his throat. “Uh…no. Can you help us? We’re looking for…Philoc...Um, how do you read that?”

“It’s Philoctetes,” said O’Neill. She didn’t sound half as exasperated as Draco felt already. Couldn’t Potter be a bit faster? He needed this to be over, for crying out loud!

“Right. Er, we’re looking for Philoctetes.”

O’Neill nodded. “Call me Phil.”

“Phil, I’m so glad to meet you, I’m—”

“Put more emotion to it, Potter! Hercules is not trying to be polite—he has just met the only person who can help him achieve his dream! Act like it! Excited, thrilled—practically jumping on the spot as you talk! Come on, again, from the start of the line.”

“Phil!! I’m so glad to meet you!” Merlin, Potter was a bad actor. “I’m Hercules and this is…uh, this”—he gestured to the empty space beside him—“is Pegasus.” 

The annotation said Pegasus was meant to lick Phil’s face. The teacher wiped her face in mock disgust, said, “Eugh! Animals…disgusting!”

“I need your help. I need to become a true hero!”

“Sorry, kid, can’t help you.”

“Why not!”

“Two words: I. Am. Retired.”

Luna snickered. “That’s a joke,” she murmured in Draco’s ear. “‘I’m retired’ is two words in Greek.”

Draco hummed, but didn’t tear his gaze away from Potter. Potter, who was making a right fool of himself, and yet…and yet had this presence about him. Draco couldn’t exactly pinpoint what it was that made him so impossible to look away from, but he knew, he just knew, that Potter had no idea of the effect he could have on people, the oblivious prat. 

“But…haven’t you ever had a dream?”

“Good, yes,” said O’Neill, snapping out of her character. She flicked through the pages again, saying, “Let’s read another one...page 23, please. Read Hercules and Phil, I’ll read the rest.”

“Okay…”

What? Hercules again?

“I’ll give you the lead. That,” O’Neill turned to the audience, “in case anyone doesn’t know, means I’ll read the last line from the character who talks before you so that you can follow through with the scene.” She looked back at Potter. “I swear, I’m moving to Sparta!”

“Excuse me,” Potter read, “but it seems to me like you’re looking for a hero.”

“Yes. And who are you?”

“I’m—I’m Hercules,” Potter claimed, adopting a stupid, arrogant pose, “and I happen to be...a hero.”

“Oh, wow, he’s getting better at it!” whispered Luna. She was grinning from ear to ear.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Please. That wasn’t that impressive.” 

“You can try to be mean, but he’s doing good and I know you know it.” She said this with an ease that made him clench his jaw in irritation. He shouldn’t let himself forget that Luna was friends with the Golden Trio, too. Showing any kind of disdain towards Potter near her was like trying to rant about gold to a Niffler—it always resulted in her showing her unapologetic love for the git.

“Another one!” cried O’Neill a moment later. “Page 30!”

Draco’s heart jumped. The scene on page 30, he quickly checked, was a dialogue between Hercules and Megara. 

“Wonderboy, you are utterly perfect.” 

“Ha, thanks. You know, when I was a kid I would’ve—” Potter tripped over the words. He was frowning. “I would’ve given anything to be like everyone else.”

“You wanted to be petty and dishonest?”

“Everybody’s not like that!” Potter sounded genuinely offended by that, and O’Neill huffed to herself, shaking her head.

“Yes. Definitely. Lords, yes.” She turned to Potter and said, proudly, “Mr Potter, it seems to me like I have found my two lead actors.”

“So I’m…”

“Hercules, yes. Just look at your stance! Yes, gosh, yes, definitely.”

She seemed completely oblivious to the storm that was expanding in Draco’s chest—to the growing murmur in the rows behind him. She walked back to her spot on the side of the stage, gesturing at Harry to go back to his seat. It wasn’t until Weasley broke the relative silence with a, “But Professor, you can’t do that!” that she took in the turmoil in the audience.

“And why is that, exactly, Mr…?”

“Weasley, Professor. And because Harry’s…well, he’s him. And Malfoy was a Death Eater, and it’s just not right!”

“Oh, will you shut up!” Pansy was suddenly standing up, and it wasn’t until Luna’s hand slipped into his that Draco realised he was shaking. 

“He is! Prove me wrong!”

Thomas was standing too, as were Granger and Longbottom, and Theo and Blaise quickly followed. O’Neill ordered them all to stop, which resulted in Thomas shouting louder.

Through this all, Draco’s attention was on Potter. On the curve of his frown, on the discomfort in the shuffle of his feet. On the way he was folding a corner of the script with two nervous fingers. Draco wondered what he was thinking—what it was that was going on in his idiotic Gryffindor mind. He was about to do something stupid. Draco could tell. 

“I don’t—!” The words seemed to slip as his frown, still directed at the floor, deepened. “Stop! I don’t care, okay?”

“Mate, it’s Malfoy we’re talking about here,” said Weasley, the fight dying down at Potter’s words.

“No shit, Ron,” Potter snapped. Then, looking at his own feet again, “If it bothered me, I’d complain. But it doesn’t, so leave it alone.”

O’Neill was gaping now—at Potter, at the audience. Her eyebrows, curved in perfect arches, would have been hilarious to Draco if he hadn’t been busy trying to will his lungs to do their goddamn job as Potter stormed off stage.

The rest of the auditions—Weasley turning red as a tomato after having to pretend to be an animal, everyone giggling at Blaise’s sultry tone—got lost in a blur in Draco’s mind. When his classmates started to walk out of the Great Hall, chatting animatedly and discussing the play and laughing about how they’d made fools of themselves, Draco just slouched in his seat. He was staring at a point in the red curtains of the stage and couldn’t snap out of it. Didn’t want to snap out of it. 

“You coming, honey?” 

Luna’s hand was back in his. He shook his head, and she let go with a soft squeeze. She distracted Greg before he could notice Draco’s inner struggle, and together they walked away. 

It took him three and a half seconds to make up his mind. Three and a half seconds of mental breakdown before he was on his feet, storming to where the teacher had disappeared behind the curtains. 

“No.”

She hadn’t even looked up from her papers, hadn’t even turned to Draco.

“But—”

“No.”

Draco clenched his fists. “You haven’t even heard what I have to say!”

O’Neill sighed. She turned to him, slowly, and leaned back on the wooden table behind her. Draco knew the gaze she was directing at him. It was that of the adults who feel superior because they can see the bigger picture beyond the kid’s struggle. 

Except he wasn’t a kid anymore—hadn’t been for a long time, now—and she could shove her pity and maturity up her own nose.

“You’re going to tell me you don’t want to play Megara because it will mean interacting with Harry Potter in an intimate manner,” she said. “And I’m here to tell you that this subject is about leaving the ways of the past where they belong, Mr Malfoy. It’s about growing, about seeing outside of the box.”

Her words, so similar to the ones she’d proclaimed in the first day of class, sounded so different now. It always was strange, to not be able to roll his eyes at a teacher’s words because they were being directed at him alone.

“Harry Potter,” she continued, “is not your enemy, Mr Malfoy. He’s…Tell me, have you looked at him yet? Since you arrived at Hogwarts this year?”

What kind of question was that? Was he meant to say yes? Would she read anything into it if he did? Was it the truth? He had looked at Potter, hadn’t he? He was always somewhere in Draco’s periphery now, what with their shared common room. It was just that…that they never shared looks anymore. They never bickered, or fought, or…acknowledged each other anymore.  

He decided to shake his head. O’Neill pushed herself off the table and walked past him to the edge of the curtains. “Look at him now, then,” she said. 

Draco, feeling restless and frustrated, took a peek at the audience again. The Golden Trio had also stayed behind, it seemed, and was just now walking toward the door. Granger’s voice was echoing around them, saying, “You do realise you’ll have to kiss him, right? And carry him in your arms. And pretend you can barely talk around him because you’re in love! Gosh, Harry, you haven’t even read the script, you don’t know—”

Potter was scowling at the floor. His hands were back in his pockets, and he was walking a pace behind his friends—so much so that Granger eventually turned around and kept chastising him while walking backwards. Weasley’s hand slipped under her elbow. 

“He’s just a shadow.”

Draco had almost forgotten the teacher was still beside him. Something about spying on Potter had sent his heart racing, he realised. He quickly turned to O’Neill. 

“He’s a boy, Mr Malfoy. Just like you. Barely of age, barely out of a war. And I’ll tell you something else.” She walked back to her desk, to her papers. “A good actor is one who can leave his feelings toward his crew behind when he steps onto the stage. Greatness, believe it or not, is just one step ahead of pettiness. And I do believe”—she turned to him, then—“that you are a great actor, Mr Malfoy. At least from what little of your skills I have seen today. And I will not let your outstanding talent for drama go unnoticed because of some feud you have with Harry Potter. Now, if you tell me”—she raised a finger at him just as he was about to complain—“that you want a different role because being around Mr Potter puts you in great distress due to any event surrounding the war, then I will assign Megara to somebody else and have you play another character. I do not condone the idea that forgiving those who hurt you is a required step to overcome traumatic events, and much less that the victim should be told when to forgive. But, Mr Malfoy. If this is about anything else other than that, then I fervently believe there is a lesson here for you to learn. And I do believe you’d be making a mistake in shoving your skills down an Erumpent’s throat for the sake of pride.”

She turned to pick up her briefcase, as though giving Draco a moment to think. He couldn’t. All he could do was try to breathe through the memories that he so well knew by now. The memories of Potter tearing his wand from his grip; of that same hand, stretching to save him from the flames; of Potter’s body, lying limp on the grounds of the castle. Of thinking, if just for a second, that Harry Potter was dead. That he was no longer there.

“It’s not—” He shook his head. “It’s not about the war. It’s—” It’s about him. About us. About how we’re explosive, and we’re incompatible, and how I know he’s always hated me, but now, now he won’t even look at me— “It’s—not. About the war.”

“Very well, then.” She turned to him, smiling. “Which side will you choose, Mr Malfoy? Pettiness, or greatness?”

Chapter Text

Tuesday was, as a whole, a bad day.

It started with the list of assigned roles that appeared on the common room wall in the morning. As soon as his classmates piled up around it, it was clear no one had really believed Draco and Potter would be assigned the protagonist roles. There were arguments on the way to breakfast, there were glances thrown his way—some full of hatred and distrust, some plainly jealous—and there were, apparently, three complaints sent to O’Neill’s office before the morning lessons were over.

Through all of this, Potter didn’t so much as glance at him. O’Neill’s words turned themselves over and over in Draco’s mind as he ate his toast, as he sat through Transfiguration and Defence, as he stared at his own, far-too-tired expression in the bathroom mirror while he washed his hands. ‘He’s just a boy,’ the teacher had said. ‘He’s just a shadow. Fresh out of a war, barely of age.’ She was right, some rational part of Draco knew. But he couldn’t convince the rest of himself of it. Those words simply didn’t…didn’t fill his chest in the way Potter’s presence did, didn’t convey all that Draco felt when Potter’s name was brought up in conversation.

‘It’s not about the war,’ he’d told her. And he’d been telling the truth, he realised as he flicked his wand to dry his hands. It wasn’t about the war, because he’d been feeling this way about Potter ever since their first week of school when they were snotty first years. Reckless. Bare. He’d always taken pride in being measured, in always being careful which parts of him he showed and which he buried deep down and out of reach. But Potter…Potter just somehow found a way to unearth the worst of him. And it was infuriating, but not as much as it was scary.  

Lunchtime he spent regretting having dwelled on thoughts about Potter again. He couldn’t find it in himself to tear his gaze from the git’s back, and that earned him a round of teasing from all of his classmates that had him going stupidly red for no reason and eventually storming off without having his dessert. Damn, he’d really wanted to have dessert.

And then they had to spend the afternoon watching that damned film, Hercules, after O’Neill told them in class that they had to get to know their characters. This was followed by a round of comments from the Slytherins on how Draco was just perfect as Megara, and how he would play such an amazing, hilarious lovesick idiot, and how—“Oh my god, that scene where Megara throws herself at Hercules like she wants to be dicked down? Draco will have to do that with Potter!” “And he’s also going to have to sing!” “Oh Merlin, this is quickly turning into my favourite subject!”

By dinner time, Draco’s mood had turned into a heavy, looming lightning storm. And really, he should have known better. The awful day should have been enough warning for him to stay out of Potter’s way. The knowledge he’d burst any second should have been enough warning.

But then, right after dinner, he saw Potter walking away from his friends—invisibility cloak in hand—and disappear into a random corridor of the castle, and of course he had to go and follow the prat.

“What th—”

“Slow down, Scarhead. You don’t want to trip and give yourself a concussion.” 

Ah, and there it was. His well known lack of control when it came to Potter. 

He’d grabbed Potter’s cloak just as the git had started draping it over himself. They were both holding on to it now. Potter staring at him, startled, and Draco gritting his teeth, displaying his best sneer.

Hate was a game two could play. 

“Let go, Malfoy,” Potter said. The caution in his voice only made Draco’s sneer deepen.

“Why, so you can run away and keep avoiding me?”

“I’m not avoiding you.”

“No?” Draco asked in mock surprise. “Oh, so you’re just too busy sulking to tear your gaze off the floor, is that it? Has it crossed your mind that you’re not the only one around here who has problems, Potty? So do us all a favour and stop pitying yourself.”

Potter’s eyes met his for a hot second, then fell down to the floor. He was frowning, seemingly struggling with himself, but a moment later his shoulders slackened. “Leave me alone,” he said. “I don’t want to fight you.” 

That reaction was nothing like he’d come to expect from Potter, and it took Draco a moment to realise that he was mad. 

And Potter looked mad, too. Frustrated. Before Draco could turn his sneer into a proper reply, Potter said, “Look, I—I didn’t save you from the Fiendfyre just to—to go back to this, okay? I don’t want to—”

“Fight me,” Draco finished for him, snidely. Pretending his heart wasn’t racing. “You don’t want to fight me because you saved me, is that it? What if I told you that maybe I didn’t want you to save me? That maybe I would have rather—” 

He was starting to shake, he realised. It was itching all over his skin, the need to rile Potter up, to say anything that would get under his skin, to—

“Died?” Up until a moment before, Potter had sounded upset, but altogether temperate. Now, all of a sudden, rage was bubbling to the surface of him, painting his expression with disdain. “Please, now, don’t make me laugh. You’re a coward, Malfoy. You wouldn’t face death if it was your precious daddy’s life at stake.”

Draco was vibrating now, a mixture of thrill and fear. He needed to take out his wand, but was scared of doing so. He needed to keep this moment from ending—to keep the tornado whirling around them from coming to a halt, from letting them out of its narrow centre. “That’s it, Scarhead. Hate me like I know you want to.” He took a step forward, the cloak folding around them. He pressed the cloth against Potter’s chest, his knuckles squeezed against Potter’s sternum. “Come on, tell me how much you care about having to kiss me—about having to pretend you’re utterly in love with me. Come on, Wonderboy. I want to hear it all.”

“Has it crossed your mind,” Potter hissed, not backing down, but also not pushing back, “that maybe it’s you who cares? That maybe it’s you who can’t stop thinking about me, and about kissing me, and about pretending to love me? Has the feel of my mouth against yours crossed your mind, Malfoy? Is that why you’ve been staring at me? Is that why you’re so desperate to get a reaction from me?”

A shiver ran down Draco’s spine, unbidden. Potter wasn’t right, that much he knew, but hearing those words from him, those words about their mouths, when they were so close, and in such a secluded corridor…

“You’re out of your mind,” Draco spat, willing his eyes not to fall to Potter’s lips, his voice not to tremble.

“I’m not the one practically holding you against a wall, Malfoy.”

Draco spluttered. He took a frantic step back, letting go of the cloak like it had burned him. He stared, with what he knew must be horror, at the way Potter’s sneer had turned into a smirk. “That’s not what I—! That’s—”

“What, not the reaction you wanted from me?” Potter grit out. “How tragic. My deepest apologies.” With a quick, annoyed movement, he covered himself with the cloak. As he disappeared from sight and walked away, all he said was, “Now leave me the fuck alone.”

***

“Who does he think he is? Ignoring me for days, then talking to me like that, like…like I’m… disposable! I’m not, I’ll have him know, and it’s simply unfair for him to just—just take the piss like that in my face!”

Greg was nodding along at his every word, sat on the corner of his bed. They’d been roomed together, and Draco was glad for it. Greg was the only one who put up with his shit without complaint. 

“But…isn’t that what you wanted?” he asked weakly when Draco didn’t add anything.

“Why in Merlin’s name would I want him to ridicule me, Goyle?”

“Then what—”

“Why couldn’t he just insult me, instead of—of insinuating I could ever—that I would—” He was pacing around the room in circles. He must have looked like Hades, he thought stupidly—a flame above his head, bursting every time he shouted. “Why did he have to bring his own lips into conversation? Who does that? Who even does that!”

“I…don’t know. Sorry.”

He was scaring Greg, he realised then. He took a deep breath. That wasn’t what he wanted, he reminded himself. Those weren’t his ways anymore. 

“It’s okay,” he said. He let himself fall onto the bed beside Greg, hoping the ceiling would offer him some kind of unknown answer that would ease his quick, impatient thoughts. No such luck. 

A moment later, Greg lay down next to him with a sigh, and Draco let himself relax. They were okay. They would be okay.

“Do you think Parvati will ever notice me?”

Draco gave him an incredulous look. “Patil?” he blurted out. “You fancy a Gryffindor?”

“Dunno,” Greg said sheepishly. “I think so. She’s just so…nice, you know?”

“Nice,” Draco repeated. What was it that people said in these situations? He only knew how to tell Pansy to sod off, but Greg he didn’t want to hurt, and talking crushes with him was a completely unexplored territory. “How long have you been thinking about her?” 

Greg was turning his wand around in his hands, a clear sign that he was nervous. It wouldn’t be the first time he accidentally set something on fire, but Draco didn’t say anything. Hopefully he’d be able to fix it if anything in their room exploded.

“Few months,” he mumbled eventually. He sounded as though he was biting his cheek, too. “Since the battle. After the Room of Requirement, when I lost sight of you, she was the one who freed me from that stunning spell. And when I started to cry, because—well, because of Crabbe, she just…she asked me if I could walk, helped me stand and told me to stay by her side.”

When I lost sight of you. Draco had left Greg behind, lying stunned by the door of the Room of Requirement, when the Death Eaters had entered the hall. 

“And she looked so fierce while she fought the Death Eaters, I just…and—and her hand felt so soft when she held mine…I just thought it would be okay to tell you. That I fancy a Gryffindor, I mean,” Goyle murmured, wringing his fingers around his wand until they went white. “Since you’re in love with Potter now…”

“I’m—wh—!” Draco sat up, horrified. “I’m not—I—There’s a difference between some drama play and—and reality!” Greg looked guilty again, scared, and Draco forced himself to take a deep breath. “Merlin, Goyle. Just because there’s a possibility that I’m gonna have to…to kiss him, eventually, that doesn’t mean that I would ever want to—that this is not—the worst thing that could have happened to me, okay? It would be like saying that I’m a girl now because I have to play a girl. I’m not. Do you understand that?”

“Yeah, but…but it’s not just...you want his attention,” said Greg with a frown. “You want him to notice you, and you want to know what he thinks of you, just like I do with Parvati.”

“It’s not the same thing. Merlin. It’s—another kind of attention, an entirely different—fuck’s sake, Goyle, you’re going to snap your wand!” He took the thing out of Greg’s twisting grip and threw it on the bed. “Look, if you want her to notice you, just—try and do something that will capture her attention. I don’t know, talk to her, maybe, or do something you’re good at when she’s around to see it.”

“Oh.” Goyle sat up, then, too, and slouched forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “But what am I good at?”

Ah, that’s a good question, thought Draco. “Well, you’re a good listener.”

“Really?” Goyle gave him a bewildered, hopeful look.

“Yeah! Pansy said so about you the other day, you know? Hey, why don’t you ask her about Parvati? She’s like…a crush expert, or something. She’ll know how to help you.”

“You think? Even if it’s a Gryffindor I want to impress?”

“Well, she has a crush on a teacher,” Draco said, trying to sound reasonable and not like he was bullshitting his way out of the conversation. “She can’t exactly judge your tastes.”

“Right!” Greg jumped off the bed. “I’m gonna go ask her right now!”

“Good idea.” Draco lay back down, relieved, but just as Greg was shoving his shoes on and stumbling toward the door a thought crossed his mind. “Goyle! Don’t mention me and Potter at all, you hear me?”

***

The rest of the Golden Trio wasn’t happy with the roles they’d been assigned. Draco found out as much on Friday, in the last Muggle Studies lesson of the week. Mondays were for rehearsals, the teacher had explained; Tuesdays for theoretical lessons, and Fridays for discussion. “You deserve a chance to ask questions! Because how does one learn, if not through conversation?”

“Professor O’Neill,” Granger said with that stupid tone of hers, raising her hand like she had a point to make.

“Yes, Miss Granger?” 

“Can we discuss Hercules here, too?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Because I’d like to talk about the roles we’ve been assigned. I’ve studied the list, and I’ve noticed that some of the roles seem painfully...obvious, for the students they’ve been assigned to.”

Granger had been assigned Philoctetes. It wasn’t a secret that she wasn’t pleased with it, or with the fact her personal Weasel would have to play the winged horse that had no dialogue lines whatsoever. Even if it amused him, Draco couldn’t help but wonder, too, why O’Neill had given those three the main roles of the play. She seemed more sensible than that, and it had been clear from the beginning that she didn’t favour them the way other teachers did.

“Are you questioning my decision, Miss Granger?”

Granger raised her chin, defiant.“With all due respect, Professor, I am.”

The teacher’s lips curled into a wry smile. “In that case, you have just earned your house twenty points. In this course"—her voice rose—“you will learn to question the established. To question everything you have learned about the wizarding world in the past seven years and, in some cases, throughout your whole lives. Why do we think the way we do about Muggles? Why have we assumed we know better than them? Can we learn from them, learn to coexist with them?” A low murmur started around the class, but O’Neill seemed unfazed by it. “And we’ll learn to question those who teach us, too. But the answer to your question, Miss Granger, is one I would rather give privately. If you can stay at the end of the lesson, along with Mr Potter and Mr Weasley, we can discuss the matter.” She glanced at the rest of the class. Her eyes fell on Draco. “You can stay too, Mr Malfoy.”

***

Draco and Pansy stood by the teacher’s desk as everyone made their impatient way out of the classroom—Greg shooting him a worried look as he went. Potter, Weasley and Granger were standing, surely too close to each other for comfort, by one of the desks in the front row. They were discussing something in hushed tones.

Draco studied Potter’s posture. The way Granger’s hand brushing his arm made him frown, the way he tried to curl his lips into a smile at Weasley’s elbow against his arm as he joked about one thing or the other. The way he was barely participating in the conversation, barely even looking up from the floor.

“Stop staring,” Pansy murmured in his ear.

“Stop pretending you’ve stayed behind for me and not so you can mentally devour O’Neill’s lips.”

Pansy shushed him, covering Draco’s mouth with her hands. Potter glanced up at them, then quickly away, and Draco tore Pansy’s hands from his face. “Stop ridiculing me!” he hissed.

“Stop ridiculing yourself,” she shot back, rubbing her hands against her sides. “You’re bloody obsessed with him, it’s pathetic.” 

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Very well, kids,” said O’Neill then. She’d been talking to Longbottom outside of the classroom. “Miss Parkinson, I don’t recall asking you to stay.”

“Draco did, Professor,” Pansy said innocently. “Mr Malfoy, I mean.” 

O’Neill smiled, and heat immediately rose on Pansy’s cheeks. “Is that so?” said the teacher. “Then I’d better let you stay!” With a smooth little jump, she sat on the edge of her desk. Not on the chair, no—on the desk itself, dangling her legs and taking off her glasses with a sigh. “Your question was why I’d assigned the most obvious roles to the three of you, wasn’t it, Miss Granger?” 

“It was.”

“Who’s pathetic now?” Draco breathed in Pansy’s ear as soon as he had the chance. Pansy, still red to the tips of her ears, gave him a look that spoke of homicide and promised a full-on rant later that night.

“Before I give you an answer, may I ask why it is that you consider these roles obvious?”

Granger frowned. “Well,” she said, gesturing widely. “Harry is the hero who has to save the day...Ron is his best friend who is always by his side, and I—I’m the annoying friend that has to stop them from doing anything stupid? It’s like we have to play some silly, one-dimensional version of ourselves, really!”

“Yes.” O’Neill nodded. “Yes, Miss Granger, I agree.” She was cleaning her glasses now, still dangling her legs. Draco wondered how old she was. She didn’t look that much older than them—twenty-five, thirty at most—and, if it hadn’t been for the way she always talked, with all those eyebrow movements and big gestures, with all those Mr Malfoy and Miss Granger, she could have almost felt like one of them. “Have any of you ever heard of Drama Therapy?”

They shook their heads—Draco impatient to leave, Pansy looking like she was impatient to hear more; Weasley smiling at the way Granger looked annoyed she couldn’t say yes, and Potter...well. Potter looking like he could do with his invisibility cloak right that instant.

“See, after I left Hogwarts, before I discovered my passion for drama, I studied psychology for a few years. I had this dream. You know, the kind of dream you have when you still believe changing the world is about doing this one...big thing, rather than doing many small things for those around you. And so I had this dream that I would someday become the first Mind Healer in the world.” Judging by the way her eyes shined as she talked, Draco could tell why she’d decided to stick to drama. “Ah. As it turns out, that wasn’t meant to be. But it has never really left my mind, the fact that magic folks don’t have access to mental health professionals. So small things for those around me is what I’m sticking to these days. Now, when I accepted this job last August I never compromised...no, that’s not right. The truth is, I wasn’t completely honest with Kingsley or McGonagall about my intentions. I knew you weren’t just a bunch of teenagers who needed some perspective in life. I knew that—that you were coming from a war.” 

Potter’s head snapped up. Draco couldn’t read his expression, but there was something there, and Draco itched to know what it was.

“I didn’t know how yet, but I wanted to help. It was during the auditions that it clicked; namely, when you, Mr Potter, read those first lines from Hercules.”

“What clicked?” asked Granger.

“Drama Therapy. Okay, so actual Drama Therapy would entail actual therapy sessions after the rehearsals, and that’s unfortunately not what we’re going to do here because I’m legally bound by my contract. And the best I can do isn’t even something I can grant every student in your year, because the roles in the play are what they are, but—the three of you. Four.” She looked at Draco. “You’ve gone through some of the most inhumane experiences in this whole war, and it suddenly occurred to me as I saw you play Hercules, Mr Potter, that perhaps I could give you this little chance. The chance to replay your roles in the war, just—in a way you can experience them safely, in a way you can control. In a way that has a different ending for you.” She glanced Draco’s way again. “And, of course, the chance to come talk to me if the rehearsals dig up upsetting thoughts and you wish to talk to me about it. I’ve been thinking about it ever since I posted that list, worrying I may have made a wrong decision—which, mind you, wouldn’t be the first time—and I’m very glad you asked about it, Miss Granger, because I’ve been meaning to give you this explanation.”

“But how does this concern Malfoy?” Weasley said suddenly.

“Well, of course, I’d given him the role before this crossed my mind,” said the teacher. “Still, I believe it works. Megara was forced to work for Hades against Hercules, but she got away from it.”

“So you think Malfoy suddenly deserves some kind of love story with the hero just because—”

“Ron,” Potter said, a warning. His voice reverberated through the room.

“Mr Weasley,” O’Neill cut in. “That we are learning that Muggles are no less than Magic folk does not give you the right to disrespect those who have more to learn than you do. Am I making myself clear?”

“He hasn’t said he wants to change, though, now has he?”

“Mr Weasley.” Pansy inhaled sharply at O’Neill’s tone. “That is not for you to assume. It is not your right to know, and I will not have you disrespecting one of my actors—one of your classmates—in my presence again. Am I making myself clear?”

Weasley shot Draco a venomous glance, which he reciprocated. He didn’t miss, though, the way Potter was looking at him too, directly now. He was holding back words. 

“If you don’t have any more questions,” O’Neill announced, “you are dismissed.”

Draco stared blankly as the rest of them left the classroom, Pansy throwing him a worried look when he ushered her out but stood behind. 

“I am,” he said as soon as he was alone with O’Neill. “Trying to do better. I am.”

The teacher sighed. “I know you are, Mr Malfoy.” 

“And not just because of this subject,” he went on. He could feel a rant forming in his chest. “I’m trying to be a better friend to Goyle. I’m trying to get the best grades so I can be deemed worthy of a job in this fucking mess of a society. I’m trying to become my own man. I want to be able to make my own decisions. I’m sick of being told who I am like that fucki—like...like Weasley just did. He has no idea what it’s like to be nurtured into the wrong side of a war, or to realise that you have been wrong all along and that your parents, who were meant to protect you, put you in harm’s way to protect themselves. He has no fucking clue what it’s like to wake up every morning to the weight of the things you’ve had to do and the things you chose to do. I know I’m—not perfect, and I know I’ve hurt his family and his stupid best friend and his know-it-all girlfriend, and I know he has every right to hate me, but—I just want them all to at least acknowledge that I’m...I’m trying. Trying not to be cruel, trying to think of Muggleborns as Muggleborns, and not as—anything else. I hate that just because I’ve hurt him he gets to judge me and there’s nothing I can do but try to prove to him, and—and Potter, and everyone else I’ve wronged that I am trying.”

“I must admit,” O’Neill said after a moment of silence in which the both of them stared at the floor—Draco flustered and upset, O’Neill thoughtful. “I admire you greatly. To be able to think like that so shortly after the war...other older and more experienced people have taken much longer to understand their bigoted ways were wrong.”

Draco huffed a humourless laugh. “I’ve known for a while now, mind. It’s not…” He sighed. “It’s not exactly a recent discovery. There just wasn’t much I could do about it until...until he died. For all I knew, I’d have to remain a Death Eater for the rest of my life, and even allowing myself to think wrongly of his ways could have cost me my neck.”

He wouldn’t have been the first one. The Dark Lord, Draco knew well, had an affinity for feeding Nagini those who betrayed him.

O’Neill let her hand rest on Draco’s shoulder for all but a moment. “Then you’re one step ahead of them, Mr Malfoy. Give them the chance to catch up.” 

***

“For fuck’s sake, Potter, at least pretend you’re looking at me!”

“Gee, what a day!” Potter repeated his line, giving him a pointed look. “I didn’t know playing truant could be so much fun. Thank you, Meg.”

“You’re fucking welcome, you arsehat.”

“Stick to your lines, Mr Malfoy, if you please,” came O’Neill’s voice from the audience. 

Pettiness or greatness, the words echoed in his mind as Pansy snickered in the backstage, the twit. He couldn’t wait till she had to pretend to be Potter’s adoptive mommy. Oh, he’d get his payback. For now, though, he channelled all the guilt he could muster so that it bloomed on his expression, in his voice, and he said, “Don’t...don’t thank me just yet.”  

Potter still had the script in hand, the idiot. Draco had memorized it, and knew he was meant to trip and let Potter hold him. But would he do it, when his bloody hand was occupied with the script? He’d curse the git into oblivion if he let him fall.

“Oof!” Draco said, tumbling into Potter’s arms. And then, flirtatiously, “Sorry, heh. Weak ankles, you see.”

Potter’s hand was firm under his elbow. He was almost lifting him, the noble git, and he looked like it was barely any effort—like he could have done it without trying. Draco almost wanted to curse him anyway.

“Uh, what did I have to...wait.” Potter tried to raise his script to his face, and Draco rolled his eyes. How could one single idiot look so powerful and confident and yet so clumsy?

“You have to haul me up in your arms and carry me to the bench, Potter,” Draco informed him calmly, strategically ignoring the fact they were both blushing furiously. “And tell me maybe I need to sit down for a bit.”

“Oh.” A breath later, and Draco was, against all odds, in Potter’s arms. “Er, maybe you need to sit down for a bit?”

Curled and helpless against Potter’s chest, Draco let himself be carried to the damned bench.  

“Do I sit beside you now, or…”

“Yes, Potter. Yes, you do,” Draco said before Potter could check his script yet again. Really, how could he go from being a total asshole to stumbling and babbling like an awkward ogre in the span of a minute? “So,” he proceeded, sultry, when Potter slouched beside him, “do you have any problems with things like...these?” He draped his legs on Potter’s lap. “Weak ankles, I mean.”

“Uh...er, no, no, not...not really,” Potter stuttered, holding one of Draco’s ankles with two fingers and lifting it away from him.

Very much against his will, Draco moved closer, provocatively. Potter tensed under him. “No? You don’t have a dodgy knee, or any…” Fuck, he had to—okay. Okay, he could do this. He could touch Potter’s leg. “Any slipped discs?”

Merlin. He was brushing his fingers on Potter’s thigh. Potter was meant to keep moving away from his touch, but he was still catching up on the script, and so there Draco stayed for a good few eternities: fingers raking over Potter’s trousers, chest pressed against Potter’s side, in plain sight for all the Eighth Years to see. 

“Um. No.” Potter squirmed away from him, finally, and Draco took a deep breath. “I’m—I’m afraid I’m fit as a fiddle.”

Draco wondered how much of Potter’s discomfort was a performance and how much was genuine from having to touch Draco. Given how mediocre an actor Potter was, the answer was obvious. 

With a dramatic sigh, he draped his arms around Potter’s shoulders and rested his head there, choking out a pained, “Wonderboy, you are utterly perfect.”

Lord, but Potter’s stupid scent would be over him all day. 

Before Potter could say his next line, O’Neill interrupted them with an annoyed, “Mr Potter, you’d do your peer actors and actresses a favour if you could please learn your lines so the scene doesn’t pause every three seconds.”

“Yes, Professor.”

“And try to project your voice, or the crowd sitting in the last rows won’t be able to hear you.”

“Okay.” 

Draco would have laughed at the scolding, were it not for the simple fact that he still had his face buried in the crook of his own elbow, very close to Potter’s neck. And Potter, for all that he looked like he wanted to push Draco away and run off of the stage, had awkwardly shoved his hand around Draco’s waist to hold him. Probably in an attempt to look like Hercules. He just looked like an idiot to Draco, though—one with a very warm hand pressed very low on his back.

And one that didn’t seem to know what to do with himself.

“What are you waiting for?” Draco hissed. “I’d rather not spend my entire morning here, thanks a lot.”

“Sure you wouldn’t,” Potter grit out. Before Draco could retaliate, he shuffled with the script again. “Ha! Thanks! You know! When I was a kid I would have given anything to be like everybody else.” 

He read it so loudly Draco was sure he’d get a headache. Willing himself not to cringe, he said, “So you wanted to be petty and dishonest?”

“Everyone is not like that!”

“Oh, but they are.”

Potter swallowed. “Well, you—you’re not like them.”

“Yeah, sure. How do you know what I’m like?”

Merlin. Why couldn’t Draco have moved to a forgotten village in the Alps? He could have turned into a shepherd, learned to make his own damn cheese and given up his damn magic. But no, he’d had to come back to his Eighth year, hadn’t he? And this was his life now. Draping himself over Potter to hear words from him that he knew Potter wouldn’t ever mean. 

Great. The school year ahead of him looked simply great.

“All I know is—when I’m with you, I…” Potter, the heathen, grunted when he read the rest of his line. “Do I really need to say this?”

“What, scared of believing your own words, Scarhead?” Draco spat.

“Boys,” O’Neill warned them.

“All I—all I know is you’re the most amazing person with weak ankles that I've ever met, Meg." Potter scowled. He was blushing again. “And when I’m with you, I feel less alone.”

“It’s ‘I don’t feel so alone’.”

“Whatever.” 

“It’s not—! Ugh. Okay, whatever.” Draco stood up, fucking finally, and walked away from Potter like he was some heartbroken twit. Honestly, he was starting to hate Megara. How could anyone be so petty and melodramatic? “Sometimes it’s better to be alone. That way no one can hurt you.”

Potter, of course, got up too. He stood behind Draco, so close Draco could feel the heat of him against his back, and said, “I would never hurt you.”

Merlin. Now that had been impressive. Not that he would ever tell Luna, or anyone else for that matter, but...lord. What right did Potter have to sound so genuine? To sound like he would never dare hurt Draco, when the proof that that was a lie would always be carved on Draco’s chest?

“Don’t turn your backs to the audience,” O’Neill told them, “that’s a rule for all of you, you hear me? If you talk to the back of the stage the audience won’t hear you or see your gestures.”

Draco forced his eyes to open. When he turned around, Potter’s chest brushed against his arm. 

Fuck. Draco was breathless.

“And I—I don’t wanna hurt you,” Draco said, glad that Megara’s character served as an excuse for how faint he sounded, “so let’s do ourselves a favour and just...stop this before…”

As per the script, Potter was leaning close to him now—impossibly so, dangerously so. They were meant to be interrupted straight away, and Draco waited, impatient, for Granger and Weasley to storm onto the stage. But nothing happened, and for several long seconds, all there was was Potter’s breath, ragged and uneven, warm against Draco’s lips. 

Potter tried to look around Draco’s head to the backstage, but apparently caught no sight of his friends, because his frown deepened.

“Scared, Potter?” Draco murmured, if only to cover the fact he was barely holding himself together. And if his voice shook a little, well—that was just from the effort it took to refrain from stepping back. 

Potter didn’t reply. Instead, he looked down at the floor and started breathing in slow, deliberate breaths. 

“What’s the matter with you?” Draco wondered aloud, albeit in a whisper. He didn’t know if he was mad at the git or just plain confused anymore. “Seriously, Potter. You look like you could do with...what did O’Neill call it? A ‘Mind Healer’?”

Potter stepped back like Draco had just slapped him. “Just because I don’t want to have it out with you doesn’t—!”

“Granger! Weasley! I do not recall the script saying Phil and Pegasus have a snogging session behind the scenes!” O’Neill shouted. “Malfoy, Potter, I do recall your characters almost-kissing in this scene, so until your classmates decide to bless us with their presence, I’d better not see a gap of air between the two of you! And stop pulling faces at each other, please. You’re not kids anymore.” 

“Yeah, Malfoy,” muttered Potter, stepping into Draco’s personal space again. “We’re not kids anymore.”

“Then stop ignoring me like one!”

“I told you, I’m not—!”

“I’m so sorry, Professor! I didn’t realise—Ron almost broke one of the wardrobes on the backstage, and I had to do all the work because he wouldn’t shut up abou—”

“I’m sure that’s a thrilling story, Miss Granger,” O’Neill interrupted, “but your friend here is waiting for you to say your line.”

“Yes, sorry, I—All right! That’s enough!” She stormed toward them, pushed them apart. Turned to Potter. “I’ve been looking for you all over this town! You're gonna go to the stadium, and you're gonna be put through the workout of your life! Now get on the horse.”

“Okay, okay,” Potter muttered. He looked quite out of breath himself and Draco wondered, idly, what exactly was going on in his mind. Was it because of how close to each other they’d stood? Had it reminded him of the way he’d talked to Draco in that corridor? Was he thinking about the possibility of them kissing, like he’d accused Draco of doing? Draco almost snorted at the thought. Potter accusing him of fantasizing about them kissing to hide his own desire—now that would be priceless.

The boring truth lay somewhere else, though. Potter had basically told Draco to get stuffed and leave him alone. Potter wanted nothing to do with him, and the only reason he was now blushing like an idiot was that all his friends had seen him act all lovey-dovey with Draco. The chuckles and whispers from his classmates hadn’t gone unnoticed to Draco.

But none of that mattered. All that mattered was that he wasn’t going to prove O’Neill wrong. He wouldn’t be petty on stage. That could wait. 

He touched his fingers to the back of Potter’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he said—his next line. Potter turned to him, and Draco’s heartbeat quickened. Saying those words to Potter felt too personal. Too much. And the way Potter was looking at him...

Thank Merlin Meg was supposed to sound genuine.

“Ah, he’ll get over it,” Potter read, making a broad gesture in Granger’s direction. With another frown directed at the script, Potter leaned to give Draco a soft, far too soft peck on the cheek—one that made a little dry sound on Potter’s retreat. He took Draco’s hand in his and, with a soft tingle, conjured a flower in it. No wand, no spoken spell. 

A small, white lily. 

Then he jumped on Weasley’s back and let himself be carried off of the stage, Granger following them.

Draco swallowed. Turned to the audience. “Um.” What was the next line? He’d forgotten it, fuck. Ah, yeah, “Ugh, what’s wrong with me? You’d think a girl would—”

“Let’s end the scene here,” O’Neill cut him. “We still have to bring the portraits to the Great Hall and you haven’t rehearsed the song yet, so it’s pointless. Let’s go to the first scene of the play, shall we? Do I have all my Greek gods with me? Mr Zabini, Mr Longbottom, Miss Abbott...Nott, Greengrass, if you’re not doing anything get your arses to the stage, there are more gods in scene even if they don’t talk—”

“Will I—” Draco said when he found a moment in between her ramble. “Will I have to sing?”

“The script says there’s a song, doesn’t it, Mr Malfoy?”

“Yes, but—”

“Well then. In any case, we’ll discuss it later. Now off, off the stage you go, I need to rehearse my first scene.”

***

And discuss it they did, much to Draco’s dismay. 

It had been a few weeks since that rehearsal, and Draco had hoped she’d forgotten about it entirely. He’d even given a little speech to his friends, claiming that he wouldn’t do it, that he would—“under no circumstances, absolutely no circumstances, sing a stupid song about being head over fucking heels for that blithering idiot.”

Greg had agreed with him. Luna had kissed his cheek and told him he was a great singer and he should be proud of it, which had made him falter in his resolve, if only for a moment. She was the only person who knew that about him, apart from his mother. She was the reason he’d spent several evenings by the door of a damp cell in the Manor, humming along to the songs he’d liked as a kid while the Death Eaters weren’t home.

But then Pansy, Blaise and the rest of his idiotic friends had gone on about how it would be adorable, simply adorable to see him sing about how he was in love with the Chosen One, and how he was already painstakingly hilarious and agonizingly realistic when he said Megara’s lines, him singing would be just perfect. Just perfect.

And so Draco, banning the whole lot of them from his bedroom with as much dignity as he could muster, had declared that he was not singing it. He was not.

“You are singing it.”

“But I—”

“Tsch!” O’Neill interrupted quickly, pinching her fingers in the air between them and emitting a quick succession of, “Tsh-ch-dsch-dshh! I’ll have none of that, young man. The world deserves your voice, and you deserve to look past the giggles of your classmates and let yourself shine.” She emphasised the word shine so much a drop of spit flew from between her teeth, making a perfect arch on its way to the floor. Draco grimaced. “It’s decided. You’re singing Megara’s song. Start rehearsing as soon as possible—Professor Flitwick will hand you a copy of his schedule, I’m sure you’ll find a spot.”

With that, she ushered him out of the room and closed the door in his face.

Fuck. Now what? Could he just...not talk to Flitwick? Refuse to open his mouth when O’Neill told him to sing in front of everyone? Storm all the way to Hogsmeade and Disapparate to a tropical island and spend the rest of his days drinking coconut milk?

No. He needed an Outstanding. He would do it. He would do anything to get out of the invisible barriers he’d placed all around himself. 

He settled for storming off to his room instead. Venting to Greg would do. 

***

“And she said you were a…”

“A tenor, yes,” Draco repeated, exasperated. 

Greg scowled. “I still don’t understand what that is.”

Draco mimicked his expression. He didn’t either. All he knew was that all of this was stupid. Flitwick’s goblin-sized piano was stupid, and the smell of dust in the music room they’d summoned him to was stupid. O’Neill’s explanation about scales and ranges and vocal chords had been double stupid, and Draco was positively done.

“A tenor,” Draco said, “is apparently someone with a high-pitched voice.” Making himself mad with it, he repeated, “High-pitched! My voice is not high-pitched!” 

Greg’s answer to that was an annoyingly long hmmmmm, closely followed by a mumbled, “Well…”

“Yes?” Draco asked, trying and failing to hide the bite in his tone.

“Well, you do have your moments. Like when you’re mad and your voice squeaks a bit.”

“My voice does no such thing!”

“It really does,” Greg said. He looked apologetic when he added, “When we were in Fifth year, Pansy used to joke you were trying to make Potter’s owl jealous. Because you’d always squeak a lot when talking about him, you know.”

“Oh my god,” was what Draco had to say to that, closely followed by a very firm declaration that he was going home the following morning. That he was taking the first Portkey from Hogsmeade to London, or riding a damn Thestral if it was fucking necessary, but that he was leaving.

“Really?” Greg asked. He sounded worried.

Draco sighed. “No, Goyle.” 

“Oh.”

“I’m just…”

“Upset?”

Draco groaned. “That’s an understatement like an Erumpent, but...yeah, yes. Upset.”

“Mmhm,” Greg mumbled. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Draco almost laughed. At Greg’s poor attempt at comfort, at his own luck. “You can tell Pansy she’s a bitch,” he grumbled half through a grimace.

“But...but I don’t want to do that,” Greg mumbled. “She’s helped me with Parvati.”

“It was a joke, Goyle.” 

“Ah…”

Draco cursed himself. How hard could it possibly be to stop making his friend feel like crap? “How’s it going with Parvati, anyway?” 

“Not so good...I...I mean, when we were rehearsing that scene where Pain and Panic pretend to be those little boys the other day, and I was playing as a villager, I tried to smile at her when she looked my way. And she smiled back. Which was good! It was nice. But...then I tried to talk to her backstage, but I don’t think I said a single coherent sentence, and Padma ended up telling me to leave. I don’t think Padma likes me too much…”

“That’s because she doesn’t know you,” Draco said firmly. “Not who you really are, at least.”

“You really think so?”

“I really do. And you know what else I think?” Greg’s eyes were shining, and Draco prayed to the skies that he was saying the right thing. “I think Parvati knows better. She saw how truly scared you were during the battle, she’s seen your smile. Just give her some time, keep fighting for what you want, and I’m sure she’ll come around.”

***

Parvati did not, in fact, come around. 

It happened on Halloween night. The Eighth Years—or, more accurately, the bloody Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs—had decided to bring some pumpkin pasties and a good few bottles of firewhiskey to the common room, and Pansy had eventually caught a tipsy Greg staring longingly at where Parvati was sitting in a corner sipping at her drink. Pansy, of course, had ushered him, had told him to be bold and talk to her. And Goyle had. He’d talked for real, this time—Draco had watched him chat amicably for a few minutes—and at first it’d seemed like she was talking back, smiling back. 

It wasn’t until a devastated Greg fell between his arms a while later that Draco understood where they’d all been wrong. 

“It’s not you,” Draco murmured, trying to shift on the sofa without letting go of Greg. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“I just—!” Greg bawled. He wiped his nose against Draco shoulder, then rested his cheek on his own mess, too wrecked to care. “I just wanted to—I—didn’t want t-to upset her.”

Draco cast a silent cleaning charm over his robes. “You couldn’t have known,” he tried.

“Draco’s right.” Luna was suddenly by their side, crouching beside the sofa. She brushed Goyle’s fringe away from his eyes, then graced a knuckle over his wet cheek. “You were trying to be nice. And now that you know she’s grieving, I’m sure you won’t make her uncomfortable again. Now you know better.”

“Th-thanks,” he murmured. Another sob escaped him. “I just—I should have thought of Lavender. But I—I lost Crabbe, too, and it didn’t—it didn’t mean I didn’t feel ready to date, and I just couldn’t have imagined she’d feel d-different.”

“And that’s okay,” Luna told him. “That’s okay, honey.”

Greg eventually fell asleep on top of him, and that was pretty much the rest of the party for Draco. When his classmates decided to play drinking games, Luna stayed by his side, sat on the floor, head propped on the armrest, Greg’s hand limp between her fingers. 

“How did you sneak in here anyway?” Draco asked her, a few minutes into a comfortable silence.

“Oh, Nev let me in! Me and Ginny both.”

“Hmm.” Draco raked his gaze over the circle that had formed at the other side of the common room. They’d cast a silencing charm around themselves. Finnigan was laughing loudly as Blaise drank a gulp of firewhiskey, and the Weasel was red to the ears, trying to talk over everyone else, seemingly offended. Granger and the She-weasel were sharing a look. Corner had fallen asleep on Abbott’s shoulder.

Potter wasn’t there. 

“You’re thinking about Harry, aren’t you?”

“Whatever gives you the impression that I—!”

“Shhh!” she snickered, pointing at Greg with her chin. When Draco begrudgingly relaxed back against the couch, she said, “Your reaction, for one! And that frown. You’re not very subtle about your feelings, you know.”

“My—” Draco had to take a deep breath in order not to startle Greg. “Has Goyle been telling you anything weird? Because if he has, I’ll have you know he simply confused me acting as Meg with—”

Luna snickered again. “No, silly. He hasn’t said a thing, whatever that thing is.” She glanced at the circle. At the plants Longbottom kept on the windowsill and that liked to wave at passing students. “Everyone knows you feel strongly for him. And he does for you, too. But I’ve started t—”

“Bollocks,” Draco said. “That may have been the case before the war, but he barely even looks at me now. It’s like he’s trying to pretend I don’t exist. And that’s what he wants, so fuck him. If my existence makes him miserable I’m not about to waste my time trying to prove anything to him.” He frowned to himself. Why did he even care? “I just wish he would stop being petty when we’re rehearsing, but that’s probably too much to ask of a bloody Gryffindor, so.”

Luna was silent for a moment. Then, “You really think that, don’t you?”

“Why shouldn’t I? He’s made himself pretty clear.”

“Yeah? Well that’s curious, because Hermione told me he gave you a lily the other day. And as I was saying, I’ve started to notice that your obsession toward each other has changed—yours and his both.”

“If by changed you mean disappeared…”

Luna snorted at that. “Believe me, he has very much not stopped caring about you. Quite the opposite, if I’m right. And I am. I know him well.”

Like ranting to a Niffler about gold, Draco thought to himself. 

“He’s not here tonight,” she went on, “because it’s the anniversary of his parents’ death. No one has seen him all day. Not even Ron.” She paused, like she was considering saying her next words. “He left a note on his bed this morning saying he just wanted to be left alone.”

“So he’s suffering. I already knew that. We all did, he’s been making it pretty obvious. And we all have our problems, so I don’t see why that’s—!”

“He’s been trying not to,” Luna cut him off. She let go of Greg’s hand, resting it gently on the sofa, and turned around to look at Draco properly. “He’s just not great at hiding his emotions, but...he really has been trying to keep in everything that’s going on in his mind. He barely talks to Ron or Hermione. He refused to talk to McGonagall when word about the auditions got to her. He’s been trying to avoid you,” she said, “because you’ve always been the one capable of breaking through his walls, and he knows it. He doesn’t think around you. He just...does and says whatever crosses his mind. Think about it, Draco. He didn’t have to conjure a flower, did he? I haven’t seen anyone else using props during rehearsals. And it wasn’t just any flower, either. It was a white lily. There was something on his mind when he did that, and because you were involved, he simply...didn’t contain it. What it was that was on his mind, I don’t know, but…” She smiled—half a kind gesture, half a smirk. “If you want to hear my theory...he was trying to communicate something.”

“What?” Draco asked, annoyed that she was making so much sense, that she had captured his attention.

“Well, he hasn’t been talking to you,” she said. “That’s too dangerous if he wants to keep a low profile. But he probably knows you think he hates you, and my take is he doesn’t want you to think that. That’s why he gave you that flower. A lily because it represents his mother—it represents what’s dear to him, in a way. White for peace. A peace offering.”

Draco recalled the look on Potter’s face after that rehearsal—the way he’d looked flushed, the way he’d frowned at the floor. The way the words I’m sorry had felt like more than a line from a character as they’d tumbled from Draco’s lips, and how Potter had looked at him then. How he’d leaned in and kissed Draco’s cheek without complaint, when he’d made such a fuss about having to say those lines about Meg being the most amazing person he’d met.

A white lily. A lily for his mother. White for peace.

It was too good to be true. 

“Nonsense,” he muttered, trying to push back the weight that was growing in his chest, the heat that was pooling in his cheeks. “You’ve seen how the Weasel talks about me, you’ve—”

“I saw the way Harry reacted when Ron called you a Death Eater,” she said softly. “Ron, he’s...he’s going through a rough time. His family was hurt during the war, irreparably so, and he’s desperately trying to find someone to blame. He feels guilty, you know. He was there when Fred died, and he keeps thinking, if he’d been faster, or stronger, he could have made a difference. It’s a very human emotion.”

Draco looked back at the circle. At the flush covering Weasley’s cheeks, Weasley’s—now bare—chest. At his burst of laughter. 

Luna had put it so simply, had explained it so naturally, that Draco couldn’t help but feel compassion. It irked him. Anger was an easier emotion to feel.

“Harry’s been trying to convince him you weren’t in control of your actions during the war. Hermione...well. I think she’s been keeping her opinion in to try and keep them together.” Luna had leaned into him, now; had rested her head beside Draco’s, still crouched on the floor. “They’ll sort it out with time. They have before.”

“Do you know it all?” Draco wondered out loud, half mad, half genuinely bewildered. She chuckled, a low breath of a sound.

“Definitely not. I just talk with Neville a lot. Now he knows it all.”

Draco’s gaze shifted to Longbottom. He was sat in silence, drink in hand, smiling contentedly at his friends while they bickered and laughed about one thing or the other. He looked happy. Draco guessed he was.

“Do you talk about me to him, too, then?” he asked before he could help himself. He tried to sound casual. “To Potter?”

She gave him a cheeky smile. “Do you want me to?” 

“Please,” Draco huffed. “I merely want to know if I should be worrying about what personal information I share with you.”

“Oh.” She sat up. “Well. I don’t think so. I wouldn’t tell them anything that could get you hurt.” She sounded worried now, Draco realised. “I just...sometimes I get so caught up in trying to rationalise everything, to make everyone understand, that I forget there are things that I’m not supposed to share. If someone’s mad at someone else, I can’t just not try to make them empathise with each other. It seems...cruel, to let people suffer that way, you know?”

It made sense. And it only made everything she’d said about Potter and Weasley feel more real, which in turn only made Draco feel more unsettled. 

“Luna,” Draco concluded with a groan, “you’re a beautiful person.”

Chapter Text

It was a dull, rainy November morning. Draco was writing down a note on the corner of the piece of parchment, something important McGonagall was telling them to underline—“Put a spell on it so it shines if necessary!” He was sleepy. Unfocused. The lesson was boring, his mind was...elsewhere.

Pansy elbowed him, startling him.

“Since when do you doodle?!”

Draco looked down at his parchment. He’d thought he’d been scribbling down a note, but the square he’d drawn around it had ended up having squiggles on its corners, and one of the squiggles had somehow turned into a flower.

A lily.

He turned the page around, elbowed her back with a huff. “I don’t.”

“Hmmm,” was her answer. It came with a wiggle of eyebrows, and Draco sneered. He didn’t doodle. He didn’t.

It was just...Potter. Potter was sat somewhere at the back of the classroom, and everything Luna had told him about the git was lodged somewhere in the back of Draco’s mind, and none of it would leave him alone. Not the lily Potter had conjured for him, which he’d, for some unfathomable reason, decided not to throw away, but rather to tuck between the pages of his old diary. Not the way Potter had murmured I would never hurt you almost into the crook of Draco’s neck. Not the—

With a groan that he hoped Pansy didn’t hear, he forced his eyes to focus on the parchment.

But when they were leaving the classroom and Draco didn’t have the excuse of the lesson not to let his thoughts wander, his gaze turned to Potter like it was wont to do. He’d been wanting to confront the git again for weeks, and he still wasn’t sure what was stopping him. Every time he thought about it, something in his chest seemed to...to shift, tight and demanding, and he didn’t know what it was. He’d grown capable of recognising what it did to him to fight Potter, to hate Potter, to envy Potter. To crave Potter’s attention, too. To care about Potter’s life, in the worst moments. But this? This new constriction was different. More chaotic, and most definitely not ugly enough. He didn’t trust it.

“—why did it have to be me! Why couldn’t he have asked someone else?” a shrill voice caught his attention. Mandy Brocklehurst, he realised. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs must have left Potions early. “I’m never going to his lessons again. I’m failing Potions, I don’t care!”

“Relax, pal,” said Goldstein. “You’re talking about it like it was some Greek tragedy!”

Around them, some of their classmates giggled. Draco shook his head with a huff. By the time he’d made his way to the common room he’d forgotten about it entirely. 

***

Once Draco and Flitwick finally started rehearsing the actual song instead of just scales and Frère bloody Jacques, Draco could barely leave his and Greg’s room without hearing a Hercules pun. It had gotten to the point where younger kids had started attending the rehearsals on their free periods just to be in on the jokes, which didn’t exactly help matters. Because, although the younger kids were more afraid of him than anything else, there were some older students who weren’t especially subtle in their hate for Draco. 

It wasn’t until the first rehearsal of December, however, that things got out of hand. 

To their credit, it wasn’t his classmates that started any of it. To her credit, O’Neill was quick to kick the kids out with a warning and a flying note to McGonagall; with a few clipped words to the Eighth years about how hate speech was not tolerated in her theatre. With an invitation to leave the Great Hall early—all of them except Potter and Draco.

As all this unfolded around him, Draco willed his breathing to remain steady. He’d known there were people who hated him. He’d told himself over and over again he shouldn't be foolish enough to believe otherwise—that no one owed him forgiveness.

And still. Still, as he sang those damn lines about being in love with Potter, the portraits following him around the stage, telling him to own up that he had it bad, to stop concealing his feelings; as he draped himself over the bench, trying to mute the snickers and the passing words that were reaching him from the audience; still, his voice had shaken.

O’Neill stomped back to where Draco and Potter were sitting in the first row, fast-paced, angry. She grabbed a chair to sit in front of them, and Draco had to remind himself that she wasn’t mad at him. That he wasn’t the one in trouble. It wasn’t until his muscles relaxed somewhat that he realised he’d been sitting completely straight, tense to the point of pain. 

The silence that followed was heavy and uncomfortable, O'Neill studying their expressions with sharp eyes and crossed arms. Draco hated the silence, but was very much not about to be the one to break it. 

After a few long seconds, O’Neill finally said, “Are you okay?” 

Draco nodded. Potter hummed. Her eyebrows rose.

“You don’t sound very convincing.” She tried to smile, but worry was painted all over her expression. Her face was always so expressive, it sometimes made Draco wonder how much harder his life would have been if he hadn’t had as much control over what his own face showed. “I’m sorry. What just happened, that—that was absolutely unjustifiable. Revolting. And I should have realised where things were headed sooner.” She waited for them to answer, but they didn’t. Draco glanced at Potter. He was slouched in his seat, as per usual, and was unsurprisingly frowning at the floor between the three of them. His fists were clenched.

O’Neill sighed. “Do you believe giving you the lead roles was a mistake on my part?”

Draco wanted to say yes. He wanted to say no; he wanted to remind her that none of this would have happened if she hadn't come up with this stupid play in the first place. 

“No.” It was Potter who said it; firmly so. Mad with it. “I said it then and I’ll say it now: if it had bothered me, I would have done something about it. But it didn’t, and it doesn’t. If they can’t deal with it, that’s on them.” 

O’Neill nodded. “Mr Malfoy?” 

“I agree,” he said, sounding far less convinced than Potter. “Their opinion isn’t our problem.”

That was pretty much it. She gave them each a look, as though waiting for them to add anything further. When they didn’t, she rose from her seat—lingered there for another moment, looking at them. Finally, she told them to come to her if anyone else caused them trouble; to not dwell on the comments those kids had made about them.

Then she left. 

Potter looked like he wanted to leave, too; he was eyeing the door, avoiding Draco’s stare. Draco waited for him to storm off, his chest heavy—his heart longing. Longing to say something, to have Potter’s eyes on him. To have Potter’s attention on all of him. 

“Sorry you had to hear that.”

Draco huffed, incredulous, and Potter huffed back at him. Draco’s heart sped up of its own accord, setting Draco on edge as he waited for the next move. For Potter’s next words, for the silence to break into a fight. For one of them to leave, trying to walk away casually but shaking from the awkwardness of it all. 

“My friends won’t shut up about it,” Potter continued. He still wasn’t looking at Draco. “About how I’m gonna have to kiss you. About how then I’ll realise I should have talked to O’Neill a long time ago.” He relaxed his shoulders, rolling one of them. “I want to prove them wrong. I want them to stop acting as though they know what's best for me. I want them to stop thinking I'm going mad or just—avoiding thinking about it.”

“Everyone thinks you’re going mad, you idiot,” Draco said, a little bit breathless, holding on to the only thing Potter had said that was safe to reply to. Holding on to the edge of the chair, too, to hide the way his hands were shaking. “Just look at yourself. When was the last time you got a decent night of sleep? Honestly, and do you even touch your fork during—”

“I think we should kiss.”

“—ah.”

“It would shut them up.”

“Y—you think we should kiss,” Draco repeated, a statement. “What, now?”

“Why not?” Potter shrugged—an embarrassingly poor attempt at looking casual about it all. “It’s gonna happen eventually, yeah? Why not get it over with?”

“Why not,” Draco repeated blandly. He couldn’t focus his sight. His eyes were stuck on a chair and he couldn’t for the life of him do anything about it.

“So you—should we—”

“Not here!” Draco hissed, snapping into attention when Potter made to move closer to him. “Are you mental? Anyone could walk in! I don’t think that would ease this whole—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Potter slouched back against the seat. “Maybe...maybe backstage? No one will see us there. It’s…”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Potter sounded surprised. Dazed. 

“Yeah, yes, Potter. Yeah. Why not. Let’s do it.”

“You’re not—scared, after what just—?”

“You think what some stupid kids say about me can affect me in the least at this point?” He stood up. “Look, you’ve got something to prove here, don’t you? So do I. I’m not scared of them, or of you. I’m not scared of—of kissing you. So come on, let’s get this over with. Or are you backing down now?”

Before Potter could reply, Draco was walking. Potter caught up, almost striding past him—out of nerves or eagerness Draco couldn’t guess. He was busy feeling mad. Mad at his cheeks for feeling like they were about to combust. At his heart, for...for daring to show such blatant interest in Potter’s absurd suggestion. At himself, for following his bloody, childish heart like a bloody, childish Gryffindor.

Damn him and his stupid lack of control when it came to Potter.

He led them to the table that sat, old and jagged, behind the second set of red curtains to the right side backstage. There he paused, not turning to look at the git. He didn’t trust his breath not to hitch at the first glimpse of Potter’s expression, whatever it was. There ought to be something on Potter’s face. There always was. And his heart was hammering enough as it was just from the slight tremble he’d almost missed in Potter’s voice as he’d asked him, hopeful, Yeah?

“Should I—” Potter said, low, just as hesitant fingers made their presence known on Draco’s sides. Just above his hips. 

Draco turned around, sharply. Startling himself with it. 

It was Potter’s breath that hitched, in the end. Draco wondered what Potter was seeing on his face; all he could think about was how they were exactly the same height. How the moment felt heavy, and awkward, and too much, too fast, but—but not fast enough, not—

Potter leaned in. He lingered close to Draco’s lips, just as he had during the rehearsals—breath quick, eyes steady. Then, his fingers curling slightly around Draco’s cloak at his hips, he pressed their lips together and retreated with a peck. 

Except he didn’t get very far away, because Draco was grasping his arm. He was grasping Potter’s arm, hard and nervous and demanding, and he was breathless, and shaking, and his mind was a step behind everything else, and—

“Don’t—wait,” was all he could manage. The second word came with a little, incredulous chuckle—with his gaze falling, entirely of its own accord, to Potter’s lips.

“Oh,” Potter breathed, and kissed him again. 

It was a proper press of lips, this time—lips that were pressed shut until they weren’t, until they were parting with the softest of sounds, with the shortest of breaths against Draco’s mouth. Draco shivered—his body, his breath, his very magical core, all of him. He grasped at Potter’s robes, at Potter’s arm, moving up, up, blindly, until he found Potter's stupid mess of hair—a proper place to hold on to while Potter slowly, infuriatingly slowly, traced the shape of his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue before sucking it into his mouth.

Merlin’s rotten nails.

Draco groaned. He pushed Potter against the table, unthinking. With a mumbled Fuck, Potter roved his hands up Draco's sides, Draco’s robes sliding up, then slipping back down when Potter’s hands reached his chest. 

Merlin, but Potter’s hands were warm. And firm. And familiar. The feel of Potter’s palm, the brush of Potter’s fingers on his body through his robes; the scent of Potter, that seemed to flow in and out of him like a small stream tracing the same path it always followed. The little movements of limbs, the minute shuffle here and there. Somewhere along the torture that those rehearsals had been, Draco had learned to expect all of it—had learned the feel of all of it. 

Potter moaned into his mouth, and Draco’s mind clouded. He’d felt that moan all over himself, falling to the centre of him like a cascade, to his—

Fuck.

“Wait, wait,” he panted, retreating. Holding on to Potter’s chest for purchase.

“Huh?”

“We—we should stop now.”

“Aha.”

Potter’s eyes were closed. His lips, however, had had the audacity of remaining open as Potter panted. Their spit was quickly drying on them, on the plump shape of them, darkened, and inviting, and—

“Snap out of it!” Draco bristled. “We’re going to be late for Potions, fuck.” How much earlier than usual had the rehearsal ended? How much time had he spent being snogged by the saviour of the flipping world? How was he meant to wilt before he made it to the dungeons? He didn’t know. All he did know was that Potions was where he was meant to excel, and that if he dared make Draco miss a lesson, Potter would regret it, saviour or not.

“God,” Potter exhaled, finally having the decency of looking at Draco—or rather, at Draco’s mouth, the twat. “You’re such a good singer. Have you even heard yourself? I don’t think you have, you wouldn’t be so quiet about it. Lord knows you’d be flaunting it to the four fucking skies—”

“Potter, I swear to Salazar—”

“A good singer,” Potter repeated, shaking his head. Dazed. “A good actor, a good student. A good Megara. Lord, you have no idea how badly that role suits you. You dramatic, annoying little—”

“Ugh.” Draco pushed back fully now, stepping out of Potter’s arms before he could decide to shut the idiot up with another kiss. “I’m out of here.”

As he made his way out of the Hall, Potter just a pace behind him, Draco heard a chuckle. A murmured, “See? Just like her.”

***

“So you kissed him.”

“Yup.”

“To prove a point.”

“That’s it.”

“Draco, darling.”

He frowned at Pansy. “What! What are you looking at me like that for?”

“You really don’t know, do you?”

“She means you’re having a sexuality crisis, love,” Blaise said from the chair. He’d draped his legs over the armrest of it and was sucking flagrantly at a sweet. “Or a gender identity crisis, maybe?”

“You’re probably going through an existential crisis in general,” Theo put in. “Or a mid-life crisis, and you need to try new stuff!”

“My, and what a thing to try,” said Blaise. “Potter’s lips, no less!”

Draco scrunched his face. “You’re all delusional! Honestly, are you listening to yourselves?” 

“Are you?” Pansy asked. “You can’t just assemble the lot of us here to inform us you’ve kissed the bloody saviour and expect us to not…”

“Question your sanity,” Theo finished for her.

“Seriously,” Pansy added. “Especially after what happened with those stupid kids!”

Merlin, his friends really didn’t get it. And he’d only told them he’d pecked Potter on the lips! Now he was definitely never telling them Potter had actually given him the snog of his life. 

“Maybe the play got to him,” Theo told Pansy, like the idea had just struck him and unveiled the truth. “Got him thinking about Potter’s rippling pectorals, and now he can’t get them off his mind!”

“What pectorals!” Draco exclaimed. “He’s as scrawny as a bloody Thestral!”

“So you’ve checked,” said Blaise. “Interesting.”

Draco bristled. “You’re all unbelievable!”

“Don’t get so worked up, darling,” said Pansy. “So you fancy Potter, there’s no shame in it!”

“I most certainly do not —look.” He took a deep breath. “You may be confusing my exceptional acting skills for something else, but I’ll have you know, having to drape my legs over Potter’s lap is, in fact, the most abhorrent thing that has ever happened to me, ever. Not to mention having to let those—those disgusting, brawny hands hold my bare ankles. If I didn’t need an Outstanding in this subject I would very much refuse to let him touch me.”

“And yet you let him kiss you.” Pansy was doing a spectacularly bad job at hiding a smile. “Oh, this is a memorable moment. Our Draco is finally having his first crush!”

“Seriously? That’s the conclusion you reach. After I tell you that him touching me makes me want to jump off a cliff?”

“But...Draco,” Greg, who had watched the conversation unfold with a tight grip around his wand, suddenly said, “didn’t you say that Pansy was a crush expert?”

 Pansy smirked. “Did you, now?”

“That’s it.” Draco stood from his bed. “Out, the lot of you.”

“Aww, look at how much he’s blushing,” Theo laughed, ignoring him. “Good job, Goyle!”

Greg still looked pleased with himself by the time Draco had managed to kick the rest of them out of his room.

***

The next day, at the beginning of their Muggle Studies lesson, O’Neill came out to the class as trans. She did it shortly, with a set frown, and she did it while looking all of them in the eye, one by one—lingering on the people who wouldn’t meet her gaze. She seemed like she’d been thinking about this moment on repeat since the rehearsal; planning it out, stressing over it. Judging by the frizzy state of her usually defined curls, she’d probably tossed in bed. Draco wasn't sure what to do with that information.

“The things that were said to your classmate in yesterday’s rehearsal,” she said, “are not welcome in my classroom, in my theatre, and as far as I am concerned, in the wizarding society as a whole. There’s nothing more dangerous than giving those who fear that which is different a space to spread their intolerance. That being said, if anyone hears any comment of the nature of what you heard yesterday, you are to come to me, not to take matters in your hands. Everyone deserves a chance to ask questions, to listen, and to learn. That is what this subject is about and this is no exception to that principle. Is that clear?”

Everyone nodded. O’Neill nodded back at them and, after a moment of hesitation, added, “This classroom, as well as my office, is a safe space. I will answer every question you may have so long as you ask it respectfully. But there’s something I want to make sure you understand.” She started pacing, hands clasped behind her back. “Every time you meet someone from a new minority, you’re going to have questions. The fact I am offering you a safe space to phrase your questions does not mean everyone will do the same. When those questions arise”—she turned abruptly at the corner of the classroom—“be prepared for the people in those minorities to feel uncomfortable answering them. Not everyone has had positive experiences in life. Not everyone has the same confidence. And that’s okay.” She reached the other end of the room. Stopped. “Of course in an ideal world I wouldn’t need to do this, either, because every teacher would do it, every classroom would be a place of discussion, and curiosity and tolerance would be encouraged. That way, perhaps people wouldn’t throw around rhetoric they’ve heard without understanding it, and would instead educate themselves, and maybe that way the damn war could have been avoided. But of course none of this is your fault,” she added quickly, snapping out of her rant. “Just—make sure your kids don’t make the same mistakes your parents did.” With that, she took out her wand and made as if to flick it toward the blackboard. She paused. “Are there any questions?”

She sounded as though she didn’t think there would be, but, sure enough, a few hands rose. Including, albeit hesitantly, Greg’s. Now that was a first.

“Mr Goyle?”

“Um, excuse me, Professor, but...what does trans mean?”

O’Neill never got to write the topic of the day on the blackboard—the lesson soon evolved into a tentative Q&A regarding O’Neill’s experience. Her experience in the wizarding versus the Muggle world, her experience as a member of the queer community, her experience as a woman. When the hour ended, as they were making their way out, Pansy approached her, and Draco fell behind too, waiting for her. She looked nervous. 

“Um. I—wanted to say that I—that...this lesson has meant a lot to me, and I—thanks. Thank you.” 

O’Neill was smiling, openly—Pansy blushing, although not in the same way she had before when she’d caught the teacher’s attention. She seemed like this really meant a lot to her.

“I’m always happy to help,” O’Neill said while picking up her satchel.

“Can I—ask you about—” Pansy suddenly turned to Draco. “You can go, I’ll catch up later.”

“Y—yeah,” Draco said, caught off-guard. This was definitely important for her. 

As he made his slow way to the common room, he recalled the way Pansy had looked the first time she’d told him she fancied girls. Scared, but determined, as if daring Draco to hate her. He thought of Potter; of the way he’d held Potter close when he’d retreated too soon, of the way he’d hardened from that snog alone. 

Of the fact he hadn't said no. He could have. He could be walking right now without the memory of Potter's lips ghosting against his.

***

Draco went back home for Christmas. He did so because he missed his parents, because he loved them. Because he was worried about them, and because...well, it was just what he always did. 

He lasted exactly four days.

He’d felt off-kilter and strange since he’d caught the first glimpse of the Manor, but he’d brushed it off and convinced himself there was no reason to be scared. And when his mother had opened the door and held him in her arms, he’d almost felt...all right, for a moment. There was cake inside, she’d said. The hearth was on, he could warm his feet as he ate.

It all felt a little bit less all right when his father appeared in the doorframe of the kitchen as Draco cut himself another slice of cake. It wasn’t that Draco didn’t love his father. He could never not love him, even after all the mistakes he’d made. It was just that...

“I heard you’ve been roomed with Goyle.” 

“Yes,” Draco said, wary. He’d told his parents that in his first letter from Hogwarts. 

“You should have put in a complaint.” Lucius walked into the room. Leaned, gracefully, on the counter in front of him. “He’s not the kind of company you should be seen with right now—not if you want to have a reputation. Nor Nott, for that matter. Zabini, on the other hand—”

“Greg is my friend.” Draco had wanted his voice to sound stronger. Had wanted to look up from his plate, to meet his father’s eyes.

“That doesn’t matter, Draco,” Lucius said slowly—making sure Draco heard the disappointment in every individual word. “Those people out there—they don’t care who you feel like...like hanging out with.” He said the words like they were a blasphemy. “They are going to see two sons of Death Eaters—”

“That’s not—!” Draco’s voice wavered. He couldn’t fight back. He wanted to, but he was—blocked.

“That’s exactly the excuse they need to deny you a decent job, and you’d be foolish to give it to them on a silver plate! I have not raised a foolish son. I have not raised a son that prioritises feelings over safety, over—”

Draco couldn’t hear the rest. The words were too familiar—an old wound he couldn’t bear to reopen. He stormed from the kitchen and spent the rest of that day in his bedroom. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t love his father. It was just that, around Lucius, he forgot how to not hate himself. How to not feel like he wasn’t enough, like he wasn’t trying hard enough. How to not feel on edge, wary of everyone’s intentions. Selfish.

Being in his room didn’t make him feel any better, though. Every time he caught sight of any particular item around the bedroom, every time he looked out the window, he had to stop for a moment. He had to blink, to frown, to ease the tightness in his chest and shoulders. And the feeling, irritating and unsettling and wrong, just followed him everywhere around the house. He hated that he couldn’t explain it—that he couldn’t explain why walking into a room would make the Dark Lord’s laughter echo in his ears, or why being in his bedroom with nothing to do would make him feel restless, vigilant—on the watch for noises that wouldn't come, or that would come from his parents walking around the house. 

He wasn’t used to his parents walking freely around their own house anymore.

The Manor, Draco soon realised, was making thoughts and emotions resurface. Memories that had apparently gone into a slumber during the months he’d spent at Hogwarts—that he hadn’t had to dwell on, that he'd almost...somehow, almost forgotten.

But he tried to block it all, to push those feelings down like he had for so long. To concentrate on being with his parents—on being a happy family once again.

It all came crashing down when Draco tried to bring up the play during dinner one evening. He’d already told them about it in a letter, but his parents hadn’t brought it up in their reply—not at all. It had felt strange at the time, but he hadn’t thought it would be so bad.

“It is simply unacceptable that they are allowed to teach our kids that—that—that Muggles are no different from us! That we can learn from them! The way they are forcing this—this rotten ideology down the kids’ throats and making them partake in a Muggle ritual as if it’s the most normal thing to do!”

And maybe it was because he was nervous—maybe because he was sick of the way his father clung to his pureblood pride like a lifeline—but Draco cut him off, told him that he wasn’t mad, that he liked Muggle Studies. That it gave him hope and made freedom feel a little bit less unattainable. That the teacher was amazing, against all odds, and she made him feel like his past wouldn’t forever condition his future.

He shouldn’t have bothered. 

“Your past is always going to follow you, Draco. Do you think that—what, that by forcing yourself to play the damsel in distress around the Boy Who Lived for a while the Ministry is going to burn your legal history? The stored memories of your trial?” His father curled his fingers around his own forearm. “That it will take away your Dark Mark?”

“Lucius, that is enough,” his mother said just as Draco stood up, breathing unevenly.

“You’re wrong.” Draco’s voice shook. “Why won’t you open your eyes? This whole”—he gestured grandly—“this whole world isn’t just the unforgiving minefield you see in it, and I refuse to spend the rest of my life trapped in your fears!”

“Fears!” Lucius exclaimed. “How can y—”

“Yes, Father. Fears. This safety, this...this self-preservation you’re so obsessed with—it’s what brought us to—” He closed his eyes for a moment. “To worship a murderer, to host him in this very home. Because it was safer to be on his side than against him. It’s ironic how that’s what’s made us the scum of this society now, don’t you think? So excuse me for trying to be better, and excuse me if I’d rather play a part in a stupid Muggle play than in a war that’s already lost!”

His mother stood, too, palms on the table. “This stops now.”

“Cissa,” Lucius tried, still bristling, “don’t you see? They are washing your son’s mind, they’re—”

“No, Father,” Draco said calmly. “They’re helping me open my mind so I don’t grow up to be like you.”

The next morning, Draco packed his trunk and took the first Portkey to Hogsmeade. 

The village was covered in a coarse blanket of snow, but the day was bright—tranquil, only a few people covered in scarves making their way from the bakery back to their homes, two kids throwing snowballs at each other further up the hill. It was strange, how much calmer he felt now his father and the Manor were miles and miles away. How much easier it was to breathe, to think.

He charmed a bench dry and sat down heavily, contemplating the Christmas lights that decorated the weaving street. His mother had packed a sandwich and a few sweets for him, and he took them out of his trunk even though he wasn’t particularly hungry. He wasn’t in a rush to get back to the castle. He didn’t want to explain why he was back so early.

That’s where Madam Rosmerta found him.

“Malfoy. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you around.”

He stood up, abruptly, half a sandwich in his hand. The bartender was standing behind him, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. “I’m—” He swallowed the mouthful he’d been biting at. “I was just gonna—I didn’t mean to—”

She shook her head. Huffed a laugh. “Come, let’s get you a Butterbeer.”

He hesitated. Should he trust her? After what had happened in Sixth year, after—after he’d used an Unforgivable on her? Fuck, the thought alone made him feel sick. Like he was back there. Like he had a mission to complete, like every step he walked had to be measured, thought through, full of purpose. Like it was his life at stake.

She turned to look at him, and he sprung into action, following her to the Three Broomsticks just around the corner. The place was mostly empty—just a few families having breakfast here and there. Madam Rosmerta gestured at an empty table for Draco to sit down at, then went to take two bottles of Butterbeer from behind the counter. She sat down in front of him.

Draco opened his mouth—closed it again. He sipped at his Butterbeer for something to do, and almost choked on the drink when the woman, unprompted, said, “So. How are things, kiddo?”

“Um,” was Draco’s astonishing reply. She snickered before he could come up with anything else to say.

“What I mean is,” she drawled, “I...heard. About the trials. About you having to go back to school, and”—she eyed Draco’s trunk meaningfully—“about your parents. I take it they can’t come after you to drag you back home for the holidays?”

“Er...no. They’re...they can’t leave the Manor, no.” 

She nodded. “That’s good, that’s...for the best.”

Draco took another sip of his drink to fill in the silence that followed.

“So. Things are looking better for you, yes?” Rosmerta leaned forward on the table. There was something she wanted to hear from him, Draco knew. What, he couldn’t guess. 

He shrugged, trying to avoid her avid stare. Suddenly scared she had poisoned his drink. “Yeah. Yes, yeah, everything is...better now. Madam Rosmerta, I’m—”

“Tsch. Don’t say it. I already know you’re sorry.”

“Ah. Uhm.” 

“Draco, let’s be honest here.” She sat back, suddenly. “You Imperiused me. You made me hurt people I cared about against my will. You used me as a pawn in a war. I could be mad at you. I could have banned you from entering this place, I could have written to the Wizengamot when I heard about your judgement. But I have invited you to a Butterbeer. Why?”

Draco shook his head, helpless. 

“Because my job,” she said, “consists of understanding the teenage mind. Every single Hogwarts student has made their way through this very pub. I have seen titches the height of my hips grow into adult men and women, and if there is something I can tell you it’s that sixteen year olds haven’t the foggiest idea of how life works. Or how to practice common sense. Their minds are—malleable, impressionable. They hear something that sounds cool and repeat it like bloody parrots, be it a stupid phrase or a slur.” She took a slow sip of her drink, her eyes on Draco. He didn’t know where to look. Didn’t know what to say, what to think. “That is why, Malfoy, I am asking you if things are looking better for you now. If you have found peace, not only around you, but inside you. I am asking you if you are okay.” 

“Oh.” Was he? “Y...yeah, you could say so. Everything feels...more in control, at least.” Then, as an afterthought, “I never really expected things to get better the way they have, so that’s...that’s good.”

An hour later, he walked to the castle with his trunk levitating behind him, a warm stomach and what could be defined as a tentative acquaintanceship with the owner of the Three Broomsticks.

He’d always loved how the school grounds looked when the snow glistened on the trees and made the paths a soft, continuous wave of white. It made him think of his childhood, of looking back after every step he took to see his footprint appear from under his shoe. 

Hagrid was cutting down a tree that had fallen at the edge of the forest. He caught sight of Draco in the distance, and Draco quickly looked away before the half-giant could try to approach him. Peeves was drawing obscenities on the windows of the greenhouses. The Grey Lady was making her way down the hall when he stepped through the heavy wooden doors of the school. 

Apart from that, the castle seemed mercifully empty. Draco hoped it was.

No such luck, of course. Of all the bloody Eighth years that could have possibly stayed for Christmas, it was Potter that he walked in on when he walked into the common room. And not just Potter, but Potter in nothing but a Muggle bathrobe and his pants. White pants with green stripes, no less, because he couldn’t have stuck to his own bloody house colours—not that Draco cared, because he most certainly didn’t. He was busy gaping at Potter, who was gaping back at him, hunched on the windowsill with one of Longbottom’s waving plants curled around his finger. There was a wiped out circle on the otherwise fogged up glass right by his head.

For a moment they stared at each other—surprise and suspicion blooming on Potter’s face, heat spreading through Draco’s. Then Draco sprung into action and walked all the way to his room trying for the life of him not to trip over his own feet. He could feel Potter’s stare on him until he shut the door behind him.

“Fuck,” he whispered. He deposited the trunk at the foot of his bed, took off his cloak, his damp boots. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” What was Potter doing at Hogwarts? Didn’t he have like, a fuckton of adoptive Weasels? And why in the name of Merlin’s grimy navel did Potter have to be in his pants? Honestly, it was winter! And even if he was alone, any ghost could have flown right in and seen him like that!

Oh, Merlin. But Potter was alone, wasn’t he? Well, not anymore, obviously, because Draco was there, too. 

He leaned his head back against the door, groaning. “Fuck.”

Chapter Text

A tingle down his spine, a bubble of thoughts in his mind, a pang of thrill at the pit of his stomach. It was what Potter looking at him had always done to him—what he’d so pathetically missed, what he’d longed and fought for since the beginning of the school year.

What he’d gotten back, now, at the simple price of a kiss.

Except there wasn’t anything simple about it, because the tingles and bubbles and pangs he was feeling as Potter’s gaze pierced him through the table—that he’d been feeling all through December, try as he might to deny it—felt like they’d been suddenly put into context. Like it was the natural progression of things that the hatred and envy he’d always felt for Potter should melt into longing, into desire. Like these feelings were one, inextricable, and always had been.

They were having breakfast at the teachers’ table, and Potter would not stop looking at him.

“So, Mr Malfoy,” McGonagall, who was sitting beside him, said, “I take it you will be staying with us for the remainder of the holidays?”

There were about twenty of them at the table. The younger kids seemed to be trying and failing not to stare at him. The rest of the teachers were murmuring to each other or eating in silence. O’Neill wasn’t there, and Draco suddenly realised he wished she was.

“Unless there’s a problem with it,” he replied, meticulously avoiding tearing his gaze from his plate. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw McGonagall throw a quick, almost absent-minded look in Potter’s direction. 

“Oh, not at all. But do notify us upon arrival the next time, if you’d be so kind.”

“I will, Headmistress.”

He quickly made his way to the common room, heartbeat fast, hands sweaty; trying to come up with ways to mentally curse Potter’s stupid green eyes and the stupid intensity of his stare, but coming short of invectives, his heart too heavy at the memory of it all. Because the sad truth was he’d wanted this, wanted those eyes back on him, wanted Potter’s undivided attention back on him. He’d acted like a child with a chocolate addiction, and now that he’d had his dose, he was drowning in the thrill of it, in the taste of it. Running from it so it wouldn’t show in his face that he wanted more, that he wanted to savour the feel of Potter’s eyes on him, or...his hands, or his mouth.

Merlin. He could still taste Potter’s mouth in his, even after weeks.

By the time he reached the common room entrance, suspicion was clawing at him. He’d half-expected Potter to follow him, but when he looked back over his shoulder the corridor was empty, just two portraits arguing over the state of the paint of both their swords. 

And then he opened the door. And jumped back, a sound—most certainly not high-pitched—escaping him. 

Potter was sat on the sofa, legs crossed, hands carefully folded over his knee. He was biting down a smile at the expression on Draco’s face.

“Weren’t you in the Great Hall?!” Draco protested, heart hammering against his chest.

“I was,” Potter said, smirk still in place. “I left right behind you. Took a little shortcut.” He had his cloak with him, Draco realised then. He was playing with it between two fingers, which were disappearing at intervals, melting with the soft brown of the sofa. “Couldn’t let you hide in your room like you did last night.”

“And why exactly not?” Draco said—annoyed, tired. Trying to decide whether he’d be able to run for it and do exactly what Potter had accused him of before the git could block his way.

“You’re avoiding me.”

“Oh, and of course that’s a good excuse to scare the living daylights out of me.”

Potter unfolded his limbs—sat back against the sofa, huffing, saying, “Well, you did accuse me of avoiding you by crowding me against a wall in the corridor, where anyone could have walked by.”

“That was because I didn’t know you had a good reason for doing so,” Draco very patiently explained. “I thought you were being a prick.”

“You don’t anymore?” 

“Luna’s been talking about you,” Draco said. “But I do have very good reasons to not want to be around you now, so if you’ll excuse me—”

Draco’s breath hitched. Potter had stood up, had stepped in his way—had slotted their arms together, a hand under Draco’s elbow. 

“Am I really that irresistible?” Potter murmured. He was close, Merlin—close enough to make the common room shrink around them, to impregnate Draco’s air with his personal scent. And he was irresistible, even though he had absolutely no right to be. Draco could already feel himself caving in, melting into that mouth that was smirking knowingly. “You know, this reminds me of that scene. The one where you tell me it’s better if we’re not together and I lean in and almost kiss you?”

“That’s—” Draco’s throat worked. Potter had leaned in, and Draco’s hands had found their way to Potter’s chest, had clenched on his sweater—to push him back, to pull him in. To keep him right where he was. “That’s not us,” he managed. “That’s Hercules and Megara, and this is not—we—aren’t them, our history is much more complicated than—”

“We’re not them,” Potter repeated. “Which means...our scene can end differently?”

Before Potter could go and just steal the breath from Draco’s lips, Draco pushed at him, keeping him at an arm’s distance. “Our scene is going to end with me going to my bedroom. And with you going back to ignoring me like you so petulantly did up until we—” He swallowed. “Up until that rehearsal. So if you’ll excuse me—”

“Maybe I don’t want to ignore you anymore.”

Draco had stepped around Potter, had almost stormed to his room. But his feet, of their own damn accord, kept him in place at Potter’s words. “Why must you be so difficult?” he asked, more a complaint to the skies than a question for Potter to answer. 

“Oh, I’m difficult,” Potter chuckled. “It’s you who wanted my attention and now’s pushing me away, if you recall.”

“I have reasons for doing so, if you recall,” Draco replied, turning around, frustrated that he couldn’t just—couldn’t just leave and not have this bloody conversation. That Potter seemed to be a magnet and Draco’s very heart bathed in metal.

“I do recall,” Potter said. “You’re scared you’ll kiss me again.” Draco tried to protest, but Potter cut him with a, “You are! And you’re even more scared because you can tell I want to kiss you again.”

“Ugh,” Draco concluded. “Why?! That—kiss, it wasn’t—it wasn’t real, it was just to prove a point, you said so, you—”

“I gave you a peck on the lips to prove a point. You grabbed at me and snogged me against a table. That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“That is...not false,” Draco conceded. “However I did not in any way imply that it meant anything beyond a one-time thing, and I think I’ve made myself pretty clear about not wanting to—”

“To be around me so you won’t snog me senseless again, yes, we’ve established this.”

“—to be around you, full stop.” Fuck. Draco could feel himself blushing.

“Okay.”

Draco spluttered. “P-pardon me?”

“Okay,” Potter said with a shrug. “If it’s what you want, fine, I won’t pressure you.”

A beat of silence. “You’re doing it on purpose.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Yeah, and I’m a bloody Gryffindor,” Draco huffed.

“I thought you were going to your room?”

Draco shook his head. “Why are you suddenly so interested in me, Potter?”

The git took a step closer. His smile slowly shifted into a sheepish expression that he tried to brush off with a chuckle. “Well, you know, you’re kinda irresistible when you desperately try to avoid me.” Draco raised an eyebrow at him, and Potter brought a hand to his hair, making a particular strand at the top of it point up. “It’s...let’s say it’s easier to avoid you when you’re not avoiding me.”

A memory promptly made its way to the centre of his thoughts—a curious little moment that felt much more far-flung than it actually was. A set of staircases, moving, and him—frantic and haunted to the core of his being—trying to get to the Room of Requirement before Potter could catch up with him. He’d felt Potter’s stare on him all year during their Sixth year, he recalled. More than ever before. He’d wanted, possibly for the first time in his life, to be invisible to Potter, and Potter had chosen that year to grow a suspicious interest in him. 

“Luna said,” Draco said slowly, thinking aloud, “that you hadn’t stopped obsessing about me this year. That you were avoiding me because you knew that I...that you wouldn’t be able to control yourself around me.”

Potter sighed, miffed—at himself or Draco, Draco couldn’t tell. “Of course she told you that.”

“Was she right?”

“She’s always right,” Potter said, almost a complaint. “I just needed to—forget that you existed. The alternative was just too dangerous; we’re dangerous around each other. But then I had to keep touching you during rehearsals, and my friends kept talking about you, about how I’d have to kiss you, and I thought—just one kiss. One kiss to get all of this off my mind, to keep you off my mind. But then of course you had to go and snog me senseless.”

“And suddenly I was avoiding you and you were the one wanting my attention,” Draco finished for him, sounding far too calm for how shaken he felt inside. “Once again.”

“Once again,” Potter mumbled. “You really can’t go one single year without turning my world upside down, can you?”

Draco shook his head, incredulous. “Oh, I turn your world upside down.”

Potter’s eyes met his, suddenly, desperately, and Draco’s arrogance died down into something closer to uncertainty. To fear.

“You—” Potter took a step closer. Another one. Draco let him, let Potter step right into his personal space again. “You do, Draco.”

Draco closed his eyes. Breathed out, his lower lip trembling. “Potter…”

“Can I kiss you?”

Draco’s breath hitched. His eyes snapped open and found Potter’s, beautiful and tempting and deep. His mind was short-circuiting, but his body seemed to know what he wanted, because he nodded, grabbed at Potter’s sides, and pressed closer. Potter’s mouth tasted of bacon, on that morning, but mostly of him. It made Draco groan, because it wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair that kissing Potter felt so utterly bloody fantastic. That Potter’s hand holding his head felt dizzying, or that their chests brushing could feel so electrifying. 

A brush of tongues, a gasp. A rush of heat through Draco’s body, his hands finding the hem of Potter’s sweater and, after a moment of distraction, of teeth biting at his lower lip, finding their way to the skin of Potter’s warm lower back. It all got mixed with the scent of Potter, with the morning sun warming their figures through the window, with the sounds that were flowing between them, ragged and unrestrained and loud.

Draco pulled back for a moment, gasping for air, trying to get a grip on his wild, wild heart. They panted, hot and breathless, and their eyes met when Potter tried to lean in again and Draco breathed out a voiceless, Wait.

“Have you,” he started, picking up on a scattered thought, “have you told your friends that we—”

Potter nodded, his hands tightening on Draco’s hips for a second. “I told them about the peck.”

“Right,” Draco nodded back. That was all the proof he needed that this—this game they were playing was dangerous. Dangerous enough that Potter would keep it from his stupid sidekicks. He wanted to tell Potter as much, but his thoughts became blurry and fast when Potter, voice low and steady, told him to,

“Tilt your head to the side.”

“I—” Draco started to complain even as he did as he was told, making room for Potter to tuck his face in Draco’s neck. But then he felt lips on his skin. He felt lips on his skin, and they weren’t exactly wet, but they weren’t dry either, and Draco concentrated on the movement of them, on the tingle on his skin, on the heat that was quickly pooling in his groin. 

It wasn’t until Potter’s lips parted just behind his ear, until Potter told him to breathe, that Draco realised he’d been holding his breath. A breath that came out as a gasp, because Potter suddenly had his teeth gently pressed around his earlobe, and there was suddenly a flick of a tongue, and fuck. How? How could a mouth around his bloody—earlobe, of all places, feel so fucking—

He moaned, clutching at Potter for purchase, and Potter hummed, sucking slowly, thoroughly, as he raked his stupid hands all over Draco’s lower back. 

Draco felt dizzy from how fast he was breathing. From how close they were, from the way Potter’s hips were clumsily undulating against his, making it painfully obvious that they were both quickly hardening. 

“Merlin, fuck, Potter, come—here,” Draco said, desperate, grabbing at Potter’s hair and kissing down into the curve of his neck. Potter groaned, letting go of the patch of skin near Draco’s shoulder he’d been tormenting with his lips and teeth, and rested the side of his head against Draco’s, holding him roughly, his hips snapping faster. 

Draco kissed, sucked, licked his way up Potter’s irresistible neck, sucked Potter’s earlobe into his mouth just to let it go with a wet sound, traced the line of Potter’s hair with the tip of his tongue. Then he pulled at Potter’s hair again, this time to put some space between them. He moaned from the loss of contact against his groin, but the sound turned into something else entirely when his sight focused on Potter again. On the way Potter’s eyes were shiny behind fogged up glasses, almost delirious. On the way he was panting, on the evidence of Draco’s angry mouth up the curve of Potter’s neck. On the way Draco was still clutching at Potter’s hair and Potter was letting him, even though it ought to be uncomfortable.

“Holy fuck,” Potter exhaled with a dazed smile.

“I hope you’re happy now,” said Draco, letting go. Stepping back. “You wanker.”

His rebellious eyes refused, if only for a moment, to leave Potter’s lips. He willed them to, though, and stormed to his bedroom, promising himself he’d never, ever let himself be alone with Potter, ever again.

***

“I hope you know I really fucking hate you.”

Potter smirked. "Sure."

Draco squinted at him. “Why do you look so happy?”

Instead of replying, Potter turned his smile to the snow-covered trees around them, to the small houses of the town at the end of the path. 

They’d met again, of course, the following morning, Draco’s wishes be damned. Draco had tried to inhale his breakfast as fast as possible so he could get to his room before Potter had finished eating, but then McGonagall had gone and announced that there was a Christmas market in Hogsmeade. Draco had known—had seen it in the distance when he’d come back from the Manor—but Potter apparently hadn’t, because he’d looked thrilled, a stupid smile spreading across his face. And then, when Draco had stood up, Potter had left his breakfast unfinished and left the Hall with him, proudly announcing that they were going to the market.

“We?” Draco had grumbled, already resigning himself to his fate.

“Unless you want to spend Christmas Eve alone in the common room,” Potter had said with a smirk. 

And so there they were, much to Draco’s dismay: almost in Hogsmeade, Potter smiling at the snow around them, Draco hoping the scarf around his neck and face was covering his blush.

“Do I really look happy?” Potter asked, curious. “Dunno. Must be the thrill of making a Slytherin do what I want. And also…” He rummaged inside his robe pocket, pulled out a chocolate frog. “I have sweets.”

Potter’s smile, though, faltered when he pulled out the card from the package. Harry Potter, it read. Above the text, a scowling Potter was looking back at them, clearly as unamused as the real one. 

“Smiling for your fans not your strength, I see,” Draco commented, sneaking a hand into the package in Potter’s hand to steal one of the frog’s haunches. “How in character of you.”

“They’d just told me what they were going to write on the reverse. I wasn’t exactly feeling thrilled.”

“Oh? What would you have wanted it to say?” Draco asked, only mildly amused by the look on Potter’s face.

Potter, lips curving into a slow smile again, turned the card around and cleared his throat. “At the age of eighteen,” he mock-read, “Harry Potter is considered to be the youngest person to have caused himself a headache from sneezing too hard. At fourteen he defeated an angry spider, becoming a hero among his roommates. Among his merits are”—he glanced at Draco, grinned—“only having broken his glasses three times in the past year and managing to ruin a First year level potion.”

Draco couldn’t hold in a snort. “Merlin,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t forget about that time you had a cold because you ate too much ice cream in, like, February. That ought to be a record, too.”

“Lord!” Potter guffawed. “Ron still isn’t done laughing at me because of that, I swear.” He glanced at Draco again, eyes wet and crinkled with amusement. “You’re nice to be around, Malfoy.”

“Of course I am,” Draco said, swallowing down the sudden surge of something at the look on Potter’s face—at the fact it was directed at him. 

“Of course,” Potter mimicked, “how dare you so much as imply otherwise, Potter!”

“That’s not how I talk!”

Potter laughed again—that breathless, delighted laugh that Draco was starting to find alarmingly contagious. “Oh, it so is. You’re just so hilarious! So…”

“I’m warning you, Potter—”

“—so pompous! Look, just like this thing here—” Potter reached out and snatched Draco’s hat. “Pompous and cute like a pompom!”

“Give it back!” Draco scrambled for his hat, but Potter stepped back, raised it above their heads, smiling. 

“Come get it,” Potter said, and ran for it. 

By the time they made it to the main square of the village, Draco was hot to the core and breathing heavily. Potter had sat on the edge of the frozen fountain, had put on Draco’s hat as well as his best smile, and Draco stormed to him, fists clenched, ready to kill. When he stepped right into Potter’s personal space, though, the satisfaction and the mirth in Potter’s expression won him over, and he just grabbed his hat back, making all of Potter’s stupid hair jump in every direction.

“You look cute when you flush,” Potter said, resting a foot on the edge of the fountain and resting his chin on his knee. “You should do it more often.”

“Insufferable,” Draco declared as he put his hat back on—as he carefully pulled at one strand of hair so it would graciously fall on his temple. “Arrogant, and childish, and ill-mannered, and—” He was still going on as they made their way to the market, Potter walking contentedly beside him, hands in his pockets. “—and ridiculous, and—”

“—and you were dying to spend time with me,” Potter finished. “You pompous idiot.”

The Christmas market spread over two entire streets of the village, and was bustling with people pushing past each other to get to buy a warm batch of ginger biscuits, straight from the oven—to get the prettiest mugs, the most colourful ornaments for their trees. A little girl was crying over wanting to buy pastries for Santa’s reindeers, and two of the younger kids that had stayed at Hogwarts were having a snowball fight, which a Goblin soon ended with a reprimand. 

The Christmas trees that decorated the shop fronts were tall and shiny, as were the stalls. The air smelled of chocolate and cinnamon and fir trees, a slow Christmas carol was playing in the background, and Potter looked awed about it all, much to the delight of Draco’s misbehaving heart.

“You look like you’ve never been to a Christmas market before,” Draco finally said, eyeing the magical snowballs from over an old lady’s shoulder.

Potter munched at the candy cane he’d just bought, smiling at himself when a toy Christmas elf burst into a strident song. “I haven’t.” 

By the time they made it to the end of the market, Draco still hadn’t bought his father anything. If he was honest with himself, he didn’t even want to buy him anything. He wouldn’t like it anyway. But his mother would be disappointed in him if he didn’t, and he kept glancing back, going through the stalls in his mind, arguing with himself over it.

Potter, oblivious to Draco’s inner strife, offered him another gingerbread man from the gigantic bag he’d gotten himself and asked, “What do you want to do now?” 

“You mean apart from going back to the castle before someone finds us sharing food and gets the wrong impression? Honestly, I’ve eaten as many of these as you have!”

Potter sniggered. “Yup. I suggest walking hand in hand to the Shrieking Shack or having tea at Madam Puddifoot’s.”

“Very funny. Honestly, your humour is simply otherworldly.”

“And kissing under the mistletoe!” Potter cried out, radiant. “How could I forget!”

“Will you shush your mouth!” Draco whispered, pushing Potter behind the wall at the corner of the street before anyone could notice them. 

“Come on,” Potter urged him, taking his hand, “let’s go for a walk.”

“I hope you’re not serious!”

Potter was already tugging at him. “Oh, no, that was my Godfather, you see. I could never dream of living up to his name, but I’m very honoured that you—”

Draco pulled his hand free and smacked him, lightly. With a huff of a laugh, Potter circled Draco’s lower back and brought their sides closer. That’s how they made their way through the street: Draco grumbling, Potter guffawing, the both of them flushed and warm and smelling of ginger. Draco couldn’t help but melt, if only just a little bit, into Potter’s warm side, into the press of Potter’s arm down his back. It was embarrassing, and dangerous, and exhilarating, and Draco lost control over his rebellious breath when Potter’s grin turned into a small, private smile as they shared one of many, many looks. 

Merlin, they were so close.

“Hey! Be careful!”

Draco and Potter broke apart just as three small kids, pushing right between a fruit stall and an old couple, ran toward them. One of them turned to look at the woman who had shouted at them, horrified, and ran right into the Christmas tree they were walking by.

Draco laughed, surprised, but quickly caught himself and crouched, reaching out, saying, “Whoa! Are you okay?” He faltered mid-air when the kid rose to his knees, face red and eyes big.

“Get your hands off him!” A woman was storming to them—the kid’s mum, Draco guessed. She looked angry. Draco stepped back, but she still pushed at his chest before crouching by the boy, a stream of admonishments mixing with words of reassurance as she picked him up. “What if I hadn’t been around, you can’t just run off like that, you could have gotten yourself hurt!”

 She turned to Draco, threw him a murderous look. She didn’t say anything further before she left, but she didn’t need to. Draco was very aware what she was thinking, what she was seeing in him.

He faced her scrutiny with what he hoped was a stoic face. Then he concentrated on steadying his breathing. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him. Potter’s eyes on him. He wanted to hide, but he couldn’t move—couldn’t look at Potter.

“What’s that?” Potter suddenly said. Draco’s gaze turned to where Potter was kneeling beside the tree, carefully inspecting something underneath it. With a quick glance to the villagers that were still paying far too much attention to them, Draco stooped beside him. 

“Quick diversion tactic,” Potter whispered with a smirk, “I learnt it from Luna. But look! I think it’s hurt…”

Just under the Christmas tree the kid had run into, hardly clinging with two long fingers to the lowest branch, was a Bowtruckle. It did look hurt, like it was trying to raise its other arm to hoist itself up but was too weak for it. 

“Ah, you’ve foond ‘er,” said an old man, leaning out of the small, wooden windowsill of the shop beside them. “She came wi’ th’ fir tree, she did. Wouldnae leave it behin’ even after it was chopped down.”

“Don’t they usually live in trees with wand quality wood?” Potter asked.

The Scottish man shrugged, said, “Nae this one,” and disappeared back into the shop.

Draco tentatively reached out a finger, trying to get the Bowtruckle to curl its stalk-like fingers around his. The little one tried to recoil, to defend herself, but she fell from the branch. “She’s quivering,” Draco murmured, sitting back for a moment but keeping his eyes on her. “You liked Care of Magical Creatures, didn’t you? What do they like to eat?”

“Me?” Potter looked taken aback. “I liked Hagrid, not the subject!”

“Insects, they like insects,” Draco remembered aloud. “Go find some, I’ll try and get her to trust me.”

“What? Where am I even supposed to find insects? It’s winter!”

“Just go buy some at the pet shop!” Draco reached out again, slower this time, walking two of his fingers on the ground toward the direction in which the little one was looking. Halting when she cowered again. Giving her time. When Potter stood up with a sigh, he added, “And I mean the ones meant to feed pets, not the ones you buy as pets!”

“Do people even keep insects as pets?” was how Potter’s ramble started as he walked away. Draco shook his head. He didn’t care.

“Here, little one,” he murmured, moving his fingers a step closer, “I know you’re scared, but I just want to help you.” Another step. “What happened to you? Did that boy bump into your tree?” He brushed a fingertip to one of the Bowtruckle’s leaves, which were wilted and weak as they fell from her head to the floor. She snapped her head up, made as if to hide, but then sniffed his fingertip. Slowly, painfully, she brought her fingers to Draco’s and felt them.

By the time Potter got back with a bag of dead grasshoppers, Draco had managed to have the little one tentatively climb to the palm of his hand. He scowled. “Weren’t there live insects?”

“There were, but it…” His face scrunched. “It felt wrong.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Whatever. She’s probably too weak to chew wriggling food anyway.”

Potter dried the closest bench, and they sat, Draco with the Bowtruckle on his lap, Potter with the open bag on his. “Careful,” Draco said, low, as Potter brought a grasshopper to her mouth between two pinched fingers. “Feed her the head first in case she can’t take the legs.”

It was an arduous, laboured fight, but they got her to eat four grasshoppers before she rejected Potter’s fingers, pushing them away with both hands. Draco slouched back in relief, and she clung to his robes, slowly crawling up his leg. 

“Where are you going, little one?” 

“I think she wants to get to your pocket,” Potter chuckled. And sure enough, she reached for the folds of his robes at his stomach, trying to reach his breast pocket. 

“Hey, now!” Draco told her, only partially amused. 

“You’ll have to think of a cute name for her.”

“Nonsense,” Draco huffed as Potter laughed at him, reaching out to help the Bowtruckle hoist herself into Draco's pocket. “I—I’m not keeping her! I don’t have the time it takes to—to…” Fuck. Potter’s fingers were brushing his chest. And his breath had just hitched.

“I don’t think she’s giving you a choice,” Potter said, pulling lightly at the pocket to look inside, where the Bowtruckle had already curled into a ball. “Look, she’s practically asleep already! Aww, you’re her tree now, that’s adorable.” He looked up. He must have realised how close they were, because he dropped his hand, gulping almost imperceptibly. “If you don’t pick a name for her I’ll do it, I’m warning you.”

Draco saw right through the jesting tone, but went with it, willing himself to, as Megara would have said, get a grip. “Don’t even think about it, you’d come up with something ridiculous.”

“Well, then? What’s your suggestion?”

Draco considered the small bump curled against his chest, partly hidden under his scarf now. “Artemis.”

“And you have the audacity of calling me ridiculous, ouch.” 

“It’s the name of a Greek goddess, it’s not ridiculous!” 

“We should call her Pompom! That way you two can be, like, a duo.” Draco gave Potter a ‘seriously?’ look, but the git just went on, “Or…Green? That’s too cliché. Woody! Hmm...Leafy?”

 “I liked you better when you were sulky.”

“You can’t blame me, a Bowtruckle just adopted you.” Potter got up, and Draco begrudgingly did the same. “Do you think she sees you as her mum or as her…”—a wiggle of eyebrows—“significant other?”

“She doesn’t see me as anything because I’m not keeping her. Come on, let’s take her back to her tree.”

As it turned out, though, the Bowtruckle would not return to the fir. Draco pushed at her with the tip of a finger, encouraging her to hop from his hand onto the branch, but she just pulled a face at the ornament hanging over her, turned back to him and curled herself around his wrist, as though saying, I don’t appreciate being woken from my nap.

“She’s got a personality,” Potter sniggered. “Just like her owner.”

“I’m not—ugh. Come on, little one. We’ll leave the grasshoppers under the tree! You won’t starve!”

“I think she’s fallen asleep again.”

“No way, no one falls asleep that fast,” Draco said. “Well, except for Goyle, perhaps. But this one here?” He poked her, annoyed. “She’s just pretending, the little scamp.”

"Ye might as well keep ‘er.” The old man was back at the window, smiling knowingly at them. “She’s tae weak tae survive on ‘er own, an’ ‘er tree will probably end in a dumpster after the holidays anyway.”

As they walked away, Draco could see the smirk on Potter’s face through the corner of his eye. Draco raised his chin. “What?” 

“Aren’t you going to admit I was right?”

“Wouldn’t you love the stroke to your ego,” Draco drawled. “Wipe that smile off your face, Potter. I’ll have you remember, these animals’ fingers are designed to dig out your eyes if you threaten their tree, which you’ve so kindly declared me, so…”

“Oh, yes, she looks so menacing, curling those deathly claws around you in her sleep. I’m positively shaking. Terrified.”

“Prat.”

Potter smiled. “Wanker.”

They had lunch at the Three Broomsticks. Potter had wanted to go to the Hog’s Head, but Draco had refused. He’d rather face Rosmerta a thousand times over than have to exchange a single look with Aberforth Dumbledore. Sure enough, Rosmerta seemed happy to see them hanging out together. She even interrogated Potter in much the same way she had Draco, which felt...reassuring, in a strange kind of way. 

And then, as they made their way back to the castle and Potter looked quieter than before, Draco, against all good reason, sneaked a hand under his scarf to press it on his nape, which resulted in Potter doing a cat-like jump, yelling, “Ouch! Cold, cold, cold! You wanker!”

Draco, biting down a grin, reached for Potter’s throat, but Potter ducked, grabbed his wrist, pulled at a button on Draco’s cloak at the height of his stomach with a war cry. Draco yelped, pushing Potter back. “Don’t you dare!” he warned, but Potter just giggled, grinning devilishly, and pressed his freezing fingers to Draco’s neck. 

That’s how they made their uneven way to the Owlery: running, then catching each other, pushing at hands, giggling, screaming. Draco damning Potter to the skies, Potter calling him pompous, Draco casting a thousand snowballs and aiming for Potter’s lousy head and Potter running for it.

It wasn’t until he was picking an owl to send his Christmas presents to his friends that Draco realised he’d had fun with Potter. That bickering with Potter had left him feeling warm, and not just from running. And when, after dinner, he sat alone in his bed, reading over the Potions notes he’d used as an excuse not to stay with Potter in the common room, he realised he was disappointed. Disappointed that the day was over, that there hadn’t been more. Ever since Potter had jokingly mentioned the mistletoe, he’d kind of...he’d kind of wanted, somewhere at the back of his mind, that something, anything, would give them an excuse to kiss again, even if Draco knew it was a bad idea. 

“Honestly,” he told the Bowtruckle that was now curled in the crook of his elbow, tucked under the fold of his pajama sleeve. “Why did he have to bring up the damn mistletoe?” And why did he have to look so damn cute when he was wearing my hat, and why did he have to share his food with me, and why does his smile have to be so fucking… “Ugh,” Draco concluded, falling back against the mattress, Potions parchments discarded. “You get me, don’t you, Artemis?”

But the Bowtruckle, having eaten another two grasshoppers, just curled her fingers around Draco’s arm in her sleep, sated and careless to her reluctant owner’s agony.

***

The hearth was crackling, the flames curling low, when Draco entered the common room on Christmas morning. The sweet scent of wood and ashes greeted him, as well as a colourful stack of presents under the Christmas tree. A stack that was, Draco noticed with a pang of jealousy, much smaller than that of Harry Potter, who was sat cross-legged by the tree, his back to Draco. He was still in his pajamas, blue, thick and as soft-looking as his mussy hair.

Draco faltered for a moment, but then walked up to Potter and sat by his side, facing his own presents.

“I barely know any of these people,” Potter said after a beat. He was holding a small package, frowning at the tag on it. From Jacqueline Becker, it read. Your #1 fan.

“Yes, well,” Draco retorted, trying to sound casual, “that’s what you get for saving the world, I guess.”

Potter scowled, placed the package back on the pile. “I don’t know how Hercules stands it,” he mumbled as he pulled at a bag with the Weasley name on it. “It’s just so…”

“Tedious?” Draco supplied. But Potter didn’t reply; he was busy glowering at the bag. “Ah, the frown is back, I see.”

“It’s from Ron,” Potter told him. “He’s mad at me. I’d forgotten about that.”

“It can’t be that bad if he still sends you presents.” 

Draco hadn’t gotten anything from his father. He’d known the moment he’d sat down—his father’s presents always came wrapped in silver, always with the Malfoy crest embossed on the side, where it was clearly visible. 

There was, however, a small box from his mother. He opened it carefully, pulling at one of the corners of the wrapping as Potter opened Weasley’s, telling Draco that, “Nah, it’s never too bad with Ron. We just get like that sometimes. Drives Hermione mad, especially since...well, since the war.” He pulled out a Chudley Cannons hoodie, black and orange. Draco only saw it through the corner of his eye—he was busy staring, his sight quickly unfocusing, at the ring in his hand.

It had the Malfoy crest on it.

His mother was reminding him where he belonged.

“But staying at Hogwarts was for the best, honestly,” Potter went on, grabbing another present. “He needs time alone with his family, and I need time alone with myself. Besides, I couldn’t risk going back and…They need to take care of each other now. They need to mourn Fred without having to worry about me.”

Draco looked at Potter—his mind blank, yet full of thoughts. He couldn’t pick one to follow, and Potter looked back at him, his expression shifting.

“Sorry.”

Draco shook his head. “Why would you apologise?”

Potter frowned. He tore open the present on his lap, then chuckled to himself, mumbling, “Oh, so funny, Ginny.”

“Potter.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re avoiding my question.”

Potter sighed. Dropped the present by his thigh. “I just—It’s…it’s today. I’m not really in the mood for—but I don’t want to keep pushing you away, either, so…” 

“Potter,” Draco repeated—lower now, more concerned than annoyed, “will you stop babbling and tell me what’s on your mind? I’m not going to judge you, I think we’re well past that point now. I mean, you’ve carried me in your arms, and I’ve sung about loving you in front of our whole year, and—well.” And you saved me. I’m alive because of you. “Just spit it out, whatever it is.”

“I can’t just spit it out,” Potter said, gesturing wildly. “I can’t just spit out that—that I’m sick of people treating me like I’m some kind of—fragile thing, or—or that I don’t want my friends to know that these presents, they’re nothing new. I’ve been getting owls every week since fucking May, and I’ve found a way to divert them so that no one finds out, but I—I knew this would happen. I knew Christmas would be bad, and I didn’t want to add more to the Weasleys’ plates because they already have enough to worry about. And—and why do I even feel so bad, honestly. It’s just fan mail, I shouldn’t give a damn about it.” He shrugged a shoulder. “I guess I just want people to stop thanking me for something I didn’t want to do.”

“You’ve been getting harassment for months,” Draco said, frowning, “and you haven’t told anyone about it?”

“It’s not—harassment, it’s…it’s well-intentioned.”

“Yeah, so was this thing.” Draco gave a shake of his hand, moving the ring in his palm. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

“What’s that?”

“My mother,” Draco muttered, “trying to make me forgive my father.”

A long, fine green finger suddenly made its appearance from inside Draco’s sleeve. A few more followed, and a few wiggles later a two-leafed head was popping out too, disconcerted and groggy. The Bowtruckle stretched idly, then sat on Draco’s palm, inspecting the ring.

“Oh, look who’s here,” Potter said, his posture relaxing a bit. “Morning, Pompom. Did Malfoy let you sleep in his bed?”

“Her name is Artemis,” Draco drawled, thankful for the distraction. “And she did sleep with me last night, if you must know.”

Potter shook Artemis’ hand with a finger of his, then touched one of the leaves on her head. He asked, voice low, “So…what happened with your father?”

“Tsk.” Draco leaned forward, careful not to startle the Bowtruckle, and grabbed another present from the stack—one from Pansy. He couldn’t look at Potter. “Let’s just say he’s not exactly thrilled I’m playing the damsel in distress around you. Or doing Muggle things in general.” A Slytherin green nail polish? Pansy was gonna fucking pay for that one. “Is that why you disappeared on Halloween?”

“Hmm?”

“Because you didn’t want people to thank you while you mourned.”

“Oh. I thought we’d moved on from that conversation.”

“We’re both kind of opening up at the same time,” Draco said, shrugging. “I tell you my father is still his same old self, you tell me you push people away every time you feel vulnerable…”

“Wow. I feel deeply known now.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Very funny.”

“But yes,” Potter told him. “That’s…yeah.” He leaned back, resting his weight on his hands. “And I’ll probably do the same damn thing on the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, no matter what Ron and Hermione have to say about it. I…feel like doing it today, too. Last night, it…it was the anniversary of the first time I visited their graves. I thought I’d make it through the night, and I did, but…I dunno why, but today is…hard. Probably because it's Christmas.”

A chill passed through Draco. “I—I should apologise,” he stuttered, the words tumbling out of their own accord.

“Didn’t you just tell me off for saying sorry?”

“No, I mean I—mocked you. Up until—what, a year ago now? I was mocking you because your parents were dead, I—” He swallowed. “Fuck, I just wanted everything you had and I didn’t, and you made me feel so angry, and—honestly, you’re still infuriating now, but…”

Potter laughed. “I’m still infuriating now? Lord. You are too, just so you know.”

“I’m trying to be serious here!”

“Draco,” Potter said, and Draco’s heart collapsed. “You’re not more guilty than I am. You mocked me, I mocked you. You cursed me, I cursed you. You broke my nose, I…”

“Yeah,” Draco exhaled.

Potter nodded absently, then shook his head. “So is that why you came back, then? Your father being too much of an arse?”

“Not just an arse,” Draco said. “He…he questions my every decision, he tries to make me keep living in fear. I’m never good enough for him, no matter how hard I try, and…I don’t know if I want to keep trying anymore. Not if it means losing the few people who actually give a damn about me.”

“And your mother?”

“She doesn’t agree with him,” Draco said. “But…”

“Yeah,” Potter nodded. “But.”

“Why exactly is Weasley mad at you?”

“Pff, you know.” Potter grabbed another present, then, as though coming back from a trance. He was carefully avoiding the ones from the people he didn’t know, Draco realised. “He wanted me to be at the Burrow for Christmas. He’s just hurt, really. It’ll be okay in two weeks, give or take a few days.”

They made their slow way through their presents mostly in a calm, yet tight silence after that—the sound of the morning breeze against the windows intertwining with murmured thoughts, with low chuckles and the occasional comment about the Bowtruckle that was now inspecting her surroundings. Potter left half of his gifts unopened, and by the time they made it to the Great Hall he’d pretty much retreated into himself again. After breakfast, Draco took a shower, and when he stepped into the common room again Potter had disappeared from the face of the Earth. 

***

“Sorry.”

Draco lifted his eyes from his parchments, unsurprised, when the empty space in front of him shifted into Potter. He’d heard Potter’s bedroom door creak open and then close, had heard the steps heading to the corner of the common room Draco had made himself comfortable in.

“Good morning to you too,” he said, looking down again.

“I didn’t mean to disappear yesterday.”

“You opened up, you made yourself feel vulnerable, you retreated for a bit. It’s okay. Gave me an excuse to study.” Draco slowly closed his Potions textbook. Lowered his quill. “Are you ready to be back?”

Potter stared at him. Nodded, slowly, the two lines of his frown folding between his eyebrows.

“Good,” Draco said. He stood up and walked past Potter without looking at him, trying to keep his hands from shaking. “Get your scarf, we’re going outside.” When he inevitably turned around, Potter was still looking at him, his expression one of open bewilderment, of confusion. Draco explained, calmly, “We’re going to have fun. You need it, I need it, and there’s no point sulking around the castle all day. We could have done that at home with our families. So stop looking at me like that and gear up”—he gave Potter a slow, mischievous smile—“because Pompom and I are going to kick your arse in the greatest snowball fight of all times.”

The smile that was quickly becoming his heart’s worst enemy spread across Potter’s face, unbidden. “So it’s Pompom now, huh.”

“Nonsense.” Draco turned, walked to his bedroom door, and, trying to conceal the smile from his voice, said, “I clearly said Artemis.”

***

To say they ended up soaked was an understatement. Draco had made Potter fall arsefirst into a snowdrift, and Potter, the git, had spelled an army of snowballs right against Draco’s nape, his scarf doing only so much to protect his tender skin from the cold. They’d agreed only the winner would be allowed to dry himself with magic, and at the moment it had sounded sensible. Now, though…

“How can you say you won when you practically begged me to stop!” Potter laughed, gobsmacked. “You surrendered!”

“I did no such thing,” Draco said, not letting go of Potter’s wand. “I merely stated that it was getting late and assumed victory because you were too busy laughing your arse off to get up from the snow.”

“You can’t just—assume victory, that’s not something you can just—”

By the time they reached the common room, they were both still soaked, still holding on to the other’s wand, and, in Potter’s case, still very much giggling like a small kid. 

“What!” Draco said when Potter looked at him and just guffawed.

“You hair, it’s—”

“What?” Draco repeated, frantically brushing his strands with his fingers.

“No, don’t—oh, great, you’ve ruined it now, I hope you’re happy.”

“Are we allowed to dry ourselves now,” Draco said, rolling his eyes even as he kept feeling his hair in search of any out-of-place strand.

“I mean, we could. Or we could just, you know.” Potter gestured toward the hearth, stepping back and sitting down on the carpet beside it. “Lie down by the fire and watch some telly?”

“No,” Draco said. “Absolutely not.”

A minute later, they were both sprawled on purple beanbags, their cloaks and shoes hung by the hearth, the Muggle T.V. playing one of those— tapes, or whatever they were called, that had been stacked in one of the shelves of the common room library as part of the post-war reform project. Home Alone, it was called. 

Potter, for all the excitement he’d shown as he chose the movie, fell asleep within thirty minutes.

It was the first time he ever saw Potter sleep, Draco realised. It was a weird thought, that one—of course he’d never seen Potter sleep before, they weren’t roommates. They’d been enemies since the day they’d met. They were…something else, now, but he hadn’t thought that something included sleeping in front of each other. Just annoying each other, and…snogging, and sometimes talking about stuff. Spending time together, ultimately. 

He knew, though, that that something he had with Potter shouldn’t include his breath running short at the sheer beauty that was Potter’s laugh. That it shouldn’t include his heart running wild at every accidental touch, his cheeks running hot at every quiet, intimate word Potter shared with him. And yet, knowing as he did that there was a line that he needed to stop crossing, Draco took his chance to examine the dazzling sight that was Harry Potter in his sleep. The way his cheek, pressed against the beanbag, made his upper lip curve just enough to show that crooked fang that made Potter’s smile so fucking irresistible, so impossible to forget. The way his hair, still puffy and unkempt, fell somewhat to the side, revealing his scar—the way it inched almost imperceptibly into his eyebrow. Revealing, too, a mole just between his hairline and his temple.

He looked so peaceful like this—almost delicate, and Draco didn’t know what to do with himself, what to think, except that he wanted to imprint the image in his mind so it would never slip away. 

Potter woke up again when the movie ended, just as Draco fumbled with the buttons and pulled the tape out of the slot. He made a grumbling sound, followed by a, “No, don’t put it in the—it—you need to rewind it first,” and then, when Draco just gave him a do you really expect me to know what that means look, he crawled, stifling a yawn, to Draco’s side, and tugged the box from his hands.

“There’s literally a tape inside the box, look. So now you just have to put it back in and press—um—here, and—tada! The tape will roll back all the way to the beginning.”

Potter’s arm was brushing against his. The clouds were moving outside, casting flowing shadows on the common room, and the telly, as Potter called it, was making a funny noise as the film played backwards at high speed, and Potter was sitting so close to him their arms were brushing. Their hands, almost. 

Draco wanted him closer, and the knowledge made him run hot all over. 

“So…what was the movie about?” Potter asked after a moment. His voice was low again. The common room smelled of fire and of him. 

Draco didn’t reply. Instead, he touched his hand to his wand and cast a quick, silent Accio to a mistletoe-shaped ornament that was hanging from the tree. Against all better judgement, he left it hovering over their heads. 

Potter’s eyes met his, then fell to Draco’s lips. His heart racing, Draco reached for Potter, buried a hand in his stupid hair. Fuck, it felt so soft around his fingers. 

“You,” Draco said, the word barely a murmur, “are a bloody idiot, Harry Potter.” And then he kissed the bloody idiot’s lips, letting his other hand hold Potter’s head as well. 

Potter seemed to want to protest, but Draco sucked at his bottom lip, wetting it between his own, and instead Potter hummed, angling for more. Draco, though, let go of his lip, let their foreheads press together; let one of his hands fall, but the other stay where it was, fitted against the warm shape of Potter’s head.

“A bloody idiot,” Draco repeated, letting his head slide and burying his nose in Potter’s neck, “who falls asleep during movies, and steals my hats, and drives me fucking insane all the bloody time, and can’t act to save his life, and…”

Potter brushed two knuckles along the line of his jaw—the tip of his thumb to the curve of his cheekbone.

“I like you too, you know.”

Draco tensed, but didn’t move away. Instead, he lifted his head a bit, dragged his lips over Potter’s throat, and sucked a soft kiss to a spot just under his jaw. “I hope you’re feeling better now, because I’m going to start studying for real after lunch. You’ve already distracted me enough.”

Potter’s small chuckle was stifled against Draco’s hair. “Yeah,” he said, his smile clear in his voice, “I am. Thanks, Draco.”

“And stop calling me that,” Draco grumbled, sitting up. “I’m Malfoy to you, Potter.”

“Sure, Malfoy,” said Potter, taking the tape out of the slot again. “You pompous git.”

***

The following days were spent organising, clearing and studying his class notes; practising spells and gathering a few ingredients around the castle for the optional Potions project that Slughorn had proposed in order to get extra points. A visit to the greenhouses here and there, an awkward chat with Hagrid about the Unicorns. He got a letter from Pansy, demanding to know why the hell he hadn’t sent his presents with one of his family owls, and, in a fit of stress because he couldn’t understand what the Transfigurations book was trying to tell him, he replied to her with a doodle of a lightning bolt falling on her while he laughed his arse off to the side. 

Potter, for the most part, seemed content enough to let him study. He’d sit by Draco’s side in the common room and read The Official Guide to the Quidditch World Cup, or he’d disappear for a while and fly by the common room window on his broom. Sometimes he’d steal a small peck from Draco, or he’d spell Draco’s books closed and remind him they had to go down for lunch. But, Draco noticed with growing irritation as the days passed, he never once opened his books, never once took out his class notes. And when, on New Year’s Eve, Potter declared that Draco wasn’t going to study, that it was a holiday and it should be a crime to spend it thinking about Potions, Draco grumbled, sleepy and famished on their way to breakfast, “Just because you have your golden future all planned out and don’t have to worry about your grades doesn’t mean we can all afford to just—!”

“I don’t—” Potter said, startled, “I don’t have my future all planned out.”

“W—Well. But still, you'll be whatever it is you're supposed to be, and I—"

“The thing is,” Potter cut in, “I won’t. I don’t want to be anything of what people expect me to be. Not an Auror, not—not a Ministry worker, probably not even a Quidditch player, because Lord knows I’d get love letters even on the bloody loo. And that’s all I’ve ever considered before, so…yeah. I have no idea what’s happening after Hogwarts. All I know is I don’t want my name to be what gets me there, if that makes sense.”

“Oh.” That shut him up for a moment. “S—Still, that’s better than resigning yourself to be whatever you can.”

Potter nodded. “Yeah.”

They went for another walk to Hogsmeade that morning, but returned to the castle for lunch when the leisurely breeze of the day started to turn into whirlwinds, and the semi-clouded sky started to turn darker, a blizzard looming in the distance. 

Back at the common room, Draco levitated some more logs into the hearth before lighting it with a flick of his wand, Potter coming back from his room where he’d gone to change into his ridiculous Gryffindor slippers. 

“Are you humming?” 

Draco turned from the fireplace. Potter had taken off his jeans, too, and had put on his pajama bottoms along with the sweater Mrs Weasley had sent him for Christmas. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Potter.”

“You were,” Potter smirked, “I heard you.”

He had been. The streets of Hogsmeade had been filled with the low hum of a choir in the distance, and the short walk had been enough for one of the songs to wriggle its way into Draco’s mind.

“You must be imagining things,” he said. “A bird outside, or—”

“Sing it to me?”

“Wh—What makes you think that I’d—!”

“If you don’t do it for me then do it for Pompom. Poor girl hasn’t heard you yet, come on, she deserves to. You’re really good at it.”

“That is not her name,” Draco said, his hand automatically going for his shoulder, where the little one was perched and inspecting his ear. But when Potter sat down by his side in front of the fire, his stupid hair framing his stupid goofy expression as he gave Draco his best display of puppy eyes, Draco sighed, his face already heating.

“And what exactly do you want me to sing, may I ask?”

“Whatever it was that you were humming a moment ago?” Potter said innocently.

Draco looked at the hearth, let his gaze unfocus past the twirling of the flames. He thought, idly, that he may be going completely nuts for this boy, but then again that wasn’t anything new, was it? The amount of stupid things he’d done because of Potter was already immeasurable, so…what was one more, right?

“If word of this ever gets out I’ll make you regret it,” he breathed, carefully moving the Bowtruckle on his shoulder and depositing her on his knee. Before Potter could reply, he cleared his throat and, everything be damned, let the words stuck in his head fill the room as the wind started to pick up outside, whistling at what seemed like a great distance.

“We two have paddled in the stream, from morning sun till night. But seas between us broad have roared since auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne. We’ll take a cup of kindness yet, for days of auld lang syne.”

He almost wanted to keep going, but Potter was looking at him so intensely that his throat failed him after that. He turned to the git, breathed out a flustered, “What?”, and was met with a dazzled smile that only made his cheeks grow hotter.

“I can’t believe you don’t see how good you are,” Potter said. “I could listen to you for hours, and that’s not something I thought I’d ever say about you, of all people.”

“Good god, Potter, could you be any more ridiculous?” Draco said, still short of breath.

“Sing me I Won’t Say I’m in Love.”

Draco had looked away again, but his head snapped back to Potter at that. He opened his mouth to complain, but Potter’s innocent expression was back, and Draco spluttered instead. That stupid crooked tooth and those preposterously green eyes were going to be the end of him, he was sure of it. 

He tore his gaze from the git, feeling hot all over, muttering, “No.”

“Please?”

“No , I’m not—”

“Pretty please?”

“Potter, for fuck’s sake!”

“I’ll start calling Pompom by that silly name you gave her.”

“Artemis is a Greek goddess, you bloody—” He made the mistake of turning his eyes back to Potter in a fit of annoyance. Potter, who was now pouting while the corners of his lips fought to expand into another smile. “Ugh.” He swallowed; cursed Potter to the skies and the underworld and whoever on Earth was willing to listen to him. Then, standing up, he sang, mad with it, “No chance, no way, I won’t say it, no-oh.” He glared at Potter. “It’s too cliché, I won’t say I’m in love. There. Happy now?”

Potter did, in fact, look absolutely delighted, the git. “Very much so.”

“Very well. Now that that’s out of the way…”

“I hope you’re not thinking about storming off into your room!” Potter raised his hand, which was where the Bowtruckle had landed upon jumping from Draco’s knee. “You wouldn’t leave Pompom behind, now would you?” 

Draco just rolled his eyes at Potter’s childishness, too embarrassed to rise to the bait. Potter stood up, helped Artemis into Draco’s sleeve when she reached out for it, yawning. Then he looked up at Draco’s eyes—yes, up, Draco noticed with a start. In his slippers, Potter was just a hair shorter than him. The knowledge shouldn’t have made him feel like it did, but then again, he was already shaken and burning inside.

Potter brushed a strand of hair from Draco’s temple, tucking it behind Draco’s ear, smile still in place. When Draco went to protest and no sound escaped him, Potter’s smile widened. “Are you always this articulate?” he asked, touching the pads of his fingers to Draco’s cheek. 

“That’s my line,” Draco informed him. The blizzard outside had somehow seeped through the walls, and although the room was still warm and quiet, only the fire disturbing the silence, Draco’s chest had blended with the wind and was turning, turning, like a hot-aired hurricane in the middle of a calm desert.

Potter kissed him. Draco melted into it for a moment, helpless against the hand sinking in his hair, against the fingers suddenly grabbing at his waist. He kissed back, annoyed and desperate and unthinking, and Potter’s responding sigh ran down his body to the very tip of his toes. They kissed, and kissed, and Draco wondered, through the brushing of their tongues and the nipping at the other’s lips, if Potter knew that he was the first person to kiss him. That he was the first person who’d ever pressed his hands to Draco’s hips, who’d ever made him shiver with a mere brush of knuckles at the base of his nape. That he was the first person Draco had ever hardened for, scary as that was to think about. 

“At least,” Draco mumbled, pulling back from the kiss a bit, “at least wait until midnight to snog me, you utter—”

Potter was kissing him again, a moan vibrating all through him. He tugged at Draco to bring him closer, then tugged at Draco’s robes to slip one hand inside of them, to touch skin at Draco’s hips. Draco couldn’t understand why Potter had such a fixation with that part of his body, but he didn’t have time to ask, because, just as he parted from the kiss again, Potter’s hand found the skin it’d been looking for—except on Draco’s stomach. 

Just over a scar.

He could feel the way Potter’s body tensed. The way his breath caught, the way his fingers retreated as if burnt, only to come back to the scar once more, hesitant, then firm.

Draco knew what he was feeling under his touch. He’d traced them, too, time and time again until he’d managed to look down at them without feeling sick to his stomach. The cuts had been fast, clean, and at first Madam Pomfrey had hoped they wouldn’t scar. But they’d been deep, and Potter’s magic had lingered on the edges of them for far too long, making them weaken. Making his skin die faster than it was regenerating. Pomfrey had given him skin-growing beverages, but not even that had made the wounds close. Instead, it had made new skin—white, tactless skin—grow inside them.

And so the shape of the wounds had stayed, sunken and wrinkled and ugly. 

And now Potter was touching the only cut that had reached his abdomen. Some part of Draco wanted to push him away, but another, louder part of him was struck dumb by the fact that even like this, even in this twisted, horrible version of a caress, Potter’s hands on him still felt familiar. As did Potter’s scent, Potter’s body heat so close to his, Potter’s expression as he stared in mild dread at where his hand had disappeared between the buttons of Draco’s robes.

He didn’t want Potter gone, he realised—what he wanted was that expression gone from Potter’s face. He wanted everything to be normal, and the past—their past—to stay where it belonged. He raised an eyebrow and, praying his voice wouldn’t shake, he said, “My, Potter. I didn’t take you for a Gryffindor that misses such a good opportunity to tickle a defenceless Slytherin.”

Potter looked up at his face. There was a question in his eyes, a slight tremble to his jaw. 

Draco attacked. Potter’s silly jumper did next to nothing to protect his belly, and in a second Potter was stepping back, yelping, trying to get Draco to let go of his hold on Potter’s arm.

“Ah, Draco, wai— no! Ahh—hahahh, stop, stop —” He gasped, laughing, squirming.

“Surrendering so soon, Potter?”

“No, listen, I didn’t—”

Draco went for his armpit, and Potter lost the ability for words and finally, thankfully, fought back.

They didn’t kiss at midnight. Potter vanished after dinner, and Draco resigned himself to greet the new year alone—or rather, in the company of a grumpy, clingy Bowtruckle and a bunch of loud, troubling thoughts.

Chapter Text

“Is Golden Boy—uh, I—I mean,” Draco stuttered. “Wonderboy. Is Wonderboy here for real?”

“No, no, I like it!” O’Neill said. “Gives it a nice touch. Go on.”

Draco swallowed, cursing his stupid mouth for messing that up.

“Of course he is!” Granger, who was standing beside where Draco was pretending to dry his own hair, wasn’t looking him in the eye. If Potter was a bad actor she was absolutely dreadful, possibly only beaten by Greg, who was making loud battle noises backstage.

Potter walked back onto the stage, pretending he’d defeated Greg—or rather, Nessus—and smiled at his friend—asked how he’d done. His expression was anything but genuine, and he was pointedly avoiding looking at Draco. Draco wanted to shake him. He wanted to tell him that he couldn’t just—couldn’t just spend months ignoring him, then kiss him and take him to Hogsmeade and tell him that—that he liked him, and then, then—  

“Are you…okay…miss…uh…?”

“Put your eyes on me, Potter,” Draco hissed under his breath. “Megara,” he said, louder. “My friends call me Meg, or at least they would if I had any friends. So…did they give you a name along with all those— rippling pectorals?”

Merlin. Draco wanted to vanish from the bloody universe already. 

“Ahh, uhh…uh, er, I’m—”

“Are you always this articulate?”

Potter looked at him, seemingly unintentionally. The bags under his eyes were back, as was that way of looking at Draco. That way that so clearly showed that Potter was feeling things, things he could barely himself understand. 

Draco knew what he was thinking about now, though. What his line had reminded him of. 

His hand twitched from the need to trace his own scar. He’d been doing that a lot lately.

“Hercules. My…my name is Hercules.”

Draco tsk’d, and meant something else by it. Something personal. “I think I prefer Wonderboy.”

“Hmm, let’s stick with Golden Boy, shall we? Gives it a personal touch!” O’Neill said.

Draco’s heart sunk, but he didn’t let that show in his voice when he repeated, smirk still in place, “I think I prefer Golden Boy.”

“So…how did you get involved with the bigwig?” 

“Oh, you know how men are. They think that ‘no’ means ‘yes’ and that ‘piss off’ means…” Ah, there it was. The dreaded moment. Will all the dignity he could muster, Draco draped himself on Potter’s shoulders, pressing close to him, and said, “‘take me, I’m yours.’”

And even though Draco had to step back straight away, he could feel Potter’s hands ghosting around his hips as if to hold him. Stupid bloody Gryffindor. Draco pulled back, Potter’s stupidly nice scent clinging to him as he said his goodbye. Potter, as his character was meant to do, grabbed Draco’s hand, said, “Wait! Can we give you a lift?”

And Draco, wanting nothing but to let go of Potter’s hand—to pull at that hand and bring them closer again—smiled, looked back at Weasley, and said, “I don’t think your pinto likes me a lot.”

The aversion on Weasley’s expression was genuine, as always. 

“Pegasus?” Potter asked, waving a hand. “Pfft, come on! He’d be more than happy to—” Weasley huffed grandly, gave Potter a fake-smack on the head before storming off. “Ouch!”

“Mr Weasley!” O’Neill interrupted. “For the hundredth time, don’t turn your back to the audience! Unless you want them to only see you walk right between Mr Potter Mr Malfoy and nothing else, you have to step between them from behind them. Your faces and your actions visible, so that the audience at least has a chance at knowing what’s going on. Again, please.”

Weasley did his thing again, sharing a look of complicity with Potter even as he smacked him. Ah. The friendship was back on track, then. Even though he’d known it’d happen, that hell would probably freeze before the day came when Potter and Weasley stopped being inseparable, Draco couldn’t help but feel annoyed. Jealous. It was a familiar feeling, that one. One that went back to that first ride on the Hogwarts Express.

Merlin, that felt like lifetimes ago. Some things never changed, did they?

“Er—I’ll be fine,” Draco said just a beat too late, when he realised it was his turn to talk. The script didn’t say to, but he’d done it a few times before and O’Neill had liked it, and so, hating every second of it, Draco playfully brushed a finger down Potter’s chest as he said the rest of his line. “I’m a big tough girl, I tie my own sandals and everything. Bye-bye, Wo—uh, Golden Boy.”

He’d thought he’d done well, thought he’d done a good job at leaving the pettiness backstage and practising greatness during the rehearsal. But as they all got ready to leave after his scene with Hades, Pain and Panic—luckily played by Blaise and the Patil twins, so no one who especially despised Draco—O’Neill told him to go to her classroom in his free period to talk to her privately.

“Something’s on your mind,” was how she greeted him. 

Draco half-leaned, half-sat on the edge of one of the desks, careful to keep his posture just the right amount of casual. She sat, cross-legged and looking smaller than usual, on the desk nearest his, facing him. “Is there anything you wish to talk about, Mr Malfoy?” she added when he didn’t say anything.

Was there? Oh, but there was. The right thing to ask himself was—did he want to share it with O’Neill? He’d felt relieved when he’d seen her again on January 2nd, and he had wished she’d been at Hogwarts during the previous week, but… “I came back early from the holidays,” he said, averting her gaze.

“I heard.” The kindness in her voice made Draco want to turn away from her, even as he yearned to just let it all out—to have someone understand. Someone who actually cared—who could actually help.

“I haven’t told my friends about it,” Draco went on. “They’ve been asking, but I don’t want to talk about it with them. Even if I know they’d probably understand.”

“You don’t have to talk about any of it with me either if you don’t want to. But if there’s any way I can possibly help…”

“Can you tell Potter to stop being petty on stage?” he cut her. “I’m sick of him acting like I’m some kind of helpless puppy that needs his pity.”

“Oh, I gave him his own personalised speech at the beginning of the year, too. You’re just slightly better at keeping your feelings to yourself than he is, which is why I was surprised by the way you were acting around him today. It’s been a while since I’ve had to call your attention. But I’ll give him a not-so-subtle reminder, don’t worry.”

Draco nodded. A moment of silence passed between them, and he almost got up and left the classroom. Except…

“I had a fight with my father,” he said, so lowly he wondered if she’d even heard him. “I—I love him, but I just couldn’t—and I left the Manor without telling him and he hasn’t written to me yet. But I know he will eventually. He’s not going to let go of me so easily. He’s still convinced I…I’ll go back to him eventually.”

O’Neill’s expression contorted into something similar to frustration. “But that’s not what you want, is it?”

“No. I already told him I was done playing a part for him, but…”

“Mr Malfoy,” she said. “Draco. You know that you being his son doesn’t mean you owe him anything, right? You don’t have to let him keep you trapped. You don’t even have to love him just because—”

“I do love him,” Draco quickly cut in, an unexpected surge of fear coursing through his veins. “I love him, I love my parents more than anything.”

“And that’s okay,” said O’Neill. “I’m sorry I implied otherwise. I didn’t want to upset you.”

“It’s—” Why were her words making him feel so…so shaken inside? “It’s okay.”

He hated that she was the one looking at him with pity, now. Hated that it felt like it was exactly what he needed, hated that he couldn’t hate her for it—that he wanted to keep talking, to keep hearing that what he was feeling was okay. He shouldn’t want those things. He didn’t need anyone’s compassion. He couldn’t show weakness, couldn’t—  

No. No. There was nothing wrong with showing weakness. Luna did it without any problem; hell, Greg did it all the time too. And the only reason Draco felt like he couldn’t was—was that voice inside him telling him it was wrong, wrong, wrong. 

A voice that belonged to his father.

“Potter was the only other Eighth year that stayed over during Christmas,” he said. He suddenly realised O’Neill had been waiting for him to decide to fill in the silence; that she was trying to get him to open up without pressuring him. The knowledge made him bold, and, clenching his fists, Draco blurted out, “we’ve—kissed. More than once.”

“Oh.” As per usual, O’Neill’s eyebrows rose, forming two perfect arches. “Well! That’s—not what I was expecting when I told you there was a lesson for you to learn, but I’m glad you two are leaving the past behind. I take it it didn’t go very well, though?” 

Draco huffed—rolled his eyes. “He told me he liked me and made me go with him to bloody Hogsmeade. We even adopted this little”—he raised his arm, showing her the green leaf peeking from his sleeve—“idiot that does nothing but sleep and climb up and down my body at the worst possible moments. And then he went and—” Draco swallowed. “He went and touched my scars and freaked himself out and went back to not bloody talking to me.”

Only after he’d said that did he realise not many people knew about his scars. Pansy, Luna, Greg, his parents. Potter now, too. Pomfrey and McGonagall, of course, and…well. And Snape had, too. 

He wondered, idly, if he would have shared all of this with Snape. He’d trusted him, he’d felt slightly safer at moments because he was around, but ultimately, Snape had been on his parents’ side, never on Draco’s. He’d been in on all the bigger plans that Draco had had to partake in, and he’d helped, yes, but…but, Draco realised with a pang of betrayal, he’d helped Draco be exactly who he was being forced to be. 

O’Neill, small and hunched forward and regarding him with compassion, seemed to want nothing but for Draco to feel safe, to feel like he could be open about his feelings, and that, for some stupid reason, made a tear or two suddenly well in Draco’s eyes. He blinked them away, frowning, and told the teacher, who was patiently waiting for him to explain, “Back in Sixth year, Potter and I, we—had a fight. It got bad, he…he sliced me open with a curse.” He almost made himself sick with the memory. “I hate that I can’t hate him for it. What I was doing that year, it—it was equally as bad. Worse, in fact. He simply made a better attempt at stopping me than anyone else around me. But I don’t know if I was ready for him to touch them yet, and he definitely wasn’t either, because…well. Yeah. He’s been avoiding me for the last four days.” He squinted. “Again.”

“And that’s not what you want,” she finished for him.

“I want him to own up to what he did and move on already. If I can, then he can too.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

Draco sat properly on the table, hands clutching the edges of it. “You just did,” he said, a poor attempt at cheekiness. “But...yeah, why not, I’ll grant you another one.”

“Oh, thank you for your generosity.” She chuckled, shook her head. “My question is, do you still think about what your younger classmates said to you when you rehearsed your song?”

Draco thought about it. “Hmm…not really. They do cross my mind every so often, but I’m not too bothered. I think it’d be worse if I were…” And there he paused. 

“Trans?” she offered after a moment. 

“No, no, not—no. I meant if I was—gay. But I guess I…must be.”

“You must be?”

“Yeah? I…” He frowned. “I don’t know. I’ve never felt anything for any other guy before. Not even Blaise, and the wanker is handsome.”

“What about girls?”

Draco shrugged, trying to think of a moment when he’d…noticed someone. Someone other than Harry bloody Potter. “Same thing. Pansy had a crush on me for years, we even went to the Yule Ball together, but…I—” Oh, Merlin. He couldn’t believe he was about to say this. He scowled. “I guess even back then the only person I ever had a fixation for was Potter.” 

“Hmm. I can see where the problem lies.”

“I don’t really think about him as a boy when I kiss him, either,” Draco went on, thinking aloud. It felt weird, being able to do that. He liked it, he realised. “Just…I don’t know. It’s him. It’s like he’s slowly turning into my damn sexuality.”

“That could be the case, you know.”

“Pfft, sure.”

“No, really.” O’Neill stood up, then seemed not to know what to do with herself and draped herself sideways on the chair, one foot propped up on the edge of it. “I’ve met people before who feel similarly to what you’re describing. One of my best friends back at Hogwarts, and the Hufflepuffiest Hufflepuff to ever step foot in this school, once said this silly thing to me that kind of stayed with me over the years, you know. She said, I didn’t think you were hot as a boy and I don’t think you’re hot as a girl”—O’Neill rolled her eyes, as if sharing an inner joke with Draco about the way her friend had phrased it—“but I think I was in love with you before and I sure as hell am in love with you now. Tough luck, hers, since I’m a heterosexual woman. But! We still owl from time to time. She works at the French Ministry now, got married last—no, two years ago now. But I digress.” She’d brought up her other knee and was kind of swinging both her legs to one side and then the other. “She’s never felt attracted to anyone. She just…fell in love with people sometimes. Only three, as far as I know—me, her first love, as she said; then this other girl I never got to know because we lost contact for quite a few months, and now her husband. See what I mean?”

Draco’s mind was reeling. That did feel familiar to him. It also brought back memories of his friends trying to set him up with Pansy, of him asking himself why he’d ever date her if she was his friend. Not a girl, just—his friend. It brought memories of his father rambling about eventually finding the perfect wife for him, and Draco…Draco not thinking that he’d rather be with a guy, but just—resigning himself to his fate. To being a good pureblood man with his good pureblood family.

It brought memories of Potter. Of Potter making him lose his composure, of Potter getting under his skin, of—of that first kiss, and how it hadn’t even crossed his mind that he was kissing another bloke, because his mind had been too blurry at the knowledge that it was Potter that he was holding against that stupid table.

Fuck. It did make sense, didn’t it?

“I…” Draco started, trying to go back on his train of thought, trying to recall how he’d just gotten to the conclusion that the person O’Neill had described sounded exactly like him. The thought was gone, but his sureness didn’t falter. “Yeah. That would make sense.”

“It would?”

“That doesn’t mean I’m in love with Potter though,” he quickly added. “I’m not. I merely feel more strongly for him than for anyone else who’s ever shown interest in me.”

“Okay, okay,” she chuckled, dropping her feet on the floor. “And we’ve established you don’t want him to keep ignoring you, so I take it that you want to act on your feelings for him? Ask him out, or…?”

“I—not—” Draco spluttered, heat rushing through his veins. “Not ask him out, that’s too—too cheesy. I want him to pay attention to me, yes. I want him to reciprocate my feelings, absolutely. I want him to still be in my life after Hogwarts, well, o—obviously.” Whoa. Where the fuck had that last bit come from? “B—but going out, that’s…well. I don’t know. Probably not a good idea.”

“Oh? According to whom?”

“To—” He frowned. “Anyone with common sense?”

“Eh, common sense is overrated,” she declared with a dismissive wave of a hand. “And life is too short to stick to other people’s idea of it anyway. Draco, what do you want? That’s what you have to fight for. That’s what you have to let him know. If he doesn’t feel the same, he’ll tell you and you’ll move on; if he does, then you can decide whether to try to make it work. But if you can’t be honest about what you want, not even with yourself, then you’re signing up for just running around in circles until the end of time. Remember what we’ve seen in class about the power of conversation. It doesn’t just apply to societies, it doesn’t just apply to minorities. Your personal life will appreciate it, too. Everyone’s would, in fact, but… well, communication is sadly not one of the strengths of the society we live in.”

His conversation with O’Neill went on for the rest of the hour. He had Charms next, but he didn’t feel ready to leave—ready to face the real world and have to pretend he was okay. On his way to Charms, he had to hide in a dark corridor for a moment just to have a wall to lean against as he caught up with his wild thoughts. 

By the end of the day, he had a plan of attack.

***

“I kept the lily you gave me.”

Potter’s head snapped up from the chessboard, as did Weasley’s. Draco raised his chin a bit higher, determined not to let the fact he was in public undermine his resolve.

“O...kay?” Potter said, eyeing Weasley and then Draco again. 

“Ah, your quarrel with the Weasel is over, I see. The order of the universe is restored.”

“Piss off, Ferret,” Weasley spat. “Your presence is rotting my brain cells.”

Draco swallowed a witty remark about the prat not having any of those left. He had something much more important to say. “I will if Harry here tells me to.”

There. He’d done it. He’d said Harry. Lord, O’Neill had better be proud of him for this. 

“Draco, what—?” Potter didn’t have a chance to finish his question. Apparently Draco wasn’t the only one who had missed the idiot, because a certain green little devil jumped out from Draco’s sleeve and into Potter’s hair upon hearing his voice. “Pompom!” Potter said, bringing his hands to his hair to try and catch the Bowtruckle. She climbed over his hands, leaned forward to stare at him upside down as she clung to his fringe with her stalklike fingers. “Hi there, buddy. I’d missed you.”

“What the fuck, mate?” 

“Oh, of course,” Potter said, “how rude of me. Pompom, meet Ron. Ron, this is Pompom; Malfoy here is her tree.”

“Her name is Artemis,” said Draco. “And mine’s Draco to you. Now come on, you and I need to talk.” With that, he turned around and left. 

Sure enough, a moment later there was the drag of a chair and a whined, “Mate, I’m about to win!”

“Just take my cauldron cakes, we’ll do the rematch tonight!”

Draco walked all the way to his bedroom without turning back to Potter. Luna, after classifying his resolve to fix things with Potter as lovely, had taken Greg for a walk by the lake, so they wouldn’t be interrupted for at least a good hour.

“Draco,” Harry said, faltering for a moment before stepping into the room, “what…?”

“I don’t pity you, you know.”

Potter stood still, looking at Draco as though he was trying to decipher him. “I’ve never asked you to.”

“Others have.”

“Then that’s on them,” Potter said carefully. He was looking around, half-suspicious, half-curious. His body posture spoke of unexpected intimacy, of not knowing how much of Draco’s personal space he was allowed to acknowledge. “I don’t want that from you.”

Draco, too, could feel the comfort of his room shifting around Potter, tensing at the edges in the general space he was occupying. Could feel the way his mind was trying to catch up with the fact Potter was standing just a few feet away from the bed where he slept every night. From the nightstand where he kept his old diary, from his underwear drawer.

“Is there anything you do want from me?” he asked, glad the conversation had taken them there straight away. He could slowly feel his surge of bravery crumbling, but he knew O’Neill had been right. They couldn’t keep tripping over the same damn stone until the end of the school year.

“Is there anything you want to hear?”

“There is, actually.” Draco looked around for anything that would keep him busy—that would give him an excuse not to look at Potter. He came short of ideas, and said his next words kind of glancing at the floor, kind of shuffling on the spot. “Tell me that you meant it when you said you liked me.”

“I—I did. I thought that was clear.”

“It was in the moment,” Draco said. “Before you decided to pretend Christmas hadn’t happened.”

“I’m not—pretending. I’m just…look, you were right when you said our history was far too complicated for us to be together. I should have realised sooner. I just didn’t want to see it, because…”

“Because you don’t want to face it,” Draco said. “You don’t want to face anything. That’s your problem, Potter. Harry. You—you keep stuff from your friends and family, you run away from the problems you can’t fix. Why? Because you don’t have anyone telling you what to do anymore?”

“You really think it’s that simple, don’t you? That I could just—open up if I wanted to, that I’m just sulking around and hiding in corners because I don’t want to face my feelings? Do you know how bloody complicated it was for me to tell you about all those damn presents? Do you have any idea the things that—that want to come out of my mouth the moment I start opening up?” He was looking around, now, his eyes everywhere but on Draco. He looked like he wanted to leave, and Draco considered casting a silent locking charm on the door. But no—the only way this would work out was if both of them wanted it to. “You have no idea how badly I need to talk about it.”

“Then why don’t you do it?”

“Because I—” Potter’s expression fell. “I can’t.”

“You can’t,” Draco repeated. “Because of the war?”

“Because I promised Dumbledore no one would ever know about it. Not even Ron and Hermione.”

A million thoughts swarmed in Draco’s mind, and the need to voice them all at once almost took over him. But he wanted to be careful; he didn’t think he could stand Potter storming off now. Slowly, Draco said, “My father wants me to stop being friends with Goyle and Theo. He wants me to have an important job at the Ministry so that he can have some control over it through me. He wants me to marry a pureblood woman so I can have a precious pureblood heir. And he wants me to live in fear, not trusting anyone around me. Not opening up, not giving anyone access to my weaknesses.” Potter was looking at him, now—studying him through a frown. “He wants control over me. And I’m not giving that to him anymore. I’m standing up against him and all he stands for, even though—even though I still love him, because he’s still my father. And…and he’s alive.”

“What…what does that—?”

“It means that Dumbledore is dead, Harry. You’re keeping yourself chained to the motives of a dead man.”

Potter closed his eyes. Clenched his fists. Draco waited for the explosion to come, but it didn’t. Instead, Potter sat on Draco’s bed—defeated.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said, “I know he meant a lot to you, and I know I’m—possibly the worst person to be talking about him to you, but—he’s gone. So is the D—so is... Voldemort. They’re gone. The war is over. You…you and I, we’re allowed to move on, now. We don’t have to be their pawns anymore. In fact, I refuse to be anyone’s pawn.” A beat of silence. “Do you?”

Potter was shivering. He looked like he was barely breathing, like his magic was shimmying close to the surface and would burst any moment, making something in the room shatter into a thousand shards. Draco’s feelings were…complicated, at that moment. Some wicked part of him missed the days when he could have used the opportunity to mock Potter, to get a reaction from him. Another, much more overwhelming part of him wanted to sit by his side and tell him everything would be okay—that they’d figure life out eventually. 

He wanted to run. He wanted to shake Potter’s next words out of him already. He wanted to be better than that, to be understanding, to—

“I—I can’t,” Potter blurted out. “Lord, Draco, y—you wouldn’t even understand, you’d think I’m delusional, it’s too complicated, it’s not something I can just—”

“My aunt Bellatrix,” Draco said, the words coming from somewhere beyond his comprehension, “along with V—with Voldemort, they would…they would use Legilimens on me and—and Crucio me at the same time. To make sure my loyalty lay with them. To—to see what my barest, most desperate thoughts looked like.” His breathing quickening, Draco finally moved. He sat by Potter and watched, helpless, as his own hands started to shake. “My father was there.”

“I—” By his side, Potter shrunk into a ball, knees up. “I died.”

A reproach about Potter’s filthy shoes on his bedsheets died in Draco’s throat.

“You…died.”

“In the Battle of Hogwarts.”

“That’s…” Draco shook his head. His thoughts were slow for a moment, unbelieving, but they turned faster the moment he tried to get a grip on them, becoming a blur—a blur of impossible, of absurd—of memories of the Dark Lord’s voice, resonating in his very mind, saying, Harry Potter is dead. Of memories of Potter, too, of—of Harry, of his Harry lying on the ground, small and broken and on display for everyone to see. Memories, almost palpable, of pain, of his mind screaming no, no, no as he stared, waiting for a twitch of a finger, for a bat of an eyelash, for—for a breath, for anything that would tell him that—that Harry, that—that he was alive, that—

Harry was crying. His shoulders shook with a poorly muffled sob, and Draco’s attention seemed to snap, seemed to turn sharp, because he was suddenly grasping Harry’s hand as though the boy sitting beside him was his very lifeline.

“I c—can’t,” Harry said. He looked like he was trying to keep it together. “I can’t talk about it.” 

“You can. Harry, you have to.” Not giving himself the time to hesitate, Draco pressed his palm to Harry’s cheek—warm, wet, rough from his stubble. “It doesn’t have to be with me, it doesn’t have to be now. But you have to, if you want to move on from everyth—”

“I can’t, that’s—that’s impossible. I’ll never be out of this, it’ll—it’ll never be over, Draco. I’m broken inside, I’m—I was a—there was a reason I had to—” 

He cut himself off with a sharp breath, and Draco’s heart sunk. He had no idea what to do, how to get Harry to open up. But he could feel more words straining to escape from Harry’s lips, wet and red and as stupidly beautiful as always, and that made him remember the way O’Neill had sat in silence a few days before, waiting for Draco to decide whether he wanted to keep talking. 

And so he waited. Harry had his head down, and his hair was just long enough that it covered his eyes. Draco brushed a strand between two fingers, then rested his hand on his own lap in lack of a better thing to do with it. 

A moment later, a tear fell on Harry’s trousers just as Harry said, his words barely a murmur, “I chose to come back. I could have chosen to stay. I could have chosen to be with m—my parents. With—with Sirius. And sometimes I’m…I’m just not sure I chose right, because now I’m lost and everyone expects something of me and everything’s just too mu—wh—hey!”

Draco, in a moment of hurt and terror and rage, had launched himself on top of Harry, pushing the bastard back against the bed. “You’re not sure you chose right? You. Aren’t. Sure? For the love of Merlin, Salazar and Godric fucking Gryffindor, Potter. You’re lucky you didn’t choose to die, because I would have—I would have followed you there to grab you by the fucking ear and bring you back home, you hear me?”

And if he was suddenly close to tears, then who the fuck had anything to say about it?

Lord, but Harry’s eyes shone when he cried, even behind his ridiculous glasses. Draco only caught a glimpse of them before Harry covered his face with his hands. He didn’t make a sound, but his body shook under Draco’s with another sob.

“I n—need to stop crying,” Harry groaned, his voice muffled. “Tell me a joke.”

A joke? How was Draco supposed to come up with a joke? His heart was about to burst from terror, from the need to hold on to Harry and never let him go in case he’d disappear. The only thing on his mind was the way Harry’s body felt under his, warm and shaking and alive, and the shape of Harry’s hands as they covered his dampened face, and the way his hair was everywhere, wavy and coarse and really bloody soft-looking, and the knowledge that he didn’t know where he’d be, what he’d do if Harry were to—to cease to exist, to—

“Your hair,” Draco said, feeling numb.

Harry laughed—a startled, wet kind of guffaw. “That’s the joke?”

“Yup,” Draco replied, dragging the first sound and popping the p. Harry huffed again, then sat back up, taking off his glasses and wiping at his eyes with an angry gesture. It wasn’t until he dropped his hands, until he rested one of them on Draco’s hip, that Draco realised he’d ended up on Harry’s lap, his inner thighs pressed against Harry’s. 

Harry felt so warm. Draco didn’t want to let him go, ever. It was a scary feeling, that one—an annoying one, one that made him feel vulnerable, but…it felt so simple, so undeniable. He didn’t want Harry gone. Not from his room, not from his life. Not from this world. Not now or ever. 

Harry leaned forward, hiding his face in the crook of Draco’s neck in much the same way Draco had had to do over and over during the rehearsals. Draco cupped his nape, not sure what else to do except breathe in Potter’s familiar scent.

“I’m sorry,” Harry murmured eventually, “I don’t usually cry like that. And that—what I said, it...it was really only the tip of the iceberg.”

“I gathered as much,” said Draco. “D—don’t worry, it’s more than enough for one day. We…have time.” He held Harry just a little bit closer. “Thanks for telling me.”

“When the heck did you become so wise?” Potter asked against his clothes. Merlin, even the tone of his voice was making Draco want to kiss him. It wasn’t fair.

“I have no fucking clue. Honestly, I’m just telling you what O’Neill would probably tell me.”

“Ah, that explains it.” Harry finally pulled back. He pressed his forehead against Draco’s before looking up at him. “She’s…really wise.” 

“She is,” Draco breathed.

They were really close. Harry’s hands were holding his hips, now, and his eyelids were slowly falling as he stared, jaw slightly slack, at Draco’s lips. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, and his eyelashes looked so fucking dark. So fucking long. His hair did, too—it had grown over the months. Draco had noticed during the holidays, but it had been the kind of realisation that only happens at the back of one’s mind, the kind that doesn’t form into a proper thought. The thought was there now, though, and as he brushed his fingers through the black strands with care, Draco murmured, a little breathless, “Don’t you need a haircut?”

“Nah,” said Harry, eyes still on Draco’s mouth. “I like it like this. Reminds me of Sirius.”

“Hmm,” was Draco’s way of saying, I like it very much, too.

Harry grazed his lips over Draco’s. He remained close—of his own accord or because Draco was holding him there, Draco didn’t know. He pressed a kiss to Harry’s lips in return, then said against them, “I want to be with you.”

He could feel Harry’s lips stretching into a small smile. “As in...dating?”

“Not dating,” Draco said, pulling back a bit with a scowl. “I mean it as in—being together.”

“Mmhm.”

“As in, you know, spending time together,” Draco continued, exasperated by Harry’s smirk. “Romantically. And showing decorous public displays of affection, and kissing each other—and I mean, exclusively each other, and potentially considering being in each other’s lives after the school year ends, and as in opening up about our feelings like you just did…”

“So you mean dating,” Harry said. “That’s literally what you just described.”

“If you absolutely must call it that.”

“Does it also include calling each other pet names?”

“It most certainly does not,” Draco informed him.

“And asking you to sing to me?”

“Potter, I swear to Merlin—”

Harry chuckled, but his expression shifted into something more serious, more hesitant, when he said, “How about…” As he carefully watched Draco’s face in search for his answer, he let the hands still resting on Draco’s hips slip down a bit, moving back. 

The brush of fingers on his arse cheeks, even through his robes, made a soft gasp escape him—made him have to lean forward and press his forehead to Harry’s. Lord, but that had no right feeling so stupidly good. He trapped Harry’s mouth in a slow kiss, his hips pressing back against Harry’s hands of their own damn accord when they moved down another half-millimetre. Every other time they’d kissed, it’d been fast, it’d felt new and overwhelming and had made him feel on edge. This moment felt like the opposite. It felt like every movement was deliberate, like there was room to think, to make decisions.

And there was a decision he wanted to make, he realised. So he let go of Harry’s lower lip and tugged at his wrists until those infuriating hands were safe between their laps. 

“Yes,” he exhaled, “but not until we’re ready for you to see these.” He brought one of Harry’s hands to his stomach, roved it up his chest, and then down his left arm to the inner side of his forearm. “Or this.”

Harry nodded, clearly shaken at having his hand so close to the remnants of their past. “Sounds fair.”

Draco nodded back—kissed him again. He didn’t quite feel ready to end the moment yet—to be alone with thoughts of the battle yet. 

But then another thought crossed his mind, and he withdrew again. 

“Harry, where the hell did you leave Artemis?”

Harry’s hands automatically flew to his hair. He patted the bed, looked around him, and, upon finding nothing, he concluded, “Um.”

As it turned out, the Bowtruckle had jumped onto the chessboard when Harry had followed Draco. Whatever had happened next would forever remain a mystery for Draco, but the scene that appeared before their eyes when they stepped into the common room again would probably stay with him for decades to come: Weasley, standing on one of the sofas, almost running over Longbottom and Abbott in his chase for a very small, very excited-looking owl, from whose claw Artemis was hanging. 

“PIGWIDGEON!” the Weasel was screaming, batting his hands in the air. “Come back down this instant!”

“Pompom, jump down!” Harry yelled, standing under the animals and cupping his hands as if to pick her up. But the Bowtruckle didn’t seem to want to jump. She was swaying her legs, wiggling, as though the whole experience was fun to her. 

The entirety of the common room was watching the spectacle, and so Draco, standing by Harry and raising his cupped hands above his head as well, said, “Her name is Artemis!”

***

That battle, though, was a lost one, Draco soon found out. Artemis, eating and sleeping and getting pet all the bloody time like the queen she was, gained strength as the weeks passed, and she soon became the most popular girl in the Eighth year common room—by the name of Pompom, of course, courtesy of Harry bloody Potter. She seemed to have become best friends with that chaotic blur of a bird, Pigwidgeon, much to Draco’s and Weasley’s dismay, and she’d discovered her passion for hanging from people’s ponytails by falling from the owl’s grip once and right into Susan Bones’ hair. 

Her other passion, apart from napping in Draco’s sleeve, was scratching her leaves against the quills of stressed students. Among those students, of course, was Draco. Christmas had seemed to flick a switch in every single teachers’ head, because as January gave way to February and as the last pink ornaments of St Valentine’s turned into the shy pink of the first petals of March, there wasn’t a day that the Eighth years didn’t hear the word NEWTs. Here are the thirty-seven charts you need to memorise if you have any intention of passing your Charms NEWT; remember that if you smell of lemon during your Herbology NEWT this plant will chew you slowly, painfully to death. 

Draco hardly needed the reminders; the only reason he wasn’t spending the nights in the library was Harry’s poor attempts at dragging him back to his room—attempts which usually entailed a chocolate frog or two or, if the bribery didn’t do the trick, a whole lot of tickles. 

Which was why the first letter his father sent him since the Christmas holidays ended in the hearth, the flames devouring his father’s slender handwriting until all that was left of the parchment was ashes, indistinguishable from the ones born from the wood. Draco had promptly decided, sleep-deprived and stressed to the core, that Lucius Malfoy simply didn’t get to send him a reminder to study hard for his final exams. Not without an apology—not with the only intention to have Draco exactly where he wanted him. And especially not when he wasn’t even willing to acknowledge that Draco was already trying his best.

The play, too, was right around the corner, and the rehearsals quickly went from mildly embarrassing and altogether fun to stressful, O’Neill’s patience running thin when Michael Corner forgot for the umpteenth time that the Cyclops needed to hit the pillar as he fell when Hercules defeated him, because otherwise Megara wouldn’t die and there wouldn’t be an end to the bloody play. 

“Mr Weasley, I do not recall Mr Malfoy entering the scene five steps behind you! Hercules is in great trouble, Pegasus is clearly not going to wait for Meg to catch up to get to him. Come on, start again from the beginning of the scene, this time giving Meg a piggyback. Mr Finnigan, it’s not Miss Granger who needs to know the narrator’s lines three weeks before the play! If I have to see her giving you your own lines in one more rehear—Miss Bulstrode, what have we said about magic-centred problem-solving? Use your head before you use your wand!”

O’Neill’s voice was more like a distant echo in the changing room, which was directly under the stage. That was where Draco was at the moment, trying on a brown dress that had been dug up from an old trunk full of Muggle apparel, random colourful accessories and enough dust that a few students had had to leave the room in a sneezing fit.

It was more a really long cloth coiled around his body than an actual dress, and it left patches of Draco’s skin on display. He traced the shape of the scar under his left nipple. He really hoped O’Neill wouldn’t make him wear that one—the mere idea of walking onto the stage in it was making him nervous.

“You look dashing, darling.” 

Draco jumped around, covering his chest with a hand. “Pansy, I swear to fucking—”

“Calm your tits, you idiot,” she said, walking over to him, pulling at the cloth at the spot behind his shoulder blades. “Here, tuck it this way. You don’t want your Golden Boy seeing more than he can handle.”

Draco scowled. “Can’t you just call him Harry?”

“And sound like you in bed? No, thank you.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek, walked back to the stairs. “Come up, O’Neill’s waiting to see you.”

“How do you know what I sound like in bed!” Draco spluttered, grabbing his wand and following her backstage. 

“Cheesy, of course! You’d probably be all lovey-dovey, like—” Draco tried to cover her mouth with his hand, but she bit him, snickered, and went on, “Oh, Harry, my love, my beautiful—”

O’Neill, of course, agreed that the dress didn’t fit him. But there was no time to waste, she said; it was good enough for Draco to rehearse in that day, she said. And so Draco had to let Harry carry him in his arms, back from the dead and right into a spelled light that was meant to resemble his own body, in a bloody cloth that of course moved when Harry picked him up, and of course gave him a front-row view of the hollow, white lines carved in Draco’s chest.

Harry hadn’t seen them yet, as Pansy had so kindly pointed out. The only time it had been close to happening again had been on St Valentine’s, when they’d been alone in Draco’s room and their kiss had turned heated, had turned into hands roaming boldly under clothes and legs getting tangled; into bodies rutting frantically against each other. But Harry had retreated as soon as Draco’s pajama shirt had threatened to roll up between them, and had, after a moment of hesitation, nuzzled Draco’s neck and practically curled around him, as though he was scared of disappearing again if he let go. 

His expression as he carried Draco across the stage was neutral, but his eyes were restless, moving away only to fall right back to Draco’s chest, and he was breathing unevenly. Draco knew it wasn’t from his weight.

“Harry,” Draco whispered, and Harry bit his lower lip, a frown forming on his face. He looked beautiful, Draco thought helplessly. He felt beautiful carrying Draco effortlessly, he sounded beautiful as he set Draco down and told him, in a tone that almost sounded private despite its loudness, that People always do crazy things when they’re in love. 

They were meant to almost-kiss again before Longbottom’s—well, Zeus’s lightning bolt struck and the doors to Olympus opened, but his classmates were, as always, distracted backstage, and as O’Neill called for them with a tone that Pansy would surely have described as bossy, Draco and Harry just looked each other in the eye, a little bit breathless, a little bit terrified.

“Draco, I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” Draco breathed, and then tried to ease the moment with an added, “you twat.”

“You’re not—”

“I’m not mad.” Draco was very aware that Granger was crouched right beside them and, even though she was looking away, clearly hearing their hushed conversation. His next words came from a place of truth, but also of insecurity—of hoping that not only Harry, but also Granger, would believe them. “I don’t want you to be sorry. What I want you to be is willing to leave the past where it belongs. This, this—this not who we are anymore. It’s not who I want to be for you anymore.”

Harry didn’t have time to give him an answer before their classmates filled the stage. He had to get up, to go tell Longbottom and Abbott that he didn’t want to go back home with them because he wanted to stay with Draco, and by the time he strode back to Draco, embracing his waist and bringing him close for a short kiss, Draco could feel him shaking ever so slightly in his arms. 

“We’ll talk after Potions,” Draco breathed, holding Harry closer, hugging him. Relaxing against him as he took in his scent. “Don’t you dare freak out on me, you hear me?”

“Get a room!” Finnigan shouted at them, and a few people snickered. Draco stepped back, rolling his eyes, but before O’Neill could tell them which scene to rehearse next, he murmured an almost voiceless, After Potions.

And talk they did, though not as much as Draco would have hoped. Harry waited for Draco outside the classroom door and, without waiting for Draco to say anything, led them to a broom cupboard in the dungeons. 

“What…” was as much as Draco could muster before he was pressed against a wall, before the word Lumos was breathed against his cheek and Harry’s wand messily placed on a cramped shelf. Before there were lips behind his ear, at the line of his hair, and hands on his hips, moving up his back. 

“I—” Harry stuttered, sinking his face further down Draco’s neck. “I want to move on, too. I really, really want that.” He breathed in, noisily, as if sniffing Draco. Then he lifted his head, looking Draco in the eye. “I want to see them,” He said. “Can I see them?”

Exhaling, Draco nodded. 

Harry nodded back. His hands were shaking when they started fumbling with the buttons of Draco’s robes, his eyes practically burning a hole through Draco as he worked his way up, up to the base of Draco’s throat. “You know, normal people don’t normally fasten the last button,” he said, fingers lingering there, not moving down to open Draco’s robes even though his eyes were already on Draco’s chest. 

“What’s…” Fuck, but Draco was practically skipping over his breaths. “What is normal about me,” he said, trying to joke but getting the tone embarrassingly wrong. 

Potter huffed, but he, too, seemed to be unable to focus on the conversation. Draco raised his hands, carefully placed them on Harry’s, cupping his curled fingers. He pushed them down, slowly, awkwardly, and together they pushed the robe aside.

Draco shrugged his shoulders, letting them fall into a puddle at his feet before kicking them aside, his eyes never leaving Harry’s. He was still wearing his shirt, and Harry’s hands were already pulling at the needlework of its hem. 

“You don’t have to do it,” Draco murmured. Why was he talking so lowly? They were alone. The halls were probably already empty. 

“I know,” Harry breathed, and pulled up Draco’s shirt, up to his armpits.

At first, it seemed as though the sight had frozen Harry in place. Draco felt frozen, too—his mind only providing him with images of Harry storming off. Before he could process the thought, Draco was clutching at Harry’s robes, opening his mouth, trying to say, Stay, but barely vocalizing it, barely just wishing for it, hoping for it.

A wish come true, Harry let go of the shirt with a hand and spread it over the centre of Draco’s chest.

He was feeling the gaps of the scars under his palm, Draco knew. Two of them were wide enough to fit an index finger in, to follow like a trail. Draco remembered staring at the drops of water as they flowed in and out of them like little trails back at the Manor, where the shower had been opposite a full-length mirror. He remembered hating them, wanting them gone—wanting to turn off the lights, wanting to turn back time and throw the very curse that had been thrown at him back at Harry. 

All he wanted now was for Harry to kiss them. The desire, although silly, felt so evident, so straightforward, that Draco wanted to laugh. Perhaps he would have, if Harry hadn’t chosen that moment to let go of his shirt, letting it fall over the hand still sprawled on his chest, and to cup Draco’s cheek with the softest of touches. 

“I—I don’t know what to say,” Harry murmured. 

Dumbfounded, Draco shook his head, a laugh only half-forming on his lips. “Now that’s a first!”

Harry let the hand on Draco’s cheek drop, chuckling, saying, “Prick.”

They were smiling. Lord, they were smiling at each other, and Draco suddenly felt lost at the way the shadows of the dimly lit room made Harry’s crooked tooth somehow impossibly more adorable. He pulled Harry in to kiss that curse of a smile, and the hand still resting on his chest moved, one finger fitting into a scar, another two of them brushing Draco’s nipple. Draco’s puff of an exhale gave Harry a way to nip at his lower lip, to suck it in his mouth and torment it as that one finger followed the shape of his scar. 

It hadn’t escaped Draco’s notice that Harry hadn’t asked why they were shaped the way they were. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to tell him—if he wanted to reminisce the hours he’d spent tied to the hospital wing bed, squirming, sweating, his body trying to magically heal and failing again, and again, and again. It had burned to the point Draco had hoped for death. That had been his strength, at the time. Hoping for an easy way out, wishing someone would save him from himself. 

His hand, entirely without Draco’s permission, found the base of Harry’s nape, where he’d messily tied his hair in a low, ridiculously attractive ponytail. As he untied it, blindly, surely pulling at Harry’s hair but getting nothing but a moan in return, Draco thanked the skies that Pompom had stayed with Greg that day. Because Harry was sucking at the tip of his tongue, and he was moving his hands back to bring Draco closer to him, and Draco was sharply aware that he was just in a shirt and his pants, and fuck, but Draco was starting to harden. Again. 

But, Draco suddenly remembered, they’d accorded that they’d only take things further when…

“Take off your shirt.”

Ah, Harry must have remembered at the same time. Which meant he also wanted to...oh, fuck. Draco took his shirt off, almost delirious, and threw it to the floor. 

Harry grabbed his arm. He raised it, gently, and the both of them looked at the Dark Mark, their heads close, the space between them scarce. Draco could practically feel their breaths on the skin of his forearm.

“I’d forgotten,” Harry said, “I’d forgotten they turned red when...when they were deactivated.”

Draco wanted to say he wished he could forget. Instead, he turned his wrist around under Harry's hold until it loosened, and then held Harry’s hand in his, cupping Harry’s knuckles in the palm of his hand. When their eyes met again, Draco slowly, slowly brought that hand back to his chest and, after a beat, started moving it down. Down the length of his sternum, down the valley of a scar. Down the trail of hair that started under his navel and disappeared under his pants. There was an Oh, god exhaled against his cheek, and then Draco was pressing Harry’s hand against the shape of his hardened cock.

Harry gasped, a soft sound that reached every nerve of Draco’s body. “Fuck, Draco.” Harry’s hand twitched around him, and Draco groaned—clutched at Harry’s robes. What his lungs were doing could hardly be called breathing. “D—Do you want us to…go to your room, or—?”

“No” Draco said, urgent, pulling Harry closer. “Did you lock the door?”

Harry scrambled for his wand, something on the shelf falling to the floor with a clattering sound, and they were left in the darkness for a moment as Harry cast a locking charm on the door, then a Muffliato. “Cast a heating spell too,” Draco asked in a rush, and Harry did, the warmth of it enveloping them like a blanket. Then Harry’s face flickered back into existence before him, and in a second, the hand was gone from his crotch and Harry was quickly unbuttoning his own robes—pulling his shirt off, kicking his shoes off. As soon as he was done Draco grabbed at his side, grabbed—grabbed at skin, warm and hard under his fingers, and slotted their bodies back together—their mouths back together with a desperate puff of a sound. He pulled at Harry’s hair, bit at Harry’s lip, kissed him deep and fast and wet, and Harry, as always, held on to Draco’s hips—this time to guide the movements of Draco’s body so that they matched Harry’s, so that they were rutting, slowly, clumsily, against each other. 

“Fuck, you’re—” Draco had to gasp for air, had to concentrate to remember what it was that he was trying to say. “You’re—obsessed with my hips, Potter, I swear to—”

“They’re just so nice,” Harry said. “So nice, and soft, and warm...”

“You bloody—” Draco started, then kissed him, mad with it, mad with desperation—mad with how close he was already. Surely that wasn’t the norm. Surely Harry was to blame somehow; the undulating movements of his hips, the maddening softness of his hair. The way his every breath was reverberating through the small space, through Draco’s very core, or—or the way his hands were roaming back to cup his arse cheeks over his pants. 

Draco shivered. He pushed back against those hands, then rutted forward for more friction, his head falling forward and onto Harry’s shoulder as he moaned, moaned at every movement of those fingers, at every squeeze, at—

At a tip of a finger almost, almost, brushing his cleft.

“More,” Draco demanded, and within a second he was coming, regardless of the moment it took Harry to comprehend what exactly Draco wanted, where exactly he wanted those hands to touch. And when the fingers were back, brushing up and down and pushing the fabric of his pants into his cleft, he practically melted into Harry through his orgasm, his knees weakening, his mind clouding. 

It was only after a few seconds, when he managed to steady his breathing, that he felt the dampness of the curve of Harry’s neck under his mouth. That he noticed the dampness in his pants. Merlin, he needed to clean himself. But his wand was somewhere on the floor with his robes, and he was still shaking, and Harry was still hard, and fuck, he couldn’t even think; he just rose his head and kissed Harry again, as though they’d never stopped. As though Harry hadn’t just made him come embarrassingly fast with just a few touches to his bum. He brought a hand to palm Harry’s cock through his pants, but missed by an inch and caressed his thigh instead, just where his pants ended and Harry’s leg began. 

Merlin, but Harry was hairy. He withdrew from the kiss for a second to appreciate the feeling of it under the tips of his fingers. “Your hair is so coarse,” he said, surprised, bringing his hand to Harry’s chest to check that yes, the hair that had been scratching at his own bare chest was, in fact, just as thick.

“Y—Yeah,” Harry managed. He was achingly hard, Draco could tell. He raked his hand down, first his fingertips, then his knuckles, and stopped at the waistband of Harry’s pants, inching a finger inside to hold on to it.

Harry was breathing so raggedly. It was making Draco shake. With thrill, with impatience, with…something else. Something close to…to trust. To warmth. 

Fuck, but he was having sex with Harry for the first time in a bloody cupboard. He’d been too desperate before, too scared someone would see them on their way to the common room, but…fuck, he wanted it to be good.

“Do you want me to…” he started. Fuck, he was nervous. “Can I—Can I take off your pants? O—Or do you just—”

Harry nodded—vehemently. When Draco took a moment to take in Harry’s reply, he started to push his pants down, and Draco watched, heart in his throat, as Harry’s cock jumped against his groin. 

He was so hairy there, too. 

Harry was watching Draco’s expression, he could feel it. He’d grown really good at feeling Harry staring at him through the years. And yet he’d never imagined he’d feel those eyes on him as he stared down at his—

“Are you going to touch me today?” Harry whined, his breath catching at the last syllable. Glancing up and then down again, Draco brought two fingers to the base of Harry’s cock. He pressed his fingertips to it, felt the shape of it, then caressed his way up to Harry’s glans and curled them lightly around the tip of it. Harry’s hips bucked, and he groaned, saying, “Fuck, you’re infuriating, lord, just—” and then coming short of words when Draco thrust his hand down, Harry’s foreskin following him. 

Harry moaned, and Draco’s breath hitched. He hadn’t expected such a strong reaction. As he started to stroke him, slowly, thoroughly, and Harry writhed under his touch, leaning close to lap at Draco’s neck, Draco wondered if this, too, was Harry’s first time. It was probably a bad moment to ask, wasn’t it? Yeah, no, that was a terrible idea. It didn’t matter anyway—Harry came within a few moments, his jaw slack, his teeth and the edge of his glasses pressed against Draco’s neck in a way that edged on pain, and that pretty much gave Draco the answer he was looking for. 

Once they’d cast cleaning charms on themselves and they’d clumsily, awkwardly gotten dressed again, stopping mid-way for a snog that ended with Harry almost tripping over his robes—once they were more or less decent, Harry’s hair tied back and Draco’s charmed to behave—once they were in the corridor, walking in a silence that Draco didn’t exactly know how to interpret, Harry suddenly chuckled and said, unprompted, “You know, you looked really cute in that dress.”

“Wow. Your flirting skills are simply dazzling. You’ve won my heart. I am hereby a prisoner of your love.”

Harry’s smile only widened. “Don’t be silly, you have been for years.” 

Draco tripped over his own foot, spluttering, and Harry held him by the elbow, laughing a breathless laugh, calling him a weak ankles. 

“These ankles are gonna kick your pretty arse if you don’t shut your mouth,” Draco informed him, chin up, cheeks burning. 

“Oh, yeah?” Harry, the shameless bastard, gave him a sonorous peck on the cheek. “Is my mouth pretty too, then, or just my arse?”

***

Between Granger’s attempts to get Harry to move his arse to the library and do some studying, the fact Harry wanted to spend time with both Draco and his two idiotic sidekicks, and the fact that Pompom and Pigwidgeon had quickly become inseparable, Draco suddenly found himself spending more and more time with the bloody Golden Trio. It wasn’t that he didn’t like it, it was just that…honestly, if Draco hadn’t had to share a room with Blaise and Theo for seven years, and a common room with Pansy and the other girls, he would have thought it impossible for a group of people to be so exhausting. Do you really have to eat candy in the library? Granger would ask, and Weasley would chew louder through his smile, making Harry cackle and making Draco want to throw up. 

Draco’s biggest concern, apart from barely managing to memorise a single line around his new reluctant acquaintances, was Greg. When he noticed he was spending less time with his friend, Draco’s first thought was that he was somehow pushing Greg away, leaving him behind. 

It took him just a few days to realise he needn’t have worried. He’d been planning on going from Herbology class straight to the library, but he’d forgotten his Charms textbook in his room, and so he’d happily marched in, not even expecting Greg to be there yet.

Not only had Greg been in the room, Parvati had been there, too; the both of them sat on Greg’s bed—the both of them doing…something with what looked like lots of colourful strings. 

He’d apologised for interrupting, obviously, but Greg had waved a hand, had told him to join them if he wanted, proudly announcing that Parvati and him were braiding friendship bracelets.

Draco had shaken his head, had reminded him he was going to spend the afternoon in the library, and Greg had wished him good luck, had told him he’d study with Parvati instead, if that was okay. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Draco had said, and had walked out of the room feeling confused, feeling relieved. 

Later that evening, while they were getting ready for bed, Draco had asked Greg about it. His friend, sporting a brand new purple and pink bracelet, had practically jumped in his seat as he told him about how he and Parvati had started chatting this one time she’d caught him looking at her, and how she’d said he was a nice person to talk to, and how she’d asked him if he wanted to be her friend. 

“And I said yes, obviously!” Greg had told Draco, smiling from ear to ear. “I didn’t know she wanted to be my friend, I would have asked sooner!” He’d then proceeded to explain how friendship bracelets apparently worked, how both he and Parvati had made a wish upon tying the one they’d made for the other—both pink and purple, their favourite colours—around the other’s wrist. “You can’t take them off until they wear off by themselves,” Greg had explained, “and then when they fall off, your wish comes true!” 

“Oh,” had been Draco’s reply—a poor attempt at sounding supportive of something that sounded…frankly a little bit silly. 

“She talks a lot, you know?” Greg had continued, oblivious to Draco’s struggle. “She has so many interesting things to say. Tells me all these stories about her and Lavender. They were really close, as close as we were to Crabbe. She even…she even cried, you know. Talking about her. I…I cried about Crabbe, too, and she asked me if I missed him.” Greg had frowned, had given Draco a worried look. “Do you…do you miss him too?”

“I…” Draco had stuttered. “I—I do. Of course I do.”

He’d felt so wrong afterwards. For hesitating. For thinking, if only for a second, that perhaps it had been for the better that Crabbe was gone. True, Crabbe been the one to try to kill Granger, he’d—he’d conjured the flames that had almost killed them all. He’d spent months consumed by rage, by the thrill of power; he’d been cruel. But then again, hadn’t all of them been cruel, in a way? Hadn’t they all been lost kids in need of some goddamn guidance?

The mental image of Crabbe having a conversation with O’Neill had made Draco want to cry, too. Greg must have noticed, because he’d gotten up and sat by Draco’s side, giving him a sideways, only slightly uncomfortable hug—something that had definitely never happened before.

That day, Draco had decided that he was fond of Parvati Patil—she was a good friend for Greg. And friends, indeed, was all they were; a few days later, when Theo had patted Greg’s back and congratulated him on, as he’d phrased it, getting the girl, Greg had yelled at him, in front of a bunch of Eighth years and a very unbothered Bowtruckle, that he was not dating Parvati and that he would never, ever try to date her again, because being friends with her was the coolest thing that had happened to him in that whole year. 

That had shut everyone up. It had worried Draco for a moment—had made him fear that Parvati would find Greg’s words silly and decide he wasn't worth it. But their friendship had only seemed to strengthen, and Draco, for once, had felt genuinely happy to be proven wrong. Not that anyone needed to know about that. 

***

It felt like he’d barely blinked when the last days of March melted into April. The play was scheduled for the first Sunday of the month, and the days that led up to it seemed to fly by without the Eighth years having a second to touch a single book, much to the other teachers’ dismay.

The play was…well. It was an experience, that much could be established. Draco’s hopes of it going smoothly had begun to crumble the moment Terry Boot had had to run for the bathroom to empty his stomach five minutes before the audience—all of the other Hogwarts students, the staff, and a bunch of excited parents—started walking into the Great Hall. The red curtains had just opened to reveal Harry, petrified to look like he was a statue of Hercules, and Finnigan, a slightly too shaky narrator, when someone from the side of the backstage opposite the one where Draco was anxiously waiting had to Accio a prop that had accidentally remained on stage from the last-minute rehearsal. 

The lily Harry had given Draco all those months ago, and that they’d used during rehearsals through all of March, somehow vanished from the face of the earth just when Draco had to go on stage for his scene with Harry—a venture that was already stressful enough as it was, being as they were in front of hundreds of people, but that turned into a complete mess of a moment when Draco had to hiss at Harry to conjure another bloody flower because he’d lost his. Harry, who didn’t have his wand on him—fake Greek robes don’t exactly have pockets! He had later explained to a very amused group of friends—had the amazing idea of giving Draco an imaginary flower, which meant Draco had to sing his song holding a goddamn imaginary flower, and which in turn meant Blaise had had to accuse him of being Harry’s greatest weakness based on a fucking. Imaginary. Non-existent. Flower.

And if that wasn’t enough, Corner forgot to topple over the pillar when Harry defeated him, which meant Granger had to push it on top of Draco. This basically meant the majority of the audience left the Hall that day thinking that the story somehow revolved around Philoctetes going absolutely bonkers and trying to murder Megara, and Hercules forgiving him because, in Harry’s words, well…isn’t kicking like, an instinctive thing for goats? 

But despite all its flaws, and fuck-ups, and sudden, unresolved plot twists, they managed to keep Hercules and Megara alive until the last scene, so Draco guessed the play could altogether be labeled a success. He did, though, have one last-minute heart attack when Harry, standing tall and proud and shiny before Longbottom, Abbott and the rest of the Greek gods, loudly announced that he finally knew where he belonged and, upon turning around to smile at Draco—a smile that was definitely too good to come from Harry’s acting skills alone—, told them that he wanted to stay with Draco. Which would have been all well and fine, except his original line was I want to stay on Earth with her, and what the absolute git said was, well…

“I want to stay in this world with him.”

Which, honestly, was all kinds of inappropriate, and cheesy, and—and of course a moment later Draco and Harry were kissing, and Draco was holding on to Harry because he was weak in the knees. From nerves, from adrenaline, from embarrassment. From everything Harry’s words had implied. From the memory of Harry telling him, eyes wet and voice unsteady, that he sometimes wasn’t sure he’d made the right choice.

Once the curtains had closed, once they’d opened again for them to bow in line at the clapping audience—once they were closed again and Draco had time to acknowledge the tangled state of his thoughts, O’Neill was there, smiling at them all, laughing, asking if they’d had fun, if they were all feeling well. Draco, his mind still rushing from the entire experience, from how exposed and vulnerable and in his element he’d felt as he sang, and flirted, and moved through the stage, stormed to her and stepped right between her arms. She hugged him back, and that somehow took him by surprise, because a moment later he was crying a bit, thanking her, thanking her for—for everything she’d done for him, for believing in him. She gave him another short, warm hug and a smile, and handed him a tissue as she told him she was proud of him. A part of Draco felt like informing her that he wasn’t really crying, but he brushed it off and accepted it, thanking her again.

She was gone a moment after that, someone calling her to tell her Terry Boot—or maybe someone else—had thrown up again, but Draco was soon immersed in another, more intimate hug.

Not wanting to turn around, to be seen crying, Draco leaned back against Harry’s strong embrace with a sigh. 

“You’re a bloody idiot, I hope you know that,” Draco grumbled, although he couldn’t for the life of him be mad in the slightest. He just felt like laughing. “That line of yours is going to be all over the papers by tomorrow morning.”

Harry shrugged—kissed Draco’s ear, gently. “I don’t mind,” he whispered there, making Draco shiver. “Do you?”

His thoughts a mess of happiness and nerves and love, Draco could only grin—could only shake his head as he sunk further into Harry’s embrace. 

Chapter Text

Epilogue 

 May 2nd, 1999

The second of May dawned warm—warmer than usual for the season. The clouds were softly caressing the peaks of the mountains in the distance, the sky blushing timidly at the intimacy of the moment. Draco was ready. 

“Got everything you need?” 

The smile Harry gave him was confident. Beautiful. “You can bet I do.”

“Let’s go, then.”

The castle was mostly asleep, only a few ghosts side-eyeing them as they made their way to the big wooden doors and out to the gardens. A pull at his ear told him a certain Bowtruckle was mad Draco had chosen short-sleeved robes that morning, but there was little he could do besides offering her his breast pocket, which she not-so-kindly rejected, crawling all the way to Draco’s back so he couldn’t reach her.

“Come on, Pompom,” he chuckled, “it’s just a short walk! You can sleep all you want in Hagrid’s hut.” When she shook her body, tightly hanging from the neck of Draco’s robes, Draco huffed, concluding that she was a grumpy bastard.

“Just like her owner,” Harry mumbled through a smile. 

“Screw you,” was what Draco had to say to that, lightly—their shoulders still brushing as they walked. A smile still tugging at his lips.

“Eh, you love me,” Harry joked, bumping his side against Draco’s, draping an arm around Draco’s lower back with ease.

Draco huffed, incredulous, a thousand comebacks coming to mind. What he said instead was a shrugged, “Yeah, I do.”

Harry came to a stop. Draco did too, albeit reluctantly—fiddling with his robes to try to catch Pompom so he wouldn’t have to look Harry in the eye, even though a part of him was yearning to know what the expression on Harry’s face looked like. 

Harry knew him well enough, though, and waited patiently for Draco to catch his rebellious Bowtruckle, for Draco to have no choice but to meet Harry’s eyes. 

The silence that followed was less of a silence and more of a chorus of chirping birds, of buzzing insects, of waving tree branches in the distance. But the loudest sound was that of Draco’s thoughts. In the few seconds that passed before Harry leaned in and gave Draco a soft, tender kiss on the lips, Draco remembered a thousand different moments that had taken place during the previous months. Thousands of whispered confessions that had happened at the quietest of moments, in Draco’s room, in Harry’s; on their walks to Hogsmeade to buy Pompom more grasshoppers while she learnt to hunt her own; in the common room on sleepless nights. Confessions about fear, about hopelessness. About the war, and dark magic, and Horcruxes, Hallows and broken souls.

Those moments felt so distant now, as did the pain, the fear, the rage. All he could feel now, as they slowly continued on their way to the renewed, yet familiar hut by the Forbidden Forest, was hope. Hope and pride, more like—pride at the way Harry had decided to hide from the world that day, but not from Draco, not from his friends. Pride that Harry had decided he was ready to talk about it—to, for once, seek the compassion of the people he loved.

And perhaps it would take them, too, a minute to catch up to the horror of what Harry had lived. Perhaps Luna would have to point out a swarm of Nargles above someone’s head, or Hagrid would have to offer them all a drink to ease the tension. Perhaps Granger or Weasley would have a moment of panic, of betrayal at not being in on the whole story. But Draco knew, with a certainty that wasn’t as scary as it was soothing, that all would be well in the end.