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Chapter Text

Draco's thoughts were a knotted mess as he rushed down the corridor, his essay on The Reactivity of Muggle Ingredients When Combined with Magical Substances nowhere near finished. The deadline loomed, and while Draco had never turned in a late assignment in his life, he knew Snape would sooner hex off his eyebrows than grant an extension. Worse still, it would mean a letter home. A conversation. Possibly two. And a drawn-out monologue about “standards” and “family legacy” that would last the better part of a weekend.

His robes billowed behind him like a storm cloud, his wand jammed up his sleeve, his bag hanging by a thread over one shoulder. Parchment was already poking out the top when the inevitable happened.

He collided with something solid and warm and in the bloody way.

Papers flew.

There was a grunt, his or theirs, he couldn’t tell, and then Draco found himself blinking at a small, parchment-blizzard disaster.

And naturally, standing dead center in it all, like the universe wanted him to suffer—

Harry Potter.

Draco’s mouth dropped open in disgust. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake. Do you live to make my life miserable?”

Harry blinked, startled but already annoyed. “You ran into me, Malfoy.”

“I was walking. You were loitering.” Draco snapped, rubbing his shoulder. “Honestly, what sort of idiot stands in the middle of a corridor like a confused first-year?”

Harry frowned. “What sort of idiot walks like he owns the castle?”

Draco glared. “I do own part of it, actually. My great-uncle funded the west wing, not that your plebeian bloodline would know anything about—oh brilliant,” he hissed, watching as his essay floated gently under a nearby suit of armor.

Harry sighed and crouched to help. “You’re welcome.”

“I don’t want your help,” Draco snapped, dropping to his knees. “Unless you’ve suddenly become competent in Potions—wait, no, still bottom of the class, aren’t you?”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Still top of the class at being a complete arse, I see.”

“I practice,” Draco said dryly. “You make a perfect test subject.”

As they gathered the papers in mutual fury, Harry reached for a stray page near Draco’s bag—and that’s when he saw it. A small green notebook, tucked nearly out of sight. No name, no title, just a worn spine and faint indentations on the cover, like it had been opened and scribbled in a hundred times.

It was easy to miss, but not easy enough for Harry.

“I said I don’t need—are you deaf?” Draco snapped, trying to wrest the page from Harry’s hand. “Do you go around helping everyone like it's charity work or am I just special?”

Harry’s mouth twitched. “Special, definitely. In the head.”

Draco scoffed. “How long did it take you to come up with that one? Or did Weasley help?”

"At least I have friends, Malfoy."

“Ah yes, the Weasel and the Mudblood—very exclusive company.”

But Harry didn’t take the bait. He just calmly gathered another sheet and slid it into Draco’s bag, right between two rumpled pieces of parchment.

Harry’s fingers hesitated for only a breath.

Then, smoothly, he plucked the book from the gap and slid it into his robe pocket. No sound. No fuss.

Draco was still ranting.

“—just like you to shove in where you’re not wanted.”

“I was trying to be decent,” Harry replied, standing up. “Merlin knows why.”

“Because you’ve got a complex and no sense of boundaries,” Draco spat, snatching the last paper from the floor. “Next time, do me a favour and don’t try.”

Harry gave him a look. That maddening, unreadable look. A smirk flickered at the corner of his mouth—equal parts amused and victorious.

“Next time,” Harry said, “I’ll let you trip over yourself alone. But don’t say I never helped.”

Draco stood, brushing off his robes and glowering. “You didn’t help. You interfered. There’s a difference.”

“If you say so, Malfoy,” Harry said lightly, turning and walking off.

Draco stared after him, chest heaving, jaw clenched.

What an absolute nightmare of a person.

He tugged his bag higher on his shoulder and stormed away, still muttering insults under his breath, completely unaware that one very private, very green notebook was no longer in his possession.

Chapter Text

Harry stared down at the green, leather-bound notebook as if it had just personally insulted him. For a solid ten seconds, he didn’t move, didn’t blink. He just stood there, one hand frozen on the edge of his dresser, the other clutching the ridiculous book he’d only meant to flip through out of morbid curiosity.

It had to be a joke.

It had to be.

There was absolutely no reality where Draco Malfoy, who had once called Hermione a Mudblood to her face, who had spent the better part of four years treating Harry like an irritant lodged in his wand—would write this. Not an essay. Not a list of insults. Not some grand scheme to get him expelled. But fantasies. Erotic, detailed, absurdly vivid fantasies. About him.

He turned the notebook over in his hands again, half expecting “Keep your filthy hands off, Scarhead!” to appear in invisible ink across the back. Or maybe it was a prank. Something leftover from the Weasley twins, enchanted to look like Draco’s handwriting and filled with the sort of over-the-top filth that would make anyone blush. That had to be it. That made more sense than the idea of Malfoy-arrogant, and cruel, sitting somewhere with a quill between his fingers, chewing the end as he scribbled down how Harry’s voice was “commanding and inviting, etched with danger...”

Harry blinked hard. Then again. Still there.

The line hadn’t disappeared. Nor had the one beneath it. Or the one after that.

This wasn’t a prank. This wasn’t a mistake.

This was something Draco had written, carefully and deliberately. His thoughts, his desires, poured into pages that Harry absolutely, categorically should not be reading.

And yet.

“Draco Malfoy wrote erotica… about me,” Harry muttered, dazed, eyes dragging back across the paragraph like maybe this time it would read differently. Like maybe he’d imagined the whole thing. His pulse was a drumbeat in his ears, too loud and oddly uneven.

“What the actual hell is going on?”

He should have dropped it. Slammed it shut, tossed it into the fire, maybe used it to line the owlery floor. Anything but this—anything but still standing there, staring, like he was waiting for someone to jump out and tell him it was a joke. But no one came. And after another second, he sat down. Slowly. Quietly. As if he was afraid of making too much noise, like the notebook might vanish if he startled it. He wasn’t sure what possessed him to keep reading. Pride told him to burn it, toss it out the window, do something. But curiosity, that awful, insistent itch, kept him still. It clawed at the part of him that had always wanted to understand Malfoy, even when he’d believed he didn’t care.

The words blurred for a moment as he stared at them. His brain still refused to make proper sense of it. This was the same Draco who once said he’d rather scrub cauldrons with a toothbrush than spend ten minutes pretending to get along with Harry. The same boy who’d thrown jabs like they were spells, who had made entire meals in the Great Hall feel like battlegrounds. And now he was reading a line where Draco imagined Harry pressing in close behind him. Whispering. Using his voice to say things no one else had ever heard from him. Not taunts. Not insults. But things that sounded a lot like… want.

Harry reread the same line three times, then the one before it. His stomach twisted. Not unpleasantly. Not quite.

A quiet laugh escaped him, thin and a little unhinged.

It wasn’t amusement. Just… too much.

“Merlin,” he whispered. “He actually wrote this. He wrote this... about me.”

He closed the notebook.

But even as he said it, something shifted. Not loud or dramatic. Just subtle. A pull beneath the shock, quiet and steady. Because as much as he wanted to be horrified, and he was, he couldn’t stop thinking about the other thing. The way it had felt to read it. Like being seen. Being wanted.

Then maybe, in some quiet corner of his mind, Harry had always known Malfoy was... well, fit. Not in the way people whispered in hallways. Not like Pansy Parkinson staring at him like a bloody statue or how some of the others glanced after Quidditch. No, this was different. He’d noticed the sharp cheekbones, the long fingers, the way Malfoy carried himself like he knew exactly what power he held—and how to use it. But that didn’t mean anything. At least, that’s what he told himself. Because he wasn’t reading this because he was interested in Malfoy. Obviously not. That would be mental. He was reading it because it was bizarre. Because it was shocking. Because Draco Malfoy and Harry Bloody Potter were suddenly in the same sentence, doing that, and somehow it was written like it wasn’t insane. Like it made perfect sense. And he had to see where it went. Just to understand the angle. For research. Obviously.

Harry cleared his throat, leaned back, and flipped the page. Nothing more than curiosity. Right? He thought about Cedric Diggory. Cedric had always been good looking. Very good looking. The kind of boy who made people turn their heads and whisper when he walked by. Confident but kind, easy to like. Harry remembered the quickening of his pulse when Cedric smiled in his direction or called on him in class. There had been something warm in his chest, a lightness he hadn’t quite understood at the time. He’d believed it was admiration. Cedric was someone he looked up to, a natural leader, friendly and bright, and Harry liked being around him.

But maybe those feelings meant more. Something unspoken, unnamed. He’d never thought much about it. It had felt simple then, uncomplicated. Easy. But now, faced with the raw, tangled words in Draco’s notebook, Harry wasn’t so sure. Because this made his heart race in a different way. A deeper, sharper way. One that prickled at his skin and stirred his thoughts in ways he hadn’t dared explore. If this was how Malfoy saw him, how Malfoy imagined him—then maybe Harry’s feelings weren’t as clear-cut as he thought. Maybe there was something more tangled underneath all the rivalry and hate.

He swallowed hard and turned the page again.

Harry's fingers hovered over the page. The ink, slightly smudged where Draco must've leaned too close while writing, gave the scene a strange intimacy. He could practically picture the bastard, flushed and furrowed in concentration, detailing every obscene line. And about him, no less. He let his thumb trace down the page as his eyes dragged over the next few lines.

Harry delivered two sharp smacks, alternating between Draco's pale cheeks. The boy gasped, less in surprise, more in pleasure. By the seventh, he was grinding into the desk, moaning helplessly, his hips rising in rhythm with each strike. Harry took it all in, the way Draco's skin bloomed red beneath his palm, the way his breath hitched just before each contact.

Harry sat back, one leg bent, the other foot flat on his mattress, grounding him against the swirl of confusion. What in Merlin's name? He didn’t even like Malfoy. Not as a schoolmate, not as a friend, and least of all as a bedmate. That was supposed to be non-negotiable. Constant. Like gravity. So why was he still reading? Why was his stomach twisting like a knot he couldn’t unravel? Why could he envision every word, every pause, every stolen moment, painted so vividly in his mind? And most of all, why did none of it feel appalling?

"Potter, get on with it—" Draco tried, voice shaking, hips still rolling forward against nothing. A sharp slap silenced him. "What, Draco?" Harry murmured, his tone more amused than annoyed. "Choose your words wisely."

Harry could feel it, the sweat slicking the back of his neck, the heat pooling low in his belly. He adjusted again, trying to ease the pressure in his pants, but there was no hiding it now. He was half hard. Still, he ignored it and pressed on.

Malfoy's mouth twisted into something bitter and wanton at once. "Ponce." he hissed. "Just get on with it and-" He faltered. His body, however, didn't. His hips bucked, his thighs tightening. '"Fuck me."

Harry's throat worked around a dry swallow. There it was. The line. The point of no return. He could close the book now. Pretend this was never written. Never read. Never felt. But he didn't. His eyes flicked back to the parchment, almost hungry now.

Harry didn't move right away. He stood still behind Draco, admiring him. The boy was trembling, but not from fear. From need. From desire. And that power over someone who always wore control like a badge, made Harry's cock ache. " Without a word, he reached forward and pushed a finger against Draco's mouth. The Slytherin parted his lips obediently, wrapping them around the digit, sucking lazily, deliberately. When Harry finally pulled back, a thin string of saliva clung between them."

Harry shifted in place, his thighs still tensing. He shouldn't be reacting like this. He wasn't attracted to males... or so he thought. He muttered a quick little charm he’d cobbled together from scraps in a dusty old Arithmancy book hidden away in the Restricted Section. The spell wasn’t official. Not exactly. No Ministry approved wand movement. No expert wand work. No reassuring stamp of approval from Professor Flitwick or any other authority. It was Harry’s own invention, a strange little patchwork charm born from half remembered Latin, scattered diagrams, and a desperate need to find some quiet in the noisy chaos of his mind.

Hermione had found the spell brilliant, even if a bit unorthodox. She’d named it an “Audiobook,” short for audible book, an enchantment designed to read to him when sleep refused to come. Yet somehow, despite its shaky origins and Harry’s guesswork, the spell worked. At least, it seemed to. Sometimes it stumbled over names, mispronounced magical terms, or paused awkwardly, as if unsure whether it should continue. Other times, it was eerily clear and comforting, the lilting cadence like a friend whispering secrets just beyond the edge of sleep. Harry didn’t really know the full extent of the spell’s power—or what it might inadvertently be doing. He didn’t understand the nuances hidden beneath the charm’s surface, the little folds of magic that twisted unpredictably in the dim light of his room. But he didn't think much of it, it was a simple spell. A strange, imperfect spell.

Harry had never assigned the spell a voice before. It usually just read in a quiet, spell-like tone, nothing special. But tonight, on impulse, he figured he might as well try it properly. See if it worked. He thought of Draco, mostly just to focus the spell—his voice, the way he spoke in class, all clipped and smug. It didn’t need to be perfect. Just enough to give the magic something to latch onto. He muttered the charm, let the magic settle, and Draco’s voice filled the room. Clear. Controlled. A little breathy. Too breathy. Harry blinked. It was weirdly specific. Not like Draco during an argument, but like… this version knew exactly what it was reading.

And now it wouldn’t stop. And Harry didn’t stop it.

Harry's fingers trailed downward, finally brushing Draco's entrance. He rubbed slowly, circling, building anticipation until the boy keened softly. Then, with a whispered spell, he conjured lubricant, warm and smooth, and began to work his way in. One finger at a time. Draco was tight. Gorgeous. A perfect fit around Harry's fingers, clenching and yielding all at once. He moved with Harry's fingers, riding the sensation, already breathless, already begging.

Harry's hand drifted near the waistband of his boxers, hesitating for a mere second. He wasn't even sure when the decision was made. It just... happened. He gripped himself, exhaling through clenched teeth. Fuck. He didn't want to admit it, not even to himself, but it felt good. Too good. He kept a steady pace as Draco's voice rippled through him.

Harry pushed a third digit in, twisting slightly. Draco arched, moaning louder than intended, muffled only by the silencing charm still ringing in the air. "That's it," Harry said softly. "Just what I wanted to hear." He kissed along Draco's spine, a slow trail of heat. The tenderness contrasted sharply with the way his fingers continued to plunge into the blonde, purposeful and relentless. A soft sound escaped Draco, stuck in that tense space between restraint and desperation.

Harry groaned, letting his head fall back against the headboard, still pumping himself in alignment with the text. He could practically hear Draco's moans now. The lines between curiosity and want, fantasy and memory, disgust and something far worse were beginning to blur. A sensation that curled in his gut and refused to let go. Reality felt like a room he’d wandered out of without meaning to, the door quietly closing behind him. The voice in the air wasn’t just a spell anymore, it was a presence. It knew what it was saying. It said it like it meant it. All that mattered was this impossible, unexpected, filthy vision of Draco Malfoy trembling beneath him.

And for crying out loud, he was bloody into it.

"Potter... any... minute now. I need you."  The words barely escaped Malfoy's lips.

The voice rasped, and Harry swore Draco had spoken directly into his ear. Harry's hips bucked. His legs tensed. He'd never gotten off to anyone's voice before, and this wasn't just anyone. Not just a voice. It was Malfoy. Harry wanted him.

Draco’s body tensed beneath him, every muscle tight and coiled, ready and aching with an impatience that felt like it might shatter the quiet around them. His breath hitched, short and ragged, betraying the hunger that simmered just beneath the surface. Harry eased his fingers away, careful not to break the fragile tension that had built between them, and slowly aligned himself, measuring the moment with a cautious precision. The tip of his cock brushed deliberately along the slick, heated entrance, tracing a path so slow it was almost a question, one he didn’t need to ask. No words were necessary here; permission had already been carved out in the desperate moans that echoed off the walls, in the whispered pleas that trembled through the air. It was an invitation written in heat, a call that needed no response, only acceptance. And in that charged silence, with every heartbeat loud and certain, Harry moved forward, knowing the answer was already his.

Slow. Steady. Every movement was measured, deliberate, as Harry pushed deeper, filling Draco inch by inch with a slow, unrelenting pressure. Draco’s cry cut through the thick air, sharp and ragged, his back arching in a perfect curve, taut and strained like a bowstring pulled tight to its breaking point. The sensation, the stretch, was exquisite and cruel all at once, a delicious torment that throbbed through every nerve ending. It was unbearable and yet addicting, the kind of sharp ache that sets fire to skin. His hands found the edge of the desk, fingers digging in as if holding on was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality, his knuckles whitening with the effort.

“Merlin…” Harry hissed low, the sound barely more than a whisper, his voice rough with need and barely controlled desperation. Draco was tight, impossibly tight, every inch of him hot and alive beneath Harry’s touch. Perfect. He clenched instinctively around Harry, an urgent, hungry grip that made the world spin and blurred Harry’s vision, leaving nothing but the relentless pulse of flesh and fire between them.

“You’re so fucking tight,” Harry muttered, his voice low and thick with need as he began grinding his hips in slow, deliberate movements. Draco’s fingers dug into the wood of the desk, nails scraping and gripping like he was holding on to keep from slipping away, his forehead pressed hard into his arm as his huffs came fast and shallow, trembling under the weight of sensation. “Faster, you fucking tease,” Draco gasped out, his voice ragged and broken, desperate for more despite the fire burning through him. Harry’s chuckle was soft but dark, a spark of amusement flickering in his eyes, but he didn’t hesitate. He slowly drew back, pausing just long enough to tease, then thrust forward again, quicker and sharper. The slap of skin echoed through the still room, loud and insistent, a steady beat that matched the pounding of their hearts.

Harry cried out sharply, the sound coming from deep inside him as a sudden rush of pleasure hit every nerve. His grip slipped for a moment, fingers losing their hold against slick skin, caught off guard by how intense it all felt. Draco’s voice filled the room, breathless and raw, like he was telling the story of his own surrender. It stirred something inside Harry he hadn’t felt before, something tight and new. He bit down hard on his lip, tasting blood, grounding himself in the moment even as desire pushed hard. His hand didn’t slow; if anything, it moved faster, stroking with urgent focus, fingers sliding over slick skin with more intensity, keeping pace with the heat building between them. Draco’s voice was everywhere, filling the room with a steady, urgent sound. It carried both power and vulnerability, sharp and honest, pulling Harry deeper into the moment. As he lost himself in that sound, the room seemed to shrink around them, leaving only the heat and the need that connected their bodies.

“You feel that, Malfoy?” Harry exhaled, pushing forward again with deliberate force, making Draco jerk sharply under him. The movement was steady, quick—each thrust delivered the way his lover begged for. “You’re taking me so well,” he said, voice low but hard, heavy with satisfaction. “Like you were made for this.” Draco’s breath hitched, a sharp, uneven gasp caught in his throat. His body stiffened for a moment, then melted, responding without hesitation. The words cut through the haze of sensation, igniting something fierce beneath his skin. He clenched around Harry, tighter than before, and let out a breathless moan, the sound a desperate half protest, half surrender. Harry felt the shift instantly, how Draco’s entire being answered, how his grip tightened and his muscles flexed, pulled taut with need. It was an unspoken admission, a silent agreement spoken in the language of skin and muscle.

Harry’s whole body arched sharply, every muscle trembling with the force of it. His toes curled against the floor, as if to anchor himself, while his fingers shook uncontrollably against slick skin. The heat inside him was rising fast—too fast—dangerously close to the edge he was barely holding back. Through the haze of sensation, Draco’s voice cut through, sharp, perfectly timed. Because the next line broke him.

Draco choked on a moan, the sound rough and desperate, like it was caught halfway between a plea and a surrender. “Harder, please. Fuck—I need—” His words stumbled, broken by the overwhelming rush as Harry shifted his hips with precision, angling himself just right. That spot—found. The blonde’s breath hitched violently, a trembling sob escaping his lips as the flood of sensation crashed over him. “Right there, Potter. Don’t stop. Don’t—”

He came with a sharp, guttural cry, the sound tearing from deep inside as his hips bucked uncontrollably against the mattress. His hand clenched tightly around his cock, riding the relentless waves that pulsed through every inch of him, each one hotter, sharper than the last. The world around him faded to white heat, blinding, consuming, until nothing remained but the raw, overwhelming surge of release. His mind went blank, thoughts scattered and lost in the storm raging beneath his skin. Time stretched and warped, seconds dragging on like hours, every nerve ending alive and screaming in ecstasy. The silence of the room was thick, broken only by the ragged rhythm of his own breath, coming in sharp, desperate gasps.

As he tried to gather himself, Harry muttered under his breath, “Tergeo,” sending the mess vanishing with a quick flick of his wand.

Then, just as he was about to settle, the faintest hint of movement sounded to his left—something out of place. His body snapped upright, muscles coiled like a spring, adrenaline flooding through his veins.

“STUPEFY!” he screamed, voice raw and urgent, the spell ripping through the charged air like a thunderclap.

Chapter Text

Draco stood, dumbfounded at the sight of Harry, body flushed and his mouth agape. His eyes trailed downwards to Harry's fingers and he froze once he registered what was happening. He couldn't hear any sounds the brunette made. Maybe if he just got closer- No. This was not happening. He needed to leave. Now. But his book- "Oh gods," he whispered. Even if he wanted to leave, he couldn't. His cock was as solid as a rock, and heat ran through him like a wildfire. This was exactly the kind of thing he imagined every night. It was his only chance towards Harry. He just couldn't believe it. Harry Potter was within reach, touching himself after seemingly reading Dracos fantasies. 

Draco inched closer, mumbling a spell to undo the silencing charm around Harry's room. He almost came. Harry was so fucking impressive. He had somehow found a charm that read text aloud- seemingly in Dracos voice. It took everything in Draco to inch away from Harry. But he forgot himself. As he walked backward, he tripped over Harry's bookbag and fell with a loud thud. "Bloody hell!" In less than a second, Harry was on his feet. "STUPEFY!" Draco was flung backward, his body hitting the wall behind him, and the spell causing his invisibility and silencing charm to wear off. Draco was now utterly and completely fucked.

How the hell did he get himself here? 

. . .  An hour earlier   . . .

Draco paced tirelessly around the common room, wondering where the hell his notebook could possibly be. Pansy strolled in, silk pyjamas enveloping her body in an almost lewd manner. She had the power to seduce any one she pleased, and damn her she did it well. Making her way to the nearest armchair, she sat, drawing attention from her peers. "Oh Draco darling" she cooed, "What's got your knickers in a twist?" She couldn't help but thoroughly enjoy Draco's distress.

He spun around, exasperated. He made his way over to her, taking quick strides. He kneeled so only the ebony haired Slytherin could read his lips. "My fucking book Pans, it's gone! I don't know who has it- Oh Merlin" He ran his fingers through his hair "I'm so fucked, aren't I?" 

"First of all, I need you to calm down. Secondly, which book are you referring to?" Draco groaned. "You know... the one" He said, mumbling under his breath. "Darling, I've got much better things to do right now, I don't feel like spending all day trying to decipher whatever you're mumbling about" The blonde let out a snort. "Better things? Like what? Seducing boys and turning them into your devoted slaves?" Pansy smirked, reaching her hands out to check that her nail lacquer hadn't sustained any chips. Placing them back down, she responded. "Precisely. Now as I was saying-" It struck her like a bolt of lightning. Her eyes widened comically. "Please tell me it's not the book I think it is" Draco didn't even hesitate to nod, he just stared back at her, hands shaking.

"It is, Pansy and I dont know what to do" Pansy sat in deep thought for a moment, keeping Draco on the very edge.  "A tracking spell could always do the trick" She said, nonchalantly. "Merlin, why didn't I think of that?" Draco scoffed, offering a silent thanks to Pansy. "I bet you Potter has something to do with this"

After Parkinson had helped him successfully cast the spell he so desperately needed, Draco followed the light at the end of his wand, which, to his dismay, led him straight to the Gryffindor common room. He gasped in horror. Parkinson sighed dramatically. "Of course, it's the Gryffindor common room. It's always something between you and dear old Potter."

Draco shot her a scathing look. "This is not the time for your witty repartee. For all we know, the Gryffindors inside could be having a grand old time reading my fan fiction. They'll be laughing their heads off at my ridiculously over-the-top imaginary Harry and Draco."

Pansy raised an eyebrow, her smirk widening. "And who wrote that fiction, Draco? Were you so bored with reality that you decided to create a dramatic soap opera turned written porno for them?"

Draco huffed, his frustration bubbling over. "Oh, very funny. I'm sure you'd prefer to sit here and make snide remarks while I'm being publicly humiliated. Because in the midst of this catastrophe, your sense of humor is the exact thing I need." He finished, with eye roll. Pansy leaned closer, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Relax, Draco. I'm sure it's not as bad as you think. Maybe they'll use it as their new 'Strategy Guide To Fucking' and you'll be a famous author. Draco glared at her. "Oh, wonderful. Let's hope they do start using it as their new manual for sneaking around Hogwarts and shagging. Imagine the glory if my 'fan fiction' became the latest singleton handbook for a quick wank."

Pansy chuckled, patting him on the back. "Don't worry, Draco. If they start using your story for anything other than laughs, I'll be the first to know. Let's just make our way in there, grab your book, and get out before the Gryffindors decide to make you the star of their next prank."

Draco took a deep breath, forcing a smirk despite his nerves. "Fine. But if they start making any dick jokes-" Pansy grinned as they approached the common room entrance. "I'll spell them senseless. Now let's go save your dignity."

Pansy cast an invisibility and silencing charm over herself, and Draco hurriedly followed suit. They stood in the shadows, waiting for a Gryffindor to leave, giving them the chance to slip inside. The minutes dragged on, feeling like hours as Pansy kept the conversation flowing to distract Draco from his mounting anxiety.

At last, a second-year student shuffled out, oblivious to the mission underway. Pansy and Draco seized their moment and entered the common room. The scene that greeted them was almost otherworldly. Warm, inviting tones bathed the room in a cozy glow, while the air was infused with a blend of cardamom and fresh citrus. The fire in the hearth burned with an almost unnaturally vivid blood orange hue.

To Draco's relief, the Gryffindors were nowhere near his book. They moved quickly: Pansy headed towards the girls' dormitory, and Draco made his way toward the boys'.

Navigating the hallways, Draco noted the meticulous organization. Rooms were divided by year: first and second years shared trios, third and fourth years paired up, while fifth years and above enjoyed private rooms. The gold plates on the doors, engraved with each occupant's name, were also arranged alphabetically. Draco's pulse quickened as he used a quick unlocking charm to enter Harry's dorm, his heart pounding with the anticipation of what he might find.

... ...

Oh right, thats how he ended up here. Draco's heart raced as he lay on the floor, painfully aware of how his intrusion had been exposed. Harry's head snapped up, eyes wide with shock. "Malfoy?!" he stammered, clearly struggling to process the situation.

Draco scrambled to his feet, his face flushed with embarrassment and a mix of emotions he could hardly name. "I-I'm sorry," he stuttered, quickly averting his gaze. "I didn't mean to... I just—" Harry, now more composed, cut him off. "What are you doing here? How did you get in?" His voice was a mixture of anger and confusion. Draco tried to steady himself, desperately trying to think of an explanation that would save him from further humiliation. "I was just—looking for a book. I didn't realize... I'm sorry." He scuffled back, hoping to make a hasty exit. Harry's cheeks turned a blazing red once he registered Draco's mention of a book.

Chapter Text

Harry scrambled to find something to say, his mind racing as the situation grew ever more unbearable. As if this could get any more humiliating, he thought, only to remember—he was stark naked, caught red-handed mid-wank while reading—or listening to—porn. He quickly muttered, “Accio,” and a wrinkled shirt along with a pair of knickers shot into his hands. He wished the ground would swallow him whole. His cheeks flamed hotter than a Gryffindor banner in a fire.

Draco’s laughter cut through the silence, sharp and amused. The blonde clearly found Harry’s predicament endlessly entertaining.

Harry tugged on his scant clothing and shot Draco a piercing glare. Before this, Draco had made an effort to look away from Harry’s naked body while they spoke. Now, however, his eyes roamed freely—taking in the tight muscle shirt stretched over Harry’s torso, the boxers straining against his bulge.

Snapping himself out of his reverie, Draco willed his eyes back up to meet Harry’s. “So, will you be a darling and undo this Stupefy charm so that I may leave?” he asked, voice light but edged with challenge. Harry crossed his arms, still flushed. “Absolutely not. Explain how you got in here first, then I might consider it.”

"Well done, Potter. Excellent aim- pun intended. You planning to Stun every housemate who breathes near your bedroom, or am I the lucky exception?" Harry didn’t lower his wand. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t hex you again.” Draco huffed. “Because I’m not a threat. I just came to collect my bloody book.” Harry’s grip tightened. “Right. The one where you wrote about me. In detail.” Draco smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Wasn’t complaining earlier. Bit late for outrage, isn’t it?” Harry didn’t answer.

He was still thinking about the implications, if Malfoy could waltz in like this, so could anyone else. Anyone with worse intentions. Not that Malfoy’s were noble, far from it. He was probably here to gloat, spy, or... whatever this was.

Draco sighed with exaggerated patience. “Fine. With the help of Parkinson, I bribed the Fat Lady with compliments. The password I got from an idiot third year who thinks I’m charming. The rest? Basic spell work. Honestly, it’s embarrassing how easy it was.” Harry didn’t flinch, but his jaw ticked. “If that’s all, undo this charm so I can take my book and be off.”

“You’re not going anywhere.” Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Merlin, Potter. Ever considered taking someone to dinner first? Or do you always open with a lecture and a threat of bodily harm? Maybe you’d like to write me up for unauthorized entry while you’re at it?"

Harry stepped forward, wand still in hand, eyes flashing. “Say one more word and see how far that smug mouth of yours gets you.”

“Think you scare me?”

“I know I do,” Harry said quietly.

They stood there, breath shallow, eyes locked, tension so thick it was practically humming.

Enemies. Absolutely.

Then he remembered the only name Draco mentioned.

“... Parkinson?” Harry questioned, eyes narrowing. “Tell me she’s not here with you.” Draco offered a lazy shrug. “Technically, she arrived before me.” “Oh, for—Malfoy, what’s wrong with you?” Harry snapped, pushing off the wall. “You couldn’t come here alone? She’s going to throw a fit and hex the curtains off the girls’ dormitory!”

Draco looked vaguely affronted but mostly amused. “She’s dramatic, not dangerous. She might kick up a fuss, sure, but she’s not about to set anything on fire.” Harry didn’t look convinced. “She once threw her drink on a first-year for saying her hair looked ‘extra fluffy.’”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Honestly, she’d probably consider that restraint.” Harry muttered something under his breath about pureblood madness. “Look,” Draco said, sighing. “She’s not here to start a war. She’s worried about me. You may find that hard to believe, but she’s loyal. Loud, mildly terrifying, but loyal.” Harry hesitated, then nodded—once.

“Alright. If you say so. But if she tries to duel anyone before sunrise, I’m blaming you.” Draco gave a lopsided smile. “Fine. Blame away. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Just then, a loud, frantic knock rattled the door. Harry darted across the room, peered through the keyhole, and groaned. “Bloody hell.” He barely cracked the door before Pansy Parkinson shoved it open with a strength that should’ve belonged to a Beater. Harry stumbled back with a grunt, nearly toppling.

“Where is he?!” she shrieked, voice sharp and slightly unhinged. Her eyes swept the room like a hawk, catching sight of Draco still seated on the floor. She whirled on Harry. “Why are you on the floor?” Before Harry could answer, she was drawing her wand like it was second nature. “Potter, why in Salazar's name is he on the floor?!” Harry held up his hands. “No reason. He broke into my dorm and got what he deserved."

“I’m in so much pain, dear,” he said to Pansy in a mock-woeful tone, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “He Stupefied me.” Harry shot Draco an unimpressed glare. Pansy’s eyes narrowed. “So you cursed him?” Draco, from the floor, muttered, “He’s always been dramatic when it comes to me, don’t worry.” Harry turned, exasperated. “You’re the one who broke in!”

“I was talking,” Draco said coolly, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve. “And I’m in so much pain. That’s hardly a way to treat someone you’d like to shag.” Pansy’s wand didn’t lower, but her face twisted like she’d just bitten into something sour. She gave Draco a sidelong glare. “Merlin’s sake, Draco. Can you not?” Harry, meanwhile, looked like he'd short-circuited. “What—what are you—no one—I don’t—” He spluttered, wildly waving an arm that almost knocked over a lamp.

“Uncivilized is hexing my best mate while he’s barely clothed and emotionally fragile.” Draco groaned. “Parkinson, please, for the love of Salazar, don’t.” Harry blinked. “He was emotionally what?” Draco stood up in a swift move. “I’m leaving.”

"Pans." Draco called. "You're lucky he wants to get in your trousers, or I'd have ripped your reproductive organs out myself." Her face was a picture of rage, with her cheeks flushed and her eyes blazing with anger. She moved closer, her wand still aimed at Harry, making it clear she was not pleased with the situation.

Harry, now partially clothed and feeling the weight of both Draco's and Pansy's disapproval, felt a rush of frustration. He glared at Draco, who was now observing the situation with a slightly smug look, and then at Pansy, whose fierce expression only added to his embarrassment. The tension in the room was palpable, and Harry wished he could disappear as he faced the wrath of both Slytherins. Draco, sensing the growing tension, turned his attention back to Pansy. "Leave first, Pans. I'll handle this," he said, trying to keep his voice calm.

"Fine, but if I find out you're messing with Draco, Potter, you'll regret it." she said, her voice dripping with venom. She gave Harry one last contemptuous glance before storming out of the room, slamming the door behind her. With Pansy gone, Harry finally let out a sigh of relief, mumbling a quiet "Sorry." To Draco. "Sure." Draco muttered, trying to smooth over the awkwardness of the situation.

Harry, still flushed and flustered, glanced at Draco. “So… the notebook.” The words felt thick in his throat, like swallowing steel. Draco’s gaze flicked to the leather-bound volume sitting on the dresser. Without a word, he stepped forward, reaching for it just as Harry did. Their fingers brushed briefly. Harry held Draco’s eyes, searching for something he couldn’t name. Their breaths quickened; the silence stretched taut. Harry’s eyes flicked to Draco’s lips, and he licked his own nervously. When he looked up, he caught Draco’s dilated pupils. Draco spluttered, pulling his hand away sharpish.

“Keep looking at me like a delicacy,” he muttered, voice low and clipped, “ and this room’s not staying quiet for long.” Draco smirked. Harry cleared his throat, straightening his shoulders. “I’ll be taking this, then. I reckon we’ve had enough theatrics for one night.”

“I think not.” Harry’s voice was firm despite the flush on his cheeks. “I’m keeping it.” Draco blinked. “You're what?”

“I want answers.”

Draco raised a brow, a slow smirk tugging his lips. “Oh? Pray tell, what answers?” Harry’s temper flared. “How long have you been writing about me like that? And why, if you hate me so much, do you keep going on like you want to shag me?” Draco’s expression darkened, but his voice remained steady, cold. “I despise you, Potter—your bloody lack of manners, the way you storm about like a bull, how you dress like you just rolled out of bed without a care, and that ridiculous hair of yours that looks like a flock of angry birds decided to nest on your head,” Draco said, eyes glinting with mischief, “but apparently my cock missed the memo. So as it seems, I wouldn’t be appalled at a shag, so long as you cover your entire body and face. That way, I can pretend it’s someone a bit more attractive.

Harry blinked. “Asshat. Well, it’s not as if you wrote a blooming romance, then.” Draco scoffed. “Precisely. No riddles or roses. Just plain words and filthy thoughts. If you’d bothered to read it properly instead of wanking, you’d know.” Harry’s jaw tightened. “I only found the blasted thing because you rammed into me in the corridor and scattered your papers everywhere.”

“And you couldn’t resist grabbing it, could you?” Draco shot back. “Like some nosy little Gryffindor.” Harry stepped closer, heat flashing in his eyes. “You broke into my dorm. You don’t get to make snide remarks.” Draco matched him step for step. “And you don’t get to act all high and mighty when you’re reading my dirty laundry.”

“Don’t twist it.”

“If anyone finds out about this, anyone, you're done for. Understand? If a soul gets wind of your possession of that book, you’re dead. I won’t hesitate.” Harry’s glare sharpened. “You think I’m scared? You think I’ll keep quiet just because you threaten me?” Draco’s eyes narrowed. “You keep the contents that book safe, or you’ll wish you had been.”

"Hand it to me." Harry’s fists clenched. “I’m keeping it.” Draco’s smirk was slow, dark. “Impossible as you are.” Harry threw back his head and laughed, spiteful and breathless. “So are you.” Draco turned, hand on the door. “This never happened.” Harry watched the door close behind him, heart pounding, the book heavy on the dresser and heavier still with the weight of all the things left unsaid.

Chapter Text

Harry woke with a violent start, chest heaving, the remnants of the encounter with Draco still clinging to his thoughts like beads of sweat on skin. The sheets were tangled around his legs, twisted and tight, as though he'd been wrestling with the ghosts of his own thoughts all night.

His breath came in shallow, uneven bursts, and the room felt too warm, the air thick and unmoving. He lay still for a moment, eyes wide open and staring at the canopy of his four-poster bed as if it would somehow ease his thoughts.

The encounter with Draco. That moment had lodged itself deep in his chest, an ache he couldn't ignore. Every detail burned in his memory with unforgiving clarity-the curve of Draco's smirk, the smug way his lips quirked at the edges as if daring Harry to get a taste, and the teasing yet quiet challenge in his voice. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt that fleeting, electric brush of fingers. A blink-and-you'll-miss-it moment when both of them reached for the same book-Draco's knuckles grazed Harry's hand, and Harry's breath had caught like a hiccup he couldn't shake.

It was nothing. It was everything. His pulse had jolted like he'd been hit with a spell, and now the sensation lingered, ghostlike and insistent.

But more than anything else, it was the damn notebook.

Harry sat up slowly, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, planting his feet against the cold stone floor. The chill bit at his skin, grounding him just enough to rise. He shuffled to the bathroom like someone much older than sixteen, dragging his feet, shoulders slumped, hoping-no, praying-that the cold water would rinse away the strange weight pressing down on him. He turned the shower knob with a mechanical twist, letting the water blast forth in a stinging spray.

He stepped in without hesitation, welcoming the shock of icy water as it pounded against his scalp and shoulders. He tilted his head back, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted in a silent plea for clarity. He wanted to clear his thoughts, to flush out the images looping in his head like some cruelly enchanted film reel. But it didn't work. The memories were too loud, too sticky. They clung to the corners of his mind, whispering in voices that weren't quite his own.

The spell. He should have known better. It had started off simple, innocuous even-just a harmless incantation he'd created from text he found in a dusty old Arithmancy textbook buried in the Restricted Section. The idea was to be read to in Draco's voice. Not for anything sinister-just for convenience. But what he'd unleashed felt like more than just a spell. It was like he'd cracked open a window that couldn't be shut.

At first, everything had gone smoothly. The words from Draco's notebook were read out like ink drawn from a quill-steady, coherent, clear. But then they had started stuttering, repeating, hesitating. And then, as Harry leaned in, trying to decipher the fading voice, he heard it. Not written. Not imagined. Spoken.

"Potter..."

Barely a whisper, half-muttered, like it slipped through the cracks of a dream. It wasn't in the notebook. It wasn't part of the spell. It seemed... real. It wasn't the spell, it was Draco's voice.

Harry's eyes snapped open in the shower, his breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a choke. He stared blankly at the tiled wall, and for a moment, it was like the world had stopped. That voice hadn't come from the spell. It hadn't come from the notebook. It had come from him-from Draco. From somewhere inside Harry's mind. He could still feel it echoing, soft and persistent, a whisper that refused to fade.

After preparing himself for the day ahead, Harry rushed down the moving staircases toward the Great Hall, hoping the bustle of breakfast would distract him from the spiraling panic curling tighter and tighter in his chest. But even as he took his usual seat at the Gryffindor table, the familiar clatter of cutlery and low murmur of chatter did nothing to calm him. The food laid out before him-steaming eggs, buttery toast, thick slices of bacon-might as well have been invisible. He stared at his plate like it had personally offended him, his fork dragging lazy paths through the scrambled eggs without intention.

Ron nudged him with a concerned frown. "Oi, you alright, mate? You look like you saw a bloody Dementor in your sleep."

Harry jumped slightly, his hand knocking over his pumpkin juice. "Nothing," he said in a nonsensical response. Reaching for a napkin to clean up, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He didn't want to talk about it. Not yet. Not until he understood what the hell had actually happened.

Hermione, ever perceptive, narrowed her eyes as she leaned closer, lips pursed in suspicion. "You're acting odd," she said quietly. "This isn't about Malfoy again, is it?"

Harry's fork clattered onto his plate. "No!" he said, far too loudly, the word ringing out across the table. Several students glanced over. He cleared his throat and shrank in his seat. "I'm fine," he muttered, not meeting her eyes. But as if pulled by some invisible force, his gaze drifted across the room.

There he was. Draco Malfoy. Sitting at the Slytherin table, poised and still like a painting. But his eyes-those grey eyes-were fixed on Harry. There was something sharp in that gaze, something knowing. They locked eyes for a fraction of a second, and it was enough to make Harry's stomach flip unpleasantly. He looked away quickly, heat rising in his neck, but the damage was done. That silent exchange had said too much. Draco knew something. Maybe not what, maybe not everything-but enough to make Harry feel bare.

... ...

Draco's mind wasn't on his breakfast that morning. He hadn't slept well either. His dreams had been disjointed, haunted by flashes of color and sound, pieces that didn't fit together. The feeling he'd woken with wasn't fear, exactly-it was more like disorientation. Like someone had rearranged the furniture in his brain while he was asleep. He'd tried to push it aside, tried to chalk it up to stress or maybe just a fluke. But it lingered. That odd, persistent feeling that something fundamental had shifted.

And Potter. Always bloody Potter. Draco couldn't stop glancing at him, couldn't stop feeling something. Every time he did, it was like someone lit a match in his skull. A flicker. An echo. Like thoughts that shouldn't be his were drifting into his mind. Thoughts that tasted too familiar to be anyone else's.

He stared down at his breakfast, but it might as well have been dust. His appetite had vanished. His thoughts were spinning in circles. Was he going mad? Was this a curse? He didn't know. All he knew was that every time Potter looked at him, something inside him sparked.

Potions was a disaster. Draco had barely managed to chop the newt tails correctly, and he was usually precise to the point of obsession. His hands trembled faintly, and his concentration was scattered like feathers in a gale. He caught himself glancing at Harry. Again. And again.

Fine. He thought. 'Let's test this.' He leaned back, thinking the words deliberately, slowly: Go on, Potter. Say something foolish.

And then it happened. Harry flinched.

Not dramatically, not like he'd been slapped-but just enough. A twitch. A jolt of confusion, as of trying to decipher a word or two. Draco's blood turned cold. He hadn't spoken aloud. He was sure of it. But Potter had reacted. Had heard him. He tested it again: I bet he's thinking about last night.

And once more, Potter froze.

What the fuck?

That was it. There was no more denying it. This was real.

All through the afternoon, Draco kept quiet, kept his head down. But the thoughts wouldn't stop. They came in waves, like whispers caught on the wind. Every time he looked at Potter, he felt something. A pull. A connection. Like they were tethered by some invisible string, stretched tight between them. He heard things that weren't said. Felt things that didn't belong to him. And Potter-he kept stealing glances, as if he, too, was aware of the growing tension humming between them.

By the time dinner rolled around, Draco was done pretending. He left early, feigning a headache. But as soon as he was alone, a smirk spread across his face. If Potter thought he could play with magic and walk away unscathed, he was sorely mistaken. Draco was many things, but stupid wasn't one of them. He would find out what had happened.

And when he did, Potter would wish he'd never opened that bloody notebook.

Chapter Text

Harry knew something was wrong the second he walked into Transfiguration.
It wasn’t just the way his head throbbed faintly, like he’d forgotten something important. It was the way his eyes flicked across the classroom automatically, immediately landing on Draco Malfoy, who—unfortunately—looked right back.

Their gazes locked, just for a second, but it was long enough. Long enough for something to shift behind Harry’s eyes. Like a whisper brushing the edge of his consciousness.

"Staring... Predictable."

Harry blinked, stiffened. That wasn’t him. That wasn’t his thought. But it came through, some words too quiet, others muttered clearly, like a line whispered into his ear. He sat down next to Ron, ignoring the confused glance his friend gave him. “Your hair’s sticking up more than usual,” Ron muttered. Harry didn’t respond.

His thoughts were tangled, loud. Too loud. And one thread ran colder than the rest.
"Was that Malfoy, again?" McGonagall started the lesson, but Harry barely heard her.

He refrained his eyes from darting sideways toward Draco, who was losing focus, quill tapping lazily against his parchment. Harry narrowed his eyes in determination, willing them on McGonagall.

"Pretending... not... hear. Obvious."

Harry jolted. “You alright?” Ron asked slowly, eyeing Harry like he might start shouting at the air. Harry didn’t answer. He simply nodded. His throat felt tight, like someone had stuffed it with cotton.

He reached for his bag, rummaging through it with unsteady fingers as if the motion could ground him.

His thoughts were racing, spinning in circles he couldn’t stop. "Was that real? Was that Malfoy? Was it his imagination? Had the spell done something wrong, again?"

McGonagall strode into the room, her usual brisk pace accompanied by the sharp clack of her heels against stone. The class fell into silence immediately, quills poised, textbooks opened to today’s lesson on advanced spellwork. But Harry barely noticed.

He was attempting to listen. He simply couldn’t focus. His attention was drawn, again and again, to the boy across the room. Draco looked utterly unbothered. Quill in hand, fingers drumming lightly against the edge of his desk, posture lazy but straight-backed in that way that always seemed too elegant for someone so irritating. His expression was blank. Disinterested. But every so often, his eyes flicked—seemingly—to Harry.

Seamus raised his hand from the back of the classroom, looking a bit too eager.

“Professor, er, does it help if you say the incantation out loud first when you’re doing nonverbal spells? Just to make sure you’ve got it right?” Draco immediately rolled his eyes, his lips curling into a slight sneer.

And then it hit Harry again.

"Nonverbal... intent, not volume, idiot."

Professor McGonagall blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question. Seamus sat back, looking somewhat confused. McGonagall replied quickly, her voice stern yet assuring.

“Well Seamus, the key is focusing on the intent, not the volume of your voice—though the words can certainly help if you're first learning the spell.”

Draco fought the urge to let out an exaggerated sigh. His gaze flickered briefly toward Seamus, who was now scribbling notes.

"Honestly, that git should know better by now," Draco thought, but a flicker of amusement passed through him at the boy’s obliviousness.

Those words hit Harry like a pulse of static, sharp and sudden.

Harry gasped softly, the sound lost under McGonagall’s explanation to Seamus. His hand jerked, snapping his quill clean in half with a loud crack. Ink bled into his fingers. He stared at the broken pieces in his palm like they might explain something—anything. Across the room, Draco tilted his head ever so slightly.

Harry could feel it now—the weight of the connection. Not constant, not all-consuming, but pulsing. Like a heartbeat. Like a radio dial tuning in and out of signal. And each time it tuned in, Harry felt like he was losing his grip on reality.

The rest of the class passed in a fog. He absentmindedly copied notes, his handwriting a mess of half-formed letters and ink blots. Every time he tried to focus on the lesson, he felt the faint connection again. Never too strong, yet pulsing. By the class wasdismissed, Harry’s skin felt too tight. He packed up his things in silence and all but ran for the corridor.

But the corridor wasn’t safe either.

He thought the distance would help, that getting away from Malfoy would sever whatever thread had been tying their thoughts together. But in Charms, when Malfoy entered the room late and passed directly behind Harry’s seat, Harry felt it again—like static crawling up his spine.

"Tense. Guilty?" Draco said, a smirked splayed across his lips.

Harry’s shoulders stiffened. He looked up sharply, but Draco had already moved on, settling beside Blaise Zabini with a casual slouch.

It didn’t stop.

Through the rest of the lesson, Harry heard flickers of thought again. More pointed now. Less fog, more clarity. Short phrases that felt dipped in sarcasm or challenge.

"Can’t stop staring." "Twitching again."

Each word burrowed into Harry’s skull like a splinter.

He was losing his grip. He was certain of it. He’d cast that spell, that bloody spell, to hear Draco’s unholy imaginations read to him, and now somehow, somehow, the link had bypassed the voice. It had bypassed everything.

It was all around him now, in his head, even.

... ...

At lunch, Harry finally felt normal again. The strange connection he had felt to Draco earlier in the day had faded, and for the first time in hours, he wasn’t hearing Draco’s voice in the back of his head or feeling that unsettling weight in his chest. The noise of the Great Hall filled the space around him, and he leaned back slightly in his seat, feeling the tension from the morning slip away.

Ron and Hermione were chatting about something trivial, and Harry found himself listening, not out of obligation, but because it felt good to just be with his friends, without anything out of sorts.

Ron began telling a wild story, his hands waving around as he animatedly described how he’d been sneaking food from the kitchens with Fred and George.

“So, I’m walking down the hall, right? And I turn the corner, and Filch, just standing there, looks like he’s waiting for me. I thought I was done for, mate. But then, as I was backing away, I almost dropped my sandwich, and I swore I felt my heart drop to my arse!”

Harry snorted with laughter. “Wait, so you managed to get away? How did that even happen?”

Ron chuckled, rubbing his ear sheepishly. “Well, actually, Fred and George—being Fred and George, scared me just after I caught the sandwich, so I jumped and, well, I didn’t exactly hold onto the sandwich. Filch began walking towards us and the sandwich flung straight into his face. Which was a complete accident,” he added, though it was clear he didn’t mind.

Hermione raised an eyebrow, clearly trying not to laugh. “Honestly, Ron, you manage to get yourself into trouble at the most inconvenient times.”
“Well, it’s a gift,” Ron said with an exaggerated shrug. “Some people are born with it.”

Harry laughed harder, picturing it in his mind. “I still can’t believe thew your sandwich. That’s legendary.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Hermione said, shaking her head but unable to hide her smile. “You three gingers are seriously a disaster waiting to happen.”

Ron dramatically slumped in his chair, pretending to be wounded. “I’m the most responsible person you know. I’ll have you know that I’m just very good at making the best of a bad situation.”

Harry grinned, shaking his head. “You, along with the twins, get detention almost every other week. You lot are very good at causing bad situations.”

“That’s just my charm,” Ron said, not missing a beat. “Besides, who else would entertain you two?”

Hermione rolled her eyes but even she was hiding a smile. “Oh, we’re so entertained,” she said dryly. “By your endless misadventures.”

Harry found himself relaxing even more, feeling the weight of the past few hours melt away. The connection with Draco, however it had been, seemed like a distant memory, something that didn’t need to be thought about now.

For once, he didn’t have to worry about the unsettling feeling of someone being in his head. For now, he was with his friends, laughing, enjoying a moment that felt normal.

“So,” Hermione said, steering the conversation in a new direction, “any of you thought about plans for the weekend?”

Ron immediately perked up. “Well, I was thinking of sneaking into Hogsmeade for some butterbeer. Maybe drag Harry along if he isn’t too busy pretending to study.”

“I’m not pretending,” Harry said with a laugh. “I just—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Ron interrupted, grinning. “Too busy to get caught, right?”

“Exactly,” Harry said, rolling his eyes, but his smile remained. It felt good to joke like this, to banter with Ron without the strange distractions from earlier.

Hermione gave Ron a knowing look. “I’m coming with you two. I’m simply following just because you two can’t keep yourselves out of trouble, not because I'd enjoy some butterbeer.”

Harry retaliated. "Oi! I said I wasn't tagging alo-"

Ron snorted, cutting Harry off, and put on his most innocent face. “We’ll be on our best behavior 'Mione, promise.”

“Sure you will,” Hermione said with a smirk. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

The conversation continued, the laughter flowing freely. Harry felt lighter with every word spoken, grateful that the weird, unexplainable connection had faded. It was just him, Ron, and Hermione again, and for the first time that day, everything felt like it was back to normal.

"Meet. Room Requirement."

For fucks sake.

Harry didn’t move for a full ten seconds. He wished he could ignore it.

When he finally did look up, Draco was no longer pretending not to look. His gaze was sharp. Assessing. He knew exactly what was going on.

And worse—he might be enjoying it.

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy stood in the center of the Room Of Requirements, feeling the weight of the ancient stone walls pressing in on him from all sides. The air was thick with the lingering scent of old parchment and candle wax, a heavy, musty odor that clung to the corners of the room.

The dim flicker of candlelight cast long shadows across the floor, stretching the room out in odd, impossible directions. It was the kind of room that made one feel as though it were a relic from another time, a room full of secrets, half-remembered dreams, and long-buried truths.

He had already been there for too long, simmering with thoughts he didn't want to sort out. His chest was tight, constricted with anger and frustration. He needed to confront the brunette. He had done this, whether Draco wanted to believe it or not. 

Malfoy ran his hand through platinum blonde hair, the strands feeling almost too soft beneath his fingertips. He needed something to hold onto, something to ground him in the chaos of his thoughts.

The room was eerily quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the candles. Draco could feel the heat on his skin, but it was the temperature of rage—hotter than fire. His robes clung to his skin, and his black slacks were perfectly pressed. He could feel the weight of his shoes as he moved, each step making a hollow sound in the vast space of the room.

Draco hadn't seen him yet, but he could feel him; he could sense the inevitable arrival that was as suffocating as the silence that hung in the room. He knew the Gryffindor would show up. He always did. It was just a matter of when, and Draco was ready. His fists were clenched at his sides, the bones of his knuckles pushing against the skin so hard it was almost painful.

And then, the door creaked open.

Harry Potter.

Draco didn't need to look up. He could hear Harry's footsteps as he stepped inside, they were heavy with purpose, a contrast to the usual ease in his movements. 

"Potter," Draco started before Harry could even reach the blonde's line of sight. "Do you know what you've done?!"

Harry's eyes narrowed, a storm already brewing in them. He made his way fully into the room, his gaze locking with Draco's in an instant. There was an uncomfortable pause—a moment of pure, suffocating tension between them. It felt like the space itself was holding its breath, like the world had paused, waiting for something to happen.

“What?” Harry replied, his voice low and tight. He stepped into the room with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, his casual posture a mask for the anger he was holding back.

Draco’s lip curled slightly. “Don’t play dumb, Potter.” His words were sharper now, his voice thick with accusation. “You cast a legilimency spell on me. I know you did. I know you’ve been messing with my mind, listening to my thoughts, and plotting to humiliate me with my own damn book .”

Harry raised an eyebrow. He almost looked amused, but there was an underlying edge to his expression. “Are you in your right mind? I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie,” Draco snapped, cutting him off. He took a few steps forward, his shoes clicking sharply against the floor. “I’m not an idiot, you know. I heard you in my head, Potter. You were listening to my thoughts. You’ve been intruding on me, and now you’re playing innocent?”

Harry flinched slightly, but he didn’t back down. His eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about, Malfoy? You’re the one who walked in on me. I didn’t cast a legilimency spell on you!”

Draco’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Oh, really? You didn’t? And yet, here I am, hearing your thoughts—like you planned it. What, Potter? Thought it’d be fun to make me believe you liked what you read? To just invade my mind and hear all the things I think about when I’m alone?"

“You’re insane,” Harry spat, stepping closer to Draco, their bodies almost touching. His breath was shallow, rising and falling with the tension of the moment. “You’re actually accusing me of this? Why the hell would I want to hear your thoughts, Malfoy?”

Draco’s face twisted in frustration, his voice lowering to a growl. “I don’t know, Potter. Why do you always have to act so bloody innocent, like you’re the victim in everything?”

Harry clenched his fists, but his jaw was tight, fighting to keep his temper in check. “You’re the one making all the accusations. You don’t even know what you’re talking about! You barged into my space, Malfoy. You listened to something you shouldn’t have. And now you’re making it my problem?”

The tension between them thickened, wrapping around them like an invisible thread that pulled them closer, inch by inch, until the space between them was too small, too suffocating.

"Seriously, what are you on about, Malfoy?" Harry's voice was low, but it carried an edge. He took a step forward, closing the distance between them, and Draco felt the world shift beneath him. He felt Harry's heat, the raw energy radiating off of him, and felt the way his presence filled the room like smoke.

The sudden proximity made Draco's breath catch in his throat. His heart was pounding now, a heavy thudding in his chest that seemed to reverberate through the floor, through his bones. He could smell Harry's shampoo, a faint trace of wood and citrus that clung to him in the way Draco had once found intoxicating. He could see the way Harry's clothes clung to his chest, the fabric stretching across muscles that Draco had often imagined running his hands over.

But he didn't think about that now. He couldn’t. Not with all the anger that had been building inside him for years—long before he even acknowledged his desire to shag Potter. It was the same anger that had simmered just beneath the surface ever since Harry had rejected Draco’s offer of friendship, waiting for a moment like this to finally erupt.

"I didn't mean to do this." Harry growled, the words almost lost between the space they'd created. But Draco didn't hear it. He was too lost in his anger. He wasn't ready to back down.

Without warning, Draco shoved Harry back. The force of it was unexpected, and for a split second, Harry staggered back, crashing into the wall behind him with a loud thud. Draco could hear Harry's breath leave his lungs with the impact, and the noise of it rang in his ears like an explosion.

Draco's heart pounded in his chest as he stood over Harry, their faces inches apart now. He felt the heat of Harry's body against him, the sharpness of his breath, and the wildness in his eyes.

"I don't care," Draco hissed, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Harry's eyes were wild with emotion; his fists were clenched so tightly that his fingers were turning white. "Do you think I'm playing some game with you?!" Harry's voice cracked with the strain, the words heavy with something else—something Draco didn't fully understand.
And then Harry spoke, his voice breaking through the haze of their anger.

"I just wanted to hear you read it to me."

Draco's world stopped. His breath hitched in his chest, and for a second, he could barely comprehend what Harry had just said. The words floated between them, too simple, too raw, too vulnerable.

Harry's voice, so low and desperate, felt like a slap across his face.

"You what?" Draco whispered, not trusting his own voice. He stared into Harry's eyes, searching for any hint of sarcasm, any sign that this was a joke.

"I just wanted to hear you," Harry breathed, his voice thick with something Draco had never expected to hear. "I just wanted to be read to in your voice, so I cast a variant of a spell I read somewhere, That's all."

Draco's chest tightened, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. They were standing so close now, so unbearably close. The world around them felt like it had vanished, and all that was left was the sound of their heavy breathing.

And then, almost hesitantly, Draco thought of pushing himself away from Harry, his heart hammering. His face was flushed, head spinning with the weight of what had just been said.

He didn't know what to do with that.

"What...?" Draco murmured, his voice barely a whisper. He couldn't believe it

Draco’s breath was coming too quickly, his heart hammering in his chest as Harry’s words rang in his mind. "I just wanted to hear you... your voice." It echoed, repeating like a curse that was both sweet and suffocating. He didn’t know what to do with that, how to process it.

He wanted to shout, to push Harry away, to lash out like he always did when things got too close, too personal. But something inside him—the part he never let anyone see—wasn’t ready to let go. His hands were still trembling, the anger barely a cover for the panic bubbling beneath the surface.

Harry, on the other hand, was growing impatient, his fists still clenched and his eyes burning with something Draco couldn’t fully name. The longer Draco stood there, silent, the more Harry’s frustration mounted, his voice becoming taut with a raw edge.

“You—” Harry started, his voice strained. “You don’t get it, do you, Malfoy? I’m not playing some game with you. I’m not messing with your mind! I just wanted you.” He paused, his words coming out in a breathless rush. “I just wanted you. I want you to stop acting like an arse. To stop pretending, for once, so I could simply fantasize and not feel guilty about who I fantasized.”

Draco recoiled, taking a step back, but not from Harry’s words—he was retreating from the feelings that were beginning to rise inside him. The words felt like too much, like they were breaking down walls he’d built. He hated how vulnerable he suddenly felt.

“I don’t pretend, and I don't need pity, Potter,” Draco bit out, though the words tasted bitter. “Don’t try to make me feel sorry for you.”

Harry’s eyes flashed, but he stepped closer, disregarding the space Draco was trying to create. “I didn’t ask for your pity. I didn’t ask for anything!” Harry’s voice broke through the air like a whip. “You’re the one who can’t admit that you’re not as invincible as you think. You’re not the only one with shit to deal with, Malfoy!”

Draco flinched, the anger inside him boiling over. He could feel his fists clenching again, his fingernails biting into his palms as if to hold himself together. The fight inside him was more than just the bitterness between them—it was the turmoil inside of himself that he had no words for. He wanted to fight, to tear everything apart, but his mind kept circling back to Harry’s words. "I just wanted to hear you."

“I don’t—” Draco’s voice cracked before he could finish, and he took another step back, his face flushed with a vulnerability he couldn’t control. He couldn't let anyone see this. He wouldn't

Harry’s frustration reached its peak. His face was tight with anger, but beneath it was something else—something raw, desperate. “You’re so damn stubborn,” Harry spat, his voice low but trembling with barely controlled emotion. “I’m not trying to manipulate you. I’m trying to tell you that—”

“You don’t know me,” Draco growled, his voice thick with tension.

“I don’t know you?” Harry shot back, his gaze hardening. “Then why do I feel like I’m standing here, telling you everything, and you’re still not getting it? You think you know everything, Malfoy, but you’re the one hiding behind that pompous personality of yours!”

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Draco could feel the weight of Harry’s words pressing in on him. His chest ached, the rawness of everything exposed to the light of their confrontation. 

And then, just as quickly, it hit him. The overwhelming weight of everything—the years of unnecessary rivalry, the bitterness, the subtle attraction he hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge, and the crushing loneliness that had followed him since childhood.

Draco took a deep breath, his chest heaving. “I don’t know what you want from me,” he whispered, the fight draining out of him for the moment. “You want me to be different? You want me to... admit something?”

Harry, breathing just as heavily, took a step closer, the intensity between them palpable. “I just want you to stop being an arse. Stop acting as though you’ve got it all figured out. You’re not as untouchable as you like to act.”

Draco’s mind was a swirl of confusion. His heart raced, and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t have a ready answer, no sharp retort to fling back at Harry. “You think you know all about me, don't you? What if I really am just a git who doesn't want to open up?"

Harry’s voice softened, but his words were no less intense. “No. I think you’re terrified of what’ll happen if you do. Terrified of being vulnerable.”

Draco opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. His throat was dry, and his mind was a mess of contradictions. He wanted to fight back, to shove Harry away again, but the weight of Harry’s gaze held him captive, and all Draco could do was stand there, feeling everything shift inside him.

The air between them crackled with tension, the silence hanging heavy like a threat.

 “You think you’ve figured me out, Potter? You don’t know a damn thing.” His fists clenched again, and for a moment, it felt like he might punch something—anything—just to release the pressure building up inside him.

Harry’s eyes were burning, still holding that same intensity, but Draco couldn’t deal with it anymore. He couldn’t deal with Harry’s ability to make him question himself, to make him feel exposed.

“You know what?” Draco spat, his tone venomous, his lips curling into a sneer. “Give me the notebook.”

Harry blinked, clearly thrown off. “What? What are you talking about?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, a storm raging behind them. “The bloody notebook, Potter. The one you’ve been sticking your nose into.” He took a step forward, his words heavy and dripping with fury. “Give it back. Now.”

Harry’s confusion was quickly replaced with frustration. “I don’t—what’s your problem, Malfoy?”

“My problem?” Draco’s laugh was bitter. “My problem is you, Potter. I told you not to—” His breath caught as the reality of his words hit him. “I didn’t want you to see that.”

Harry’s expression softened, but Draco couldn’t bear it. He didn’t want to see Harry pitying him, didn’t want to feel like Harry understood something he couldn’t possibly understand.

“I’m not giving it back, Malfoy,” Harry said, his voice quieter now, almost gentle. 

But Draco had had enough. He snapped, his eyes wild. “You don’t get it, do you?” His voice cracked, but he wasn’t going to let it show. “I need it back. I need you to stop thinking you can get into my head and "fix me" just because I find you visually appealing”

Harry stepped back slightly, finally realizing the depth of Draco’s rage, but he wasn’t going to back down either. “It’s not about fixing you, Draco. It’s about you letting someone see a different side of you, for once. You don’t have to act this way—”

Draco’s eyes blazed with anger as he took another step forward, closing the gap. His voice was almost a growl now. “Stay out of it. You think I need to be fixed? I don’t. You have no idea how much of an asshole I really am. I’m not your charity case.”

Harry's expression faltered, hurt flashing across his face, but Draco couldn’t care. He couldn’t allow Harry to keep playing this role—this savior complex that Draco didn’t want or need.

“Give me the notebook.”

“I’m not giving it back,” Harry said again, his voice steady but resolute.

Draco’s frustration flared. “What?” He took a step forward, his chest tightening with rage. “You can’t—”

Harry cut him off, his eyes glinting with a smirk. “You said I could give it back when I was done experimenting,” he said, voice laced with teasing mockery.

Draco froze.

The room suddenly felt too small. Harry’s words hung in the air like a spark ready to ignite everything.

Draco’s stomach dropped as the memory came rushing back—a moment so raw, so unexpected, that it had seared itself into his mind. The memory of walking in on Harry, alone in bed, the faint moonlight from his window flickering over Harry’s flushed face as he… 

The realization of what Draco had witnessed, the way Harry had been so unguarded, so exposed, his desire written across his face caused a mix of humiliation and arousal to burn through Draco, but now—standing here with the weight of that memory—he could feel the heat creeping up his neck. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or scream. The whole situation felt like an explosion he hadn’t been prepared for.

Draco could feel his face flushing as the words left his mouth before he could stop them. “You were—” He stuttered, incredulous, unable to fully process what Harry had just reminded him of.

Harry’s expression didn’t change, his smirk growing more pronounced. “Yeah, that’s right,” Harry said, his voice low and teasing, every inch of his usual bravado on full display. “You walked in on me, Malfoy. And you watched.”

Draco’s fists clenched, his chest tightening with something that wasn’t just anger. It was a mixture of embarrassment, desire, and confusion—a cocktail that threatened to overwhelm him.

"I didn’t—I wasn’t watching," Draco managed to say, his words coming out far too defensively. “You weren’t supposed to be—" He trailed off, his gaze trailing dangerously low for a moment before he quickly shot Harry a look that could kill.

But Harry wasn’t done. His grin turned mischievous, almost devilish. “You heard me, didn’t you? You couldn’t just walk away, could you?”

Draco took a step back, his mind spinning. He wanted to strangle Harry, but his body was betraying him, the heat in his face not just from anger but from the recollection of the image—the way Harry had looked, the way Draco had been so distracted by it all.

“I didn’t want to see that,” Draco ground out, but his voice was strained, quieter than he meant it to be.

Harry shrugged, unaffected by Draco’s frustration. “Well, you saw it anyway. I didn’t hear you complaining when you stuck around to watch,” he said with a wink, as if the whole thing were a joke.

Draco couldn’t take it. “Give. Me. The. Notebook,” he demanded, his voice tight and full of the arousal he didn’t want to feel.

"You really think I'm going to just hand it over after you watched me, Malfoy?" Harry teased, his eyes glinting with something dangerously close to amusement.

“I said I wasn’t—” Draco started, but his words were cut off by Harry suddenly stepping closer, his body pressing up against Draco’s, so close that Draco could feel the heat radiating off of him. He froze. There was a tension in the air, something unspoken, and Harry was toying with it, stretching the moment out, making Draco second-guess himself, his mind completely derailed by the proximity.

And then, in an unexpected move, Harry leaned in, his lips brushing against Draco’s ear, his breath warm and deliberate.

“You watched me, Draco,” Harry whispered, the words thick with teasing, but there was something else too—something that made Draco’s heart stop. Harry pulled back just enough so that their eyes locked, his gaze intense, piercing into Draco like he could see straight through him.

Draco was speechless.

Harry smirked, clearly enjoying the effect his words had. He stepped back with a single, almost lazy movement.

“Don’t worry,” Harry said, his voice casual as if they hadn’t just had the most heated confrontation of their lives. “I’m not done with it yet. I’ll give it back when I’m finished experimenting... I’ll make sure you get it when it’s all used up.”

Draco could only watch, mouth agape, unable to form a single word. Harry turned and walked away, his figure retreating into the shadows of the Room of Requirements. The sound of Harry’s footsteps echoed in Draco’s ears, but it wasn’t just the sound of footsteps—it was the sound of his anger breaking apart, unraveling with the weight of everything he couldn’t say, everything he couldn’t understand.

And Harry was gone.

Chapter Text

Harry hadn't slept well in days.

Each night, the moment his head hit the pillow, the world shifted. The veil between his own thoughts and something darker, thinned until it felt like he was drowning in shadows not his own. The bond, or whatever twisted magic tethered them together, had grown tenfold. Sharp and unyielding. It was a slow-burning weight settled deep beneath his ribs, ready to explode, but never quite doing so.

His dreams had become a strange collage of fractured memories and borrowed emotions. Hands he didn't recognize, rough and trembling. A door slammed somewhere far away, echoing in his chest, pounding with an urgency he couldn't place. Strange, unfamiliar voices whispered secrets and reprimands in a manner he couldn't grasp. There was a line— the only phrase from his tattered dreams that echoed relentlessly in his mind, a cruel whisper: "Not good enough."

Those nightmares didn't belong to him. He knew that much. But it clung to him like a stain. A verdict passed in a voice colder than ice.

Sometimes, Harry woke up drenched in sweat, heart hammering, mouth dry and bitter. Other times, he woke cold, and afraid as if the night had stolen something vital from him. Once, he found himself clutching at the sheets like a lifeline, the phantom ache in his chest impossible to soothe. It was an ache not born from hunger, or loneliness, but from something raw and unnamed. It was an ache that didn't belong to him.

He saw pieces of Draco everywhere—in the margins of the green notebook, in the shape of a shadow flickering across a wall, in the sharp curve of a letter scrawled in silver ink.

At Hogwarts, every step felt heavy. Every classroom, every corridor, felt charged with static, as if Draco's presence was a current running just beneath the surface, invisible but undeniable.

Harry avoided him like the plague. He took different staircases, rearranged his schedule, ate at odd hours, sat with Neville where Draco never went. The strategy worked for a while—kind of—but it was like trying to hold water in clenched fists because the silence only grew louder. Every empty space between them stretched taut and brittle, waiting to snap.

And when their eyes did meet, an unexpected and electric across the Great Hall or during a shared lesson, the world around Harry turned to ash. His breath would hitch, heart lurching as if Draco's gaze reached inside him, pulling at all the tangled threads he had desperately tried to hide. He didn't know what was worse—the unbearable quiet or the magnetic pull that threatened to undo him.

Then, one morning, as pale sunlight spilled over the stone walls and the castle slowly woke from its slumber, he heard it. Not in his ears. Not quite a voice in his head. But somewhere deeper—between thought and feeling, like a shadow stretching just beyond sight.

"Talk Potter."

Harry's spoon clattered onto the floor, startling Ron mid-bite. "Oi, you alright, mate?" Ron asked, eyebrows knitting with concern. Harry forced a shaky smile. "Yeah. Just, uh... Charms work. See you in a bit." Without waiting for another word, he pushed back his chair and fled the Great Hall. He didn't get far before the weight of that invisible tether yanked him back, dragging him toward a confrontation neither of them was ready for—but both desperately needed.

The corridor was too narrow for the tension between them.

Harry wasn't even meant to be here. He'd left the Great Hall early, told Ron he wanted to get a head start on Charms, but that was a lie. He wasn't revising. He was avoiding.

Yet of course, Malfoy was already standing at the far end of the corridor, like he'd been waiting. He was leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, tie loosened like he couldn't be arsed to care, hair groomed to perfection. When he saw Harry, his expression didn't change - not quite - but something in his posture sharpened, like his spine snapped straight behind the casual slouch.

Harry came to a halt. Draco didn't move.

"Brilliant. Thought I smelt something self-righteous." Harry scoffed. "You."

Draco raised a brow. "Expecting someone better?"

"Just no one worth hexing."

"That meant to hurt, Potter? Bit weak, even for you."

"Funny, really. I was going to say the same about your last Quidditch performance."

Draco pushed off the wall, slow and deliberate. He rolled his shoulders as though the conversation itself were a physical weight. Harry's lips twitched, the familiar sting of Draco's presence like a splinter beneath his skin.

Draco's smirk was slow, deliberate, like he was savoring every word. "At least I don't pretend to care about winning when I'm clearly distracted."

Harry's jaw clenched. "Distracted?"

Draco's gaze flickered with something sharper — annoyance, maybe pain.

"By you, Potter. You're in my head. All the bloody time."

The words hung heavy between them, a truth neither wanted to fully claim.

Harry's breath caught. Deny it. "I'm not in your head."

"Don't play coy," Draco snapped, stepping closer, the corridor shrinking around them. "You've been hearing my thoughts as well, haven't you? Picked up on things I'd rather keep to myself."

Harry's heart hammered—a tangle of guilt. "It's complicated."

Draco's voice dropped low, a sharp smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Of course it bloody is. Any situation involving Harry Potter tends to be, doesn't it?"

Harry held his gaze, steady and unflinching. "Maybe it's time we stopped pretending this isn't happening."

Draco chuckled, disbelief thick in his tone. "We? Last I looked, the only one dodging this mess was you."

"All I did was avoid you, not the problem," Harry snapped, frustration creeping in. "Last time we spoke, you went and accused me of legilimency, dimwit."

"Legilimency or not," Draco retorted, eyes narrowing, "the fact I can hear you in my head—and worse, feel your wretched emotions—is beyond uncomfortable."

Harry's jaw tightened, the weight settling heavy in his chest.

"It's about time someone handed that notebook back to its rightful owner and broke whatever blasted spell it's trapped in, don't you reckon?"

Harry said nothing.

His mouth opened, then snapped shut. He wasn't ready to disclose what other side effects his dodgy spell had dragged along.

"It's not like I'm keen on being in your head, Malfoy."

Draco snorted, humorless. "Well, good for you. Trouble is, you are. Like a bloody echo that won't sod off. Waking up to your voice rattling around my skull every morning — some kind of cruel joke, that."

Harry's jaw clenched. "But how? We haven't even spoken since—"

"Doesn't matter," Draco cut in. "It's still there. You're still there. Your voice. Your thoughts. You."

Harry didn't know what to say. He fought hard not to let it show how much that stung.

"I didn't ask for whatever this is."

"Yet you still hang on to the blasted notebook. After you realized what that spell did. Could've burned it, given it back, done something, anything. But you didn't."

Harry flinched. "I didn't have the foggiest idea the spell would've caused all this."

"You do now."

Draco stepped into Harry's personal space, and the corridor seemed to close in around them, the space shrinking until it felt almost claustrophobic. They were too close—so close that Harry could feel the heat radiating off the blonde in slow, pulsing waves. There was something in the air, a faint trace of something sharp and clean—mint with a hint of smoke—that clawed at Harry's senses. The distance between them thinned to a mere breath, barely enough room for the tension that stretched taut like a drawn bowstring.

Harry's pulse faltered, stuttering in his chest as every nerve screamed for release: to move, to speak, to escape. Yet he stood rooted, locked in place as though held by invisible chains.

Draco's expression was a strange mixture—anger etched deep in the set of his jaw, but layered with something Harry dared not name aloud. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked as if he was biting back not just words but a sharper, far less polite sentiment. There was a flicker in his pale eyes, a fire burning low but fierce, and it twisted Harry's stomach into knots. It wasn't just anger. Nor was it simply a challenge. It was something wilder, untamed—volatile, something that could scorch and sear if reciprocated.

Harry hated that he knew it all too well. Hated that some treacherous part of him couldn't help but respond.

"Step back," Harry muttered, turning his face away.

"No," Draco said, voice low but unwavering. "You know what your spell's done, and yet you're not doing a thing to fix it. That's the issue."

The words weren't loud, but they cut deep.

Harry's breath caught. Heat climbed the back of his neck—part fury, part something he didn't want to name. He met Draco's eyes despite himself. They were far too close. Close enough to feel the pull, to feel the weight of everything unsaid. It set him off. He shoved Draco back—not with force, but with frustration.

"I can't, alright?!" He shouted, voice sharp with rage. "You hearing me—feeling me—isn't the only bloody thing the spell did!" His chest heaved. He didn't stop.

"Your precious notebook's acting up—scribbling on its own, writing your thoughts, and I've been having nightmares, Malfoy! Nightmares! They're memories that don't belong to me, just like my feelings don't belong to you."

His voice cracked slightly, but he powered through.

"I can't just undo it! I can't cast another spell on the bloody thing—it could backfire, again! Merlin knows what else it'll mess with—our magic, our friends, who bloody knows?"

Silence dropped between them like a curtain. Thick. Stifling. Harry stood there, chest rising and falling, every breath tight with frustration. His eyes burned—not just with guilt, but something far more combustible.

Draco's fists curled at his sides, jaw tight. "You should've bloody said something," he bit out, seething.

Harry glanced at him, then away, pretending not to notice so he could finish his confession. "It's been writing. On its own."

The blonde laughed bitterly, the corner of his mouth twitching—not quite a smirk, but close. "So that's it, then? Potter's grand strategy—sulk, suffer, say nothing, and hope the problem goes away?"

Harry took a step forward, voice rising. "I'm not pretending I didn't cock it up. But don't pretend like you're handling this any better. You're just as tangled in it as I am."

Draco's eyes flashed. "Tangled, yes. But I'm not the one playing martyr while secretly enjoying the attention."

"You think I enjoy this?" Harry's voice rang down the corridor. "You think I like dreaming your nightmares? Waking up with your bloody voice in my head?"

"Sod off, prat." Draco muttered.

"Careful."

"Oh, please." Draco said, eyes sharp and burning. "I know exactly how far I can push you. And I reckon you bloody enjoy it."

They were close enough to the others breaths. The air between them shared. It was the same old dance, wasn't it? That endless game they'd been playing since their first year—no rules, just blurred lines and a fight that never really ended.

Draco's smirk was thin, almost cruel. "Own up, Potter. You missed me, didn't you? All the arguing, the back and forth. It's familiar, nostalgic, even."

Harry scowled, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. "Sod off, prat."

Draco leaned in to Harry's ear, voice low, almost teasing. "Is that all this is? Some petty revenge for every insult I ever tossed your way? You get to claim a little freedom over me. Own my intimate thoughts, my secrets. That it?"

"Don't be daft. That's not what this is. I never gave a toss about you in that way." Harry angered.

"Didn't you?" Draco shot back, eyes locked onto his like a predator sizing up prey.

He really looked at Draco then. The faint pink under his eyes, the way his mouth was set like he was holding back a storm. How he hadn't moved an inch away.

And something inside Harry cracked—something he wasn't ready to name.

Draco’s grin was sharp and dangerous, lips trailing a feather-light path along Harry’s neck, every word a delicious torment. “Just ’cause I reckon you’re fit enough to shank...” —he teased, his breath hot against the shell of Harry’s ear, a soft, mocking kiss brushing the sensitive skin—“doesn’t mean I don’t despise you, Potter.” His teeth grazed the tender spot beneath Harry’s jaw with a faint nip, sharp and deliberate, making Harry shiver just slightly. Harry's fingers twitched, caught somewhere between the urge to shove Draco away and the surprising pull to hold him closer.

“Sort out your bloody spell...” he whispered, sucking gently along the curve of the brunette's throat, voice dropping to a low purr that tangled with the warmth of his touch, “and share whatever half-baked solutions you come up with...” He bit down lightly on Harry’s skin, not enough to hurt but enough to claim, marking him in a way that caused Harry’s breath to hitch, a sudden rush of heat blooming in his chest.

“Otherwise, I swear I’ll make sure my mates have a proper go at making your life a living hell.” Each word was punctuated with a deliberate kiss—soft, then harder, teasing, testing—as Draco’s hand pressed against the back of Harry's neck, fingers curling just so to stir the tension taut between them. Harry’s heart thudded unevenly, his pulse hammering in his ears as a shudder rippled through him. He fought the rush of conflicting feelings—annoyance, embarrassment, something sharper he wasn’t ready to name.
His lips brushed down to the hollow of Harry’s collarbone, dragging slow, feather-soft kisses that barely grazed skin but screamed of promise and threat all at once.

“So, you’d better figure it out...” The last words slipped out between a sharp nip and a lingering kiss, his voice both a challenge and a dare. Harry’s breath hitched again, caught somewhere between defiance and something dangerously close to surrender. Without waiting for a response—just catching Harry’s jagged breaths and glazed eyes—he spun on his heel, cloak snapping behind him. His footsteps echoed down the corridor, clipped and unforgiving.

Harry stayed rooted where he was, breath ragged and uneven, every nerve buzzing from Draco’s words and that reckless closeness. His mind scrambled for a retort, but the words tangled and slipped away like smoke, leaving only a dull ache low in his stomach.

The quiet that followed wasn't relief—it was the sort that presses against your ribs, heavy and expectant, like the storm had passed but left something behind.

Then—
A twitch in his pocket, a distraction. The notebook. He pulled it free, flipping to the latest page. The ink bled slow and steady across the parchment, as if the book had waited for silence to speak.

Hatred. Desire. Fine Line. Dancing the edge.

Harry stared, mouth dry.

And for the first time, he didn't know if the words on the page unnerved him because they were Draco's...

...or his own.

He shut the book, slow and careful, like it might detonate.

Chapter Text

The wind howled outside, rattling the towers of Hogwarts with a force that felt almost like an omen. Rain streaked the windows in restless sheets, as if the castle itself were resisting sleep. Past midnight, the halls were sunk in shadow. Torches guttered out, the ghosts stayed hidden, and even the portraits had gone still. The stone walls, keepers of centuries of secrets, seemed to wait in silence.

Deep beneath the castle, in a chamber carved into the stone long before the Triwizard Tournament had been revived, the stillness was about to break.

The heavy stone doors at the far end of the chamber creaked open slowly, reluctantly, as though the ancient magic woven into them recognized the wrongness of what they were about to permit. The sound echoed into the cavernous dark like a scream smothered by time. A figure slipped through, tall and shrouded in thick, tattered robes that drank in the shadows around them. The figure did not hesitate. Each step across the cold flagstones was precise and silent, like a ritual being fulfilled.

He moved with purpose, his steps deliberate, and in his gloved hand he carried something small and ancient—a twisted relic that seemed to shimmer with an internal shadow.

This was Mulciber, a reclusive and dangerous Death Eater whose expertise in arcane and forbidden magics made even the most seasoned of wizards wary.

It was said he could speak to spells in languages lost to time, could twist enchantments into knots only he could unravel. He had not stepped foot in Hogwarts since his own graduation, decades ago, but tonight, he had returned at the request of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

He paused before the Goblet, now dormant and flickering blue with ordinary flame. His face remained hidden beneath the shadow of his hood, but he raised the relic to his lips and began to murmur in a language not meant for human ears. The words slithered through the air, sharp and guttural, as if dragging themselves into being. The chamber responded in kind. The flame in the Goblet began to tremble.

With a sudden hiss, the blue fire turned to black, smoldering like ash caught in the wind. The temperature in the chamber dropped as the magic took hold.

Mulciber moved his hand in a series of intricate, unnatural gestures, the relic now glowing a deep crimson. His chants intensified, rising and falling in tempo as he poured his energy into the spell.

Then...silence.

The Goblet of Fire flared violently, a pillar of blackened flame licking toward the ceiling. For a heartbeat, it looked dead, like coal burned too long. Then, with a gust of wind that seemed to come from nowhere, the fire burst back into brilliant blue, as if nothing had happened at all. Mulciber stepped back, breathing heavily, and regarded the Goblet with a nod of grim satisfaction.

It was done. Draco Malfoy's name would be accepted.

... ...

A week later, a meeting took place behind closed doors in Dumbledore's office. The room, usually humming with the gentle ticking of enchanted instruments and the soft, melodic cries of Fawkes the phoenix, now sat unnervingly quiet. The air was thick, the kind of silence that seemed to soak into the bones. Fawkes dozed in the corner, feathers duller than usual, as if the great bird too could feel the tension pulsing through the stone walls.

The Malfoys did not waste a single word. They spoke with a calm, deliberate precision, each syllable carrying the weight of inevitability. In tones as cold and exacting as a summons from a court, they laid out the facts plainly and without flourish: the currents of the Tournament had been shifted, the Goblet persuaded to accept a name it would have otherwise rejected. They presented it as careful work, a matter of calculation rather than cruelty, a series of deliberate interventions designed so that what seemed like chance was in fact their design. There was no confession, no prideful boast, no trembling of conscience; only the quiet statement of fact: the deed had been done. And any attempt to undo it would be folly, for forces now moved in ways beyond even Dumbledore’s reach, and those forces would not be swayed by argument or plea.

Lucius Malfoy stood tall, his cane resting against the arm of a high-backed chair, polished silver gleaming in the firelight. He was dressed impeccably, as always, in dark robes trimmed with silver, a statement of wealth and heritage. His expression was carved from marble—smooth, unmoving, unreadable. Beside him, Narcissa Malfoy sat poised and regal, every inch the portrait of aristocratic composure. Her spine was straight as a wand, hands folded neatly in her lap, her face set in that flawless mask of calm that made her seem more statue than woman.

Across from them, behind the heavy mahogany desk cluttered with curious contraptions and half-melted candles, sat Albus Dumbledore. His eyes, usually bright with twinkling mischief or ageless wisdom, were sharp now—hard as chipped sapphire. His long fingers were steepled before him, resting atop a pile of parchment, unmoving. His voice, when it came, was low. Cold. A far cry from the kind warmth most students knew.

"You've gone too far."

Lucius inclined his head slightly, as though acknowledging a minor inconvenience. "On the contrary, Headmaster. We've merely done what was necessary."

"There is no loophole in this tournament," Dumbledore said, each word clipped, his accent crisp and unmistakably British. "The Goblet is bound by ancient enchantments, protections designed to prevent precisely this sort of tampering—"

"And yet," Narcissa interrupted smoothly, her voice as rich and cold as a winter wind, "you and I both understand that ancient magic does not bend to Ministry mandates. The Goblet has been touched. It will not reject him."

Dumbledore's fingers twitched—barely—but he kept them composed. His face remained still, save for the slight tightening of his mouth. "You've placed your son in grave danger."

Lucius didn't flinch. If anything, his posture straightened further. "He will do what is required."

Dumbledore narrowed his eyes. "I presume this is not about the Tournament?"

A heavy silence filled the office, stretching long enough to make even the fire seem to still.

"This, I suspect," he went on, "concerns Harry Potter."

Neither Narcissa nor Lucius responded at first. But the way Narcissa's jaw stiffened, the way Lucius's gaze flicked for just a heartbeat toward the hearth, said enough. Finally, Lucius spoke, his voice a soft, dangerous purr:

"There are those who feel the boy's... significance cannot remain ignored forever. You may try to shield him, Headmaster, but your protections grow thinner by the day. The walls of this castle, once thought unassailable, are beginning to show their cracks. And the Goblet—"

"—has already been enchanted," Narcissa finished. "You cannot undo what has been done."

"The boy has not been chosen yet," Dumbledore said firmly, though it sounded perilously close to self-reassurance.

"But he will be," she replied, the certainty in her tone sending a chill through the room. "And when that happens, I strongly suggest you refrain from meddling."

Dumbledore's expression darkened. "And should I choose to ignore your warning?"

Lucius leaned forward then, resting his gloved hands on the top of his cane, eyes glinting. "You... will find yourself woefully outnumbered. You may command respect within these walls, Albus, but you cannot hold back every creeping shadow. We have allies. Many. Some in high places. Others already inside your beloved school. And they do not share our... patience."

The threat hung in the air like smoke. There was no need to elaborate. Dumbledore understood the implication. It wasn't just about Draco. This was a declaration. A warning. A shift in power.

Dumbledore's hands curled slowly into fists, but he didn't move. Didn't speak. Not immediately. The fire crackled, the only sound in the vast office. At last, he exhaled through his nose.

“You overestimate your reach, Lucius,” he said evenly. “And it is your son who will pay the price.”

“Danger is the crucible of legacy,” Lucius replied as he stood. “Draco will not falter.”

Narcissa followed without a word, her silk robes whispering against the floor. She paused only long enough to meet Dumbledore's gaze. “Do be careful whose patience you exhaust, Headmaster.” And with that, they swept from the office, the door clicking shut behind them with a deliberate finality.

Dumbledore remained seated long after their departure, eyes fixed on the dying embers. His thoughts traced the shadowed consequences of recent events. He had been cornered. The Goblet had been tampered with, touched by forces both ancient and forbidden. To attempt to undo it would court a peril he could ill afford.

If the Goblet were to select Draco Malfoy... Then it had already made its choice.

And all he could do was observe, letting events unfold, however bitter the reckoning.

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy sat in the Great Hall, his posture composed but his mind clearly elsewhere, the tip of his index finger slowly and rhythmically tracing the ornate rim of his silver goblet. The hum of morning chatter buzzed around him, laughter from the Hufflepuff table, the clink of cutlery against porcelain plates, the rustle of owl wings overhead, but it all seemed distant, muffled, like background noise in a dream he couldn't wake from.

He hadn't bothered to tune into the conversation happening around him at the Slytherin table; Blaise was saying something about the next Hogsmeade weekend, Pansy was gossiping about someone's haircut, yet none of it seemed to matter. Draco's thoughts were a million miles away, tangled in the web of secrets and schemes that had been tightening around his family for months.

His parents had made it undeniably clear: Draco would be competing in the Triwizard Tournament, no matter the cost or consequence. The decision had been presented to him not as a request, but as a command, cloaked in civility and softened only by Narcissa's gentle touch.

Over the last summer, Lucius had dropped increasingly unsubtle hints—casual remarks over breakfast, pointed glances during late-night discussions, and offhand comments laced with double meaning. His father's polished words masked a growing tension Draco couldn't ignore. It was the kind of pressure that didn't need to be shouted; it was heavy in the air, like the silence before a storm.

Narcissa, always the quieter, had approached things differently. She would lower her voice to a whisper, her hand brushing his cheek, tone soothing and maternal as she assured him that everything would be handled, that they would pave the way for him as they always had. She never explained exactly what "everything" entailed—only that he needn't worry, and that he should simply focus on preparing himself for the challenges ahead. Draco, however, wasn't naïve.

He hadn't been told what was said during that private meeting with Dumbledore—only that it was delicate, and that his presence would have complicated things. He'd been dismissed from the room with the same softness used to hush a child. But even as he waited outside the door, straining to catch snippets of conversation through thick stone walls, he felt the weight of their intentions pressing down on him. Whatever words had been exchanged, whatever bargains struck, it all revolved around one thing: securing his place in the Tournament. The thought sent a shiver down his spine. He didn't know how they'd managed it—or what price had been paid behind the scenes—but he had to trust them. Or at least pretend he did.

The idea of being chosen for the Triwizard Tournament sent a rush of adrenaline through Draco's veins every time he allowed himself to imagine it. It wasn't just a competition—it was a stage, one that would finally broadcast his name across the wizarding world. For once, people wouldn't see him merely as Lucius Malfoy's son or the pale boy with too much arrogance for his own good. This was bigger than Quidditch or House points. It was legacy—his legacy. Not inherited. Not bought. Earned. And even if he knew his parents were likely pulling strings behind the scenes, even if he suspected that this opportunity came tethered with invisible chains, he pushed the thought aside. All he could think about was the glory—the chance to be remembered as something more than a name whispered in fear.

Draco's fingers tapped an anxious rhythm against the cool wood of the table, the motion doing little to still the storm building inside him. His eyes were fixed on Dumbledore, searching the Headmaster's calm face for the slightest hint of change—a twitch, a pause, a lingering glance. Anything that might reveal whether his parents' meeting had gone as planned. He leaned forward, every muscle tense, his composure stretched thin. He'd been taught to control every emotion, every reaction—but this was different. His future balanced on a knife's edge, and the weight of it pressed heavy in his chest, tightening like a drawn bowstring.

When Dumbledore finally rose, a hush rippled through the hall. Draco's heart jolted. His fingers stilled.

"This year," the Headmaster began, voice calm and resonant, "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry will host the Triwizard Tournament once again. Tonight, The Goblet of Fire will choose it's candidates.

Draco's breath caught in his throat, the words striking him like a bolt of electricity. There it was. The announcement. The moment they had all been waiting for—he had been waiting for. He sat straighter, almost unconsciously, eyes locked on Dumbledore with burning intensity. Around him, students gasped, whispered excitedly, but Draco was already a step ahead, his mind racing.

As Dumbledore began explaining the history behind the tournament, Draco barely registered any of it. The words of Hogwarts' headmaster blurred together, a dull hum drowned out by the roar in his head. His pulse pounded in his ears, and his gaze flicked instinctively toward the Goblet of Fire, which now sat ominously at the front of the hall, its blue flames licking the air with hypnotic rhythm.

Would it choose him?

Could it choose him?

The idea pulsed through his veins like adrenaline. He could already see it happening—his name emerging from the flames, the parchment curling in the firelight, Dumbledore reading it aloud for all to hear: Draco Lucius Malfoy. His imagination took over, vivid and intoxicating. The astonished stares of his classmates, the mixture of admiration and envy flashing in their eyes, the slow turn of heads as he rose from the Slytherin table with practiced grace. He would walk toward the front of the room like he was born for it, every step proof that he was more than just his father's shadow, more than a name passed down through generations of pure-blood legacy. He would be a champion—a hero. Not Potter. Not some faceless Durmstrang brute or simpering Beauxbatons princess.

Him.

But just as quickly as the vision bloomed, uncertainty crept in, curling around the edges of his confidence like frost. What if Dumbledore found a way to stop him? What if the Headmaster deemed the magic too old, too binding, the rules too sacred to bend? What if the Goblet ignored every careful manipulation and chose someone else? The thought settled in his gut, heavy and cold, turning exhilaration to dread. No. He shook it away. His parents had assured him. Lucius had spoken in insinuations for weeks, always stopping just short of confirming the full extent of what he'd done. Narcissa had promised everything was in place. There was no room for failure—no chance the Goblet would betray them. Still, the doubt lingered, small but sharp, like a splinter beneath the skin.

Draco shifted in his seat, adjusting his posture, pretending to care about the rest of the announcements. He leaned forward slightly, nodding here and there, adopting an expression of polite interest. But inside, his thoughts were frantic, colliding like Bludgers in a storm. Every second dragged, stretching painfully long, as though time itself conspired against him. The Great Hall buzzed with anticipation, but for Draco, everything hinged on a single moment—when the Goblet would choose.

He caught a glimpse of Harry Potter out of the corner of his eye. As always, the Boy Who Lived seemed oblivious to Draco's concerns. Harry was busy whispering to Granger, his eyes wide with indifference. Draco sneered inwardly. Potter probably didn't even care about the tournament. Typical. Draco's fingers clenched around his goblet as he watched them interact. He envied Harry for his apparent ease, the way he could simply float through life without feeling the weight of expectations pressing down on him. Draco didn't have that luxury. He had to prove himself, every second of every day. And this tournament was his chance. But for now, all he could do was wait. And hope.

As the announcement continued, Draco's thoughts began to spiral. He wasn't worried, at least he tried not to show it. But his mind was already racing. He saw his father's face flash in his mind, Lucius' cold, calculating gaze, and it gave him no comfort. Draco leaned forward slightly, his eyes darting across the room, hoping to catch someone else's gaze. But no one was paying him any attention. Everyone was watching Dumbledore. Even Harry, with his complete lack of interest, had his eyes fixed forward, his face blank.

Draco wasn't used to being ignored, but it hardly mattered now. The longer he sat, the more he felt how much the Tournament meant to him. He could not let anyone see how badly he wanted it, nor how desperately he hoped his parents' plans had succeeded. When Dumbledore finished, Draco stood sharply, the chair scraping behind him. He moved quickly toward the exit, though he noticed the brunette watching him, brow slightly furrowed.

Draco didn't falter. He owed Potter no explanation.

Draco made his way out of the Great Hall, his footsteps echoing in the hallway. He didn't look back. He had to keep his composure—there was no room for weakness, not now, not when everything he'd worked for might be slipping through his fingers.

His frustration was bubbling up, and he needed to do something. He couldn't just sit and wait, not when there was so much on the line. At first, the Tournament had seemed trivial, but now it was his only chance to prove himself, especially to Potter, who still regarded him as nothing more than a poor pup in need of saving.

He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. The thought of someone else taking the place that should be his was unbearable. He was a Malfoy, he deserved this. Only one person truly understood the stakes, his father, Lucius, who had labored behind the scenes to secure this outcome. Yet even Lucius had limits, and Dumbledore remained a wild card. He shook it away. Doubt had no place here. Confidence was essential, even if the meeting with Dumbledore had not unfolded exactly as he had hoped.

Footsteps echoed behind him, sharp and deliberate. He glanced over his shoulder, expecting one of his usual shadows—Crabbe, maybe, or Goyle. Instead, it was Pansy Parkinson, her expression tight, brow slightly furrowed.

Draco huffed under his breath and turned away, continuing down the corridor without waiting for her to catch up.

She followed him, heels clicking steadily against the stone floor as they descended into the dungeons. Her pace was confident, deliberate, matching his stride with ease. The torchlight along the walls flickered, casting long shadows that danced across his shoulders. Draco kept his eyes forward, jaw set, hands buried deep in his pockets like he could hold something in place by sheer force of will.

"Something's wrong," Pansy said flatly, not bothering to lower her voice.

Draco didn't slow down. "You're imagining things."

"Don't patronize me." She stepped closer. "You've barely spoken to anyone since breakfast, you skipped show up for rounds, and you snapped at Blaise for just breathing around you. So don't insult me by pretending this is normal."

He exhaled sharply through his nose but kept walking. She knew he hated confrontation when he wasn't the one initiating it. But that had never stopped her before. "If it's about whatever your mother was hinting at last week—at dinner—then tell me. I'm not going to keep dancing around it."

He halted so abruptly she nearly bumped into him. His shoulders rose and fell with a shallow breath before he turned to face her.

"What exactly do you think you know, Parkinson?" he said, voice sharp but tired around the edges.

She raised a brow. "Enough to tell when you're in over your head." They stood there for a beat in silence, the hallway unnaturally still around them. Pansy's expression was unreadable, but her eyes didn't waver.

"We can't discuss this here," Draco finally said, voice lower now. Controlled. "This is bigger than the both of us." She crossed her arms, gaze narrowing. "Then stop walking around like you're the only one who can handle it. Either you trust me or you don't. But don't waste my time with half-answers."

Draco stared at her. His mouth opened like he might say something—just for a second—but then he shut it again. That same look she'd seen creeping into his eyes lately was there again: worn-down arrogance, the kind that no longer convinced even him.

"You're not making this easier," he muttered. "Good," she said. "It's not supposed to be easy. Want me out of your business? Fine. But I won't cover for you, not unless I know what I'm covering."

Another long silence. The tension settled between them like fog. Finally, Draco looked away, staring at the wall as if it might offer him an escape.

"I always do," he said under his breath. Because letting people in had never made anything better. Then he pulled his arm free from her grasp and turned down another corridor, the sound of his footsteps fading as he disappeared into the shadows.

Pansy watched him go, arms still crossed, her face unreadable. She didn't call after him. Didn't sigh or shake her head. She just stood there, staring at the space he left behind, calculating exactly how far her dear friend was willing to fall before he said anything at all.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the castle, another young wizard moved through his own current of unease. Harry Potter couldn't have cared less about the Triwizard Tournament. As Dumbledore droned on, he found himself growing increasingly uninterested in the whole ordeal. It was just another one of those things that didn't concern him.

Instead, Harry's thoughts were consumed with the fact that it was the weekend. He had planned on going to Hogsmeade with Hermione and Ron, and he couldn't wait to get out of Hogwarts for a bit. As soon as breakfast was over, the three of them made their way to the village, the crisp autumn air invigorating Harry as they stepped outside. The walk to Hogsmeade was a welcome distraction. They laughed and joked, enjoying the simple pleasure of being outside. For a while, Harry forgot about the tournament altogether. He had a small bundle of things to pick up-some new Quidditch gloves, a few treats from Honeydukes—and that was enough to keep him distracted .

The Galleons had come from the vault his parents left behind, heavy stacks of gold that gleamed coldly under Gringotts' torches. They granted him the freedom to buy butterbeer that warmed his throat on snowy walks back from Hogsmeade, soft wool gloves that chased the sting from his fingers, and all the sweets he could ever crave. But beneath every purchase lingered the weight of absence, a quiet, constant ache threaded through every coin spent.

From the stories he'd heard, his parents had loved him deeply, enough to face death without hesitation. And yet, they would never walk beside him on cobbled paths lined with frosted shop windows, laughing at something silly he'd said. They would never be faces in the crowd, eyes bright with pride as he soared through the air in a Quidditch match. They would never scold him gently for skipping meals in favor of treacle tarts, or press warm hands to his wind-chapped cheeks, murmuring about how cold it had gotten. Yet they would never walk beside him to Hogsmeade, laughing at his jokes. Never cheer for him from the Quidditch stands. Never tease him about his sweet tooth or fuss over his wind-chapped hands. The longing curled itself around his chest.

All he had left of them were stories, and the gold they'd left behind, a currency of love he could spend but never replenish. The longing curled itself around his chest, a reminder that even the heaviest purse could not fill the spaces where their presence should have been.

As they wandered around, Harry found himself slipping into a comfortable rhythm with Ron and Hermione. It was rare for him to forget everything, but for the first time in days, it was easy. He hadn't realized how much he needed this, the reprieve from the constant worry that had clouded his thoughts since the beginning of the school year. The tension over Voldemort, the fear of what would come next, had all seemed to weigh heavier each day. Today, however, it was just the three of them, and for once, Harry felt like a normal teenager. The sweet scent of chocolate wafted through the air as they passed Honeydukes, and Harry grinned. "Anyone fancy a chocolate frog?" he asked, holding up a few coins.

Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled. "You're ridiculous, Harry," she said, and he caught the fondness underlying her words. Ron, ever ready for a snack, fumbled coins from his pocket. "I'm in. You're paying, right?"

They wandered the village for hours, ducking into shops and sampling sweets, laughing easily, yet beneath the amusement, a nagging unease tugged at Harry. Something in the back of his mind refused to settle, and by the time the sun dipped low, he found himself growing quiet.

On the walk back to Hogwarts, Harry’s steps felt heavy, weighed down by more than just the crisp autumn air. The notebook’s pull lingered in his mind, a quiet, insistent tug he could no longer ignore. Draco had his own battles, masks of composure and ambition hiding the tension building beneath, but Harry’s challenge was different—and far less forgiving.

By the time he reached the castle gates, a shiver ran down his spine. The notebook would not wait. And when it acted, the consequences would ripple through more than just one person’s life.

Chapter Text

A rare moment of peace found him on that Sunday morning in his dormitory, the weight on his shoulders lifted, if only for a little while. The sun hung low in the sky, spilling golden-orange light through the windows of Gryffindor Tower. It bathed the common room in a warm, amber glow, casting long shadows across the worn rugs and stone floor, as if the castle itself were pausing to savor the final moments of sunlight.

Harry sat cross-legged on his bed, the familiar notebook open in his lap. The words seemed to mock him, each page a reminder of just how much trouble he had gotten himself into since this all began. He flipped through the pages slowly, still unable to believe how quickly everything had spiraled out of control. He had never meant for things to get so complicated. He certainly had not meant to be so involved with Draco Malfoy.

With a small laugh, Harry closed the notebook and set it aside on the bed. He had made a mess of things, and now there was no turning back. He could not help but feel that trying to make sense of it all would only make things worse. Maybe it was not worth figuring out, at least not yet.

Still, he picked up the notebook again, flipping it open one last time, a fleeting sense of amusement creeping up. How much trouble could one book really cause? The laughter faded quickly as he stared at the page. He could almost hear Draco's voice in his head, telling him it was stupid, telling him to be more careful. Not that Malfoy had ever given him advice, Harry thought bitterly, feeling the weight of the tension between them. Draco felt like he was on the other side of a thick glass wall, unreachable and distant. He had noticed it, of course: Draco had begun to ignore him, retreating into himself, eyes always elsewhere, always calculating, always waiting.

Harry did not know what to do with that. So he did what he always did when he was unsure: he walked away.

Leaving the notebook on his bed, he stood and made his way to the door, the quiet hum of the castle surrounding him. The usual chatter of students filled the halls, footsteps and voices echoing off the stone, but something felt different today, just slightly off, like the castle was holding its breath. It wasn't until he heard a burst of laughter from farther down the corridor, sharp and sudden, that he realized what it was.

Curiosity tugged at him, and he followed the noise, rounding a corner to see Fred and George Weasley at the center of a crowd, their grinning faces giving away their usual trouble-making nature.

"Oi, watch this, watch me!" Fred shouted, winking at George.

"Right, watch me—watch us get us in even deeper than usual!" George quipped, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Harry raised an eyebrow, recognizing the glint in their eyes. Trouble was brewing. The twins stood in front of the Goblet of Fire, looking far too pleased with themselves.

"Let's see if we can get our names in there, shall we?" Fred added with a devilish grin, "Might just find ourselves a little loophole or two."

The twins' voices carried through the hall, teasing and bright, and Harry knew exactly what was about to unfold. They had tried all manner of foolish escapades before, and it had never ended well, yet there was something different in the way they moved now, in the sharp determination flashing in their eyes. Their mischief felt bolder, charged with an almost reckless energy that made every step seem electric.

Fred raised his wand with a grand, almost theatrical flourish, and George mirrored him perfectly, as if reading from the same secret script. With a synchronized flick, Fred muttered a charm under his breath, barely audible over the hum of whispers and the soft clink of cutlery from nearby tables. For a fleeting heartbeat, it seemed as though the spell might actually work.

The blue flames of the Goblet of Fire trembled and flickered, wavering in their intensity. As if testing the intruders, the fire shifted, glowing a pale, almost spectral gold, but for brief, jagged moments, black ash-like streaks licked across the surface, curling and writhing as though the magic itself was fighting to remain stable. It was as if the Goblet remembered the dark power that had been forced into it, remnants of spells meant to bend its choice, struggling against intrusion. Then, the flames shifted, snapping back to their familiar, fierce blue. A hush fell over the hall, the kind of silence that made every heart pound. A few students gasped audibly. Someone, unable to contain their excitement, clapped. For a brief moment, it truly looked as though the twins had cracked it, as if victory was theirs to claim.

And then, without the faintest warning, a loud pop! tore through the air like a gunshot, echoing off the high ceilings. In an instant, a brilliant cloud of shimmering magic enveloped both Fred and George. Light danced wildly across the walls, reflecting in every astonished eye. The cloud swirled and twisted, sparkling with colors that seemed almost alive, and for a few suspenseful heartbeats, it was impossible to see the twins at all.

When the brilliance finally faded, the hall collectively exhaled in shock. Every student's eyes widened, every jaw dropped, and even Hermione seemed mildly impressed.

Fred and George stood stock-still, frozen from the tips of their now-electric hair to their vividly cobalt fingers. Every inch of them had taken on an otherworldly hue. Even their robes had betrayed them, the crimson of Gryffindor completely drowned out by a startling, blueberry-like blue that made them look almost cartoonish. The twins shifted nervously, glancing down at each other as if searching for some explanation in their mirrored transformations.

"Well," George said at last, his voice tinged with resignation, "that's... new."

Fred opened his mouth to respond, but no words came, only a flustered gesture as he examined the unnatural shade covering him. The hall erupted in laughter, a wave of amusement that rippled through every corner. Students clutched their sides, some teetering on the edge of the benches to get a better look at the absurd spectacle. Even the prefects' stifled chuckles added to the chorus, though they quickly masked it with stern expressions.

Draco, sitting across the room, cracked a small, almost inaudible chuckle. But it was fleeting, like a candle flickering in the wind. His focus, as always, remained elsewhere. His eyes darted toward the Goblet of Fire, the shadows in his gaze darkening. As he followed the billowing flame, its smooth movements seemed to gnaw at his patience. He sat back, fingers drumming against the table, jaw tight, a silent storm building behind his calm facade.

Harry, on the other hand, couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head at the twins’ disaster. There was a wild charm in their chaos, a recklessness that seemed to defy the very air around them. But as he chuckled, a prickle of unease ran down his spine. Something about today felt heavier, more charged. The Goblet’s flames flickered once more, a brief shadow of black crawling across the blue fire, and Harry caught Draco’s glance in that instant, a flash of frustration, sharp and controlled, like a serpent coiled just beneath the surface.

Fred and George, now fully aware of the hilarity surrounding them, began to bicker in whispered urgency, their voices barely audible above the laughter. "Honestly, George, whose idea was this spell?" Fred hissed, tugging at his hair, which still crackled faintly with residual magic.

"Yours!" George shot back, pointing a cobalt finger at his brother, blue streaks of indignation running along his arm. "I only suggested enhancing it a bit!"

Their argument, stifled by the chaotic roar of the hall, seemed almost intimate, a private frustration played out on a public stage. Harry watched with a grin, though a small part of him couldn’t ignore the tension threading through the room. He glanced toward Draco again. The Slytherin’s hands were clenched into fists, knuckles white against the table, his pale face set in a mask of barely restrained agitation. There was no laughter there, only a simmering focus that made the joke in front of him feel insignificant.

The laughter of the crowd swelled, mingling with the soft crackle of the Goblet’s shifting flames, as if the room itself had become a living thing, reacting to the chaos and the undercurrent of tension alike. The twins continued to argue, their gestures frantic and their words sharp, yet Harry’s gaze kept drifting back to Draco, drawn by the quiet intensity simmering beneath his otherwise calm exterior. Something was deeply wrong, Harry realized, and no amount of blue hair or blueberry colored robes would be enough to stop him from worrying about the blonde.

... ...

That night at dinner, the atmosphere was electric. Students were already buzzing, their conversations filled with speculation about who would be chosen for the Triwizard Tournament. The excitement in the air was palpable, but Harry couldn't help but feeling anxious. Not just for Draco, but for his dear friend Cedric, who entered his name into the Goblet against Harry's wishes.

He sank into his seat at the Gryffindor table beside Hermione and Ron, barely touching his food. Every bite felt meaningless, his thoughts looping endlessly around Draco. There had been something in the way the Slytherin’s brows furrowed and twitched, how his knuckles grew white. Harry needed to know what the issue was for his own peace of mind. Immediately. As he chewed over every possibility, a particular one struck out. It was probably him— the bond. Draco must be furious, seething with irritation at being connected to someone he could not bear other than for sexual reasons. The thought made Harry wince. How had he even gotten tangled up in this? The notebook, the strange pull, the inexplicable moments where he could feel Draco’s presence like a shadow pressing against his mind, all of it had led here. And now, knowing what the bond was doing to Draco, Harry could not stop the pang of guilt twisting through him

As dinner came to an end and the dishes were cleared away, the professors moved through the Great Hall, waving wands and muttering spells to add a few last-minute decorations. They built upon the banners and garlands already hung, ensuring that Hogwarts looked its finest for this year’s Triwizard Tournament. Students leaned over tables, craning their necks to watch as ribbons twirled and balloons floated upward, enchanted to remain just out of reach—no doubt a precaution against curious first-years eager to tamper with them. The air smelled faintly of parchment, wax, and a touch of magic, and excitement hummed just beneath the surface of the hall.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, and immediately the lively chatter and laughter fell away. A hush spread across the hall, thick and expectant, as if the castle itself were holding its breath. Every pair of eyes turned to him, and even the youngest students straightened in their seats, aware that something important was about to be announced.

“Students, teachers, and other honored faculty, it gives me immense pleasure to welcome you to Hogwarts on this most exceptional of occasions. As you are well aware, the Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition among the three largest European schools of wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. In those early years, a champion was selected from each school to compete in three magical tasks. The schools took turns hosting the tournament every five years, and it was considered a grand tradition of camaraderie and skill. Yet, for a time, this noble contest fell into disuse, as the risks of such a competition proved tragically high.

Now, after more than two centuries, Hogwarts has the honor of hosting the Tournament once more. This is not merely a return to tradition, but a celebration of excellence, courage, and magical ingenuity. To be chosen as a champion is an honor bestowed upon the most capable, the most daring, and the most determined among our students. It is a mark of distinction, a recognition that one stands ready to face challenges beyond the ordinary, to test the limits of both skill and character.

Let this Tournament remind us all that magic is not only a gift, but a responsibility. Let it challenge the champions to be bold, to be clever, and to uphold the values we hold dear here at Hogwarts. And to the students who will soon approach the Goblet of Fire, remember this: greatness is measured not solely by triumph, but by the courage with which one faces the trials ahead.”

As the Great Hall buzzed with excitement, the long wooden tables glimmered under the warm glow of floating candles, but the attention of every student present was drawn to the entrance. The grand double doors creaked open, and all eyes turned toward the entrance with bated breath.

First to arrive were the Beauxbatons, gliding into the Great Hall in their shimmering blue robes, moving with a grace that made the students stop and stare. Their formation was precise, every step measured, their poise unshakable, and Madame Olympe Maxime led them with the quiet authority of someone used to commanding attention. Among the girls were a few striking young men, their sharp, handsome features complementing the elegance of their companions, adding a balance of strength and refinement to the delegation. Whispers rippled across the room, curiosity and admiration mingling with envy as the students watched the group take their place at the front. Even Draco’s usually composed expression faltered for a moment as he assessed the Beauxbatons. 

The students couldn’t help themselves, quietly picking favorites and exchanging murmurs across the tables. A group of Slytherin boys leaned toward each other, eyes wide, whispering that they could not possibly choose just one. “I don’t even know where to start,” one admitted, and another added, “Bloody hell. I can't even pick between a bloke or a lad, they’re all proper fit” earning a few snickers from their friends before they returned their attention to the delegation. Even some Gryffindors were murmuring, comparing notes, laughing softly at the impossibility of selecting a single favorite. It was a spectacle of talent and beauty, and every student present was acutely aware that the Beauxbatons had brought more skill than their appearances let on.

A few minutes after the Beauxbatons were settled, the doors opened once more. The Durmstrang delegation entered with a presence that could not be ignored. Clad in deep maroon and black robes, the students exuded power and discipline, moving with the sharp precision of trained warriors. Their leader, Igor Karkaroff, strode ahead with a scowl firmly in place, surveying the room with a calculating eye as if measuring the strength of every student present. Among them were several strikingly fit young women, their athletic builds and confident movements radiating capability, clearly ready for any challenge the tournament might throw at them. A handful of exceptionally well-built, masculine men walked alongside them, commanding attention through sheer presence. The hall felt heavier, the energy sharper, as if the very air acknowledged the raw strength and discipline the Durmstrang students carried.

As with the Beauxbatons, the students could not resist scrutinizing the Durmstrang delegation for favorites. Eyes roamed over the strong, capable bodies and faces that seemed carved from marble, whispers spreading like wildfire. Bit of charm here, a dash of polish there, reckon I could waltz off with that stunner at the Yule Ball?” a third-year Ravenclaw boy muttered to his tablemates, eyes twinkling as he nodded toward a breathtakingly mature Durmstrang student. Quiet snickers rippled across the table. A girl beside him leaned in, half embarrassed, half mischievous, admitting she might just try a few alterations spells herself, if it meant sneaking in a date and scoring a spot at the ball. The murmurs, laughter, and shared glances of admiration threaded through the hall, but beneath it all was an unmistakable sense of awe.

The Hall continued buzzing, but the energy had shifted. Everyone could feel the weight of what was about to unfold. The tournament was no longer a distant rumor, it was real, and it was happening now. Draco's focus was absolute. He paid no mind to the elegance of Beauxbatons or the intimidating presence of Durmstrang. There was only one thing that mattered. He wanted his name in that Goblet. The room seemed to hold its collective breath as the flames of the Goblet of Fire flickered higher, as if the magic itself was waiting. Draco’s heart pounded, imagining the moment his name would be called, picturing himself standing there victorious, admired, untouchable. His fingers twitched, but his gaze never wavered.

Then Dumbledore’s voice rang out, calm and deliberate. It was time for the competitors to be drawn. A hush fell over the Great Hall. Students leaned forward in their seats, eyes wide, breaths held. No one dared to blink. Even the Goblet’s flames seemed to shimmer with anticipation. In that moment, everything hung on a single piece of parchment, waiting to reveal who would rise and who would fall.

And somewhere deep inside, Draco felt a spark of certainty and dread all at once. This was it.

Chapter Text

"Fleur Delacour," the headmaster called, and a wave of cheers rippled through the Hall. The Beauxbatons girls jumped to their feet, clapping and shouting her name with pride. Fleur stood gracefully, her silver-blonde hair catching the light as she moved, looking every bit like she belonged in the spotlight. Even some Hogwarts students couldn't help but stare.

She carried herself with calm confidence, smiling just enough to seem composed but not arrogant. Draco watched her closely, though his face didn't change. He could admit she was impressive, but admiration wasn't his style. This was only the beginning. He wasn't here to be dazzled. He was here to win.

"Viktor Krum."

The name landed like a spark, and Durmstrang exploded into applause. Even some Slytherins joined in, nudging each other and murmuring with excitement. Draco's lips twitched into a faint smirk. Krum seemed good—famous and skilled, a legend in the making. But fame didn't make him special. It didn't make him Malfoy. Draco leaned forward slightly, his heart beating faster. He was ready. The Goblet flickered again, its blue light bright and alive. He held his breath, waiting for the moment he'd been raised to expect.

But his name never came.

"Cedric Diggory."

The cheering was deafening, but Draco barely heard it. His chest tightened, the sting of disappointment and betrayal sharp. His eyes flicked instinctively toward his parents, seated with the other dignitaries at the edge of the hall. Lucius's stare remained fixed on the Goblet, his expression unreadable, but Draco knew what that silence meant: failure.

He clenched his fists under the table, nails biting into his palms. He had forgotten until now that parents were allowed to attend the drawing, but it made sense. The Ministry would want them there to witness the Tournament firsthand, to prepare for the day their own children became eligible to compete, to understand that they might one day celebrate their child's glory or grieve their death.

Across the Hall, Harry's stomach sank. Relief and dread warred inside him as Cedric's name echoed through the Great Hall. He was happy for him, of course he was, but the thought of Cedric stepping into something so dangerous made bile rise in his throat.

He admired him too much. Cedric was everything Harry wanted to be: kind, confident, impossibly good-looking, and loved by nearly everyone. Watching him stand there, smiling and waving, Harry felt something twist inside, a mix of envy, admiration, and fear all tangled together.

The Hall fell silent as Dumbledore made his way toward the champions. His smile was bright as ever, though a flicker of relief hid behind his eyes. The malicious hopes of the Malfoys had not come to fruition. But then, the Goblet shuddered. Its flames dimmed to a deep ashen grey before flaring an unnatural blue, then darkening again, as if fighting to remain stable. A low murmur swept through the Hall. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.

With a sudden, sharp bang, two more slips of parchment shot from the Goblet, spinning through the air like sparks from a fire, drawing the gaze of every student and teacher in the Great Hall. Time seemed to slow for a heartbeat as all eyes followed their flight, the sudden motion slicing through the excited chatter that had filled the room just moments before. Dumbledore spun on his heel with surprising speed, his robes billowing out around him in a sweeping arc as he caught both slips of parchment in one practiced motion. The Hall fell utterly silent, the kind of silence that pressed on the chest and made every small sound come to a halt.

For several long moments, Dumbledore simply held the slips, unmoving. The weight of his silence stretched, growing heavier with each passing heartbeat, until it seemed as though even the enchanted ceiling had paused to watch. Whispers threatened to break free but died on the lips of the students as they sensed the tension radiating from the headmaster. Every flicker of emotion on Dumbledore's face carried meaning, and every student felt the sudden, unshakable sense that something extraordinary, and potentially dangerous, was about to unfold. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and uncertain, breaking the stillness like a fragile tremor, forcing everyone to lean in and strain to catch the words that would shatter the calm of the Hall.

"It seems," Dumbledore began slowly, his tone measured but heavy with an unfamiliar tension, "the Goblet has chosen two more competitors it deems worthy of the challenge."

The words rippled through the Hall like a shockwave. Every eye, from the youngest first-years to the oldest professors, was fixed on the headmaster, waiting for him to continue. Whispers began to curl at the edges of the silence, but no one dared speak. Even the flickering torches seemed to dim, the enchanted ceiling above reflecting a stillness that mirrored the shock slowly settling over the room.

Dumbledore's hands trembled just slightly as he unfolded the first slip of parchment, the gold flames of the Goblet reflecting off the paper in a dancing shimmer. His pale eyes scanned the name written there, lingering longer than necessary, as if bracing for the words he was about to speak. For the briefest moment, his calm, the unshakable, reassuring composure he always carried wavered, just enough for the nearest students to notice.

He looked up, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse, almost brittle with the weight of the announcement.

"Draco Lucius Malfoy."

The name hit the Hall like a physical blow. Every whisper, every breath seemed to vanish. The air itself turned heavy, pressing down on the crowd like a held breath. Draco's lungs emptied in a single sharp exhale, and for one disorienting moment, it felt as though time had fractured. The pounding in his chest was deafening.

Around him, voices began to rise. Bewildered gasps, incredulous murmurs, the scrape of chairs as students craned for a better look. But none of it reached him. His mind was a swirl of disbelief and... terror? This wasn't how it was supposed to feel. He had imagined pride, triumph, his parents' approving smiles, the awe of his classmates. But all he felt now was fear.

His fingers trembled beneath the table, hidden in the shadows. He'd wanted this, hadn't he? To be chosen, to be seen, to be powerful. Yet now that his name echoed through the hall, all he could think of was how easily power could destroy him. He hadn't realized until this moment how truly frightened he might be, because the Goblet had not just called him to glory. It had called him to die.

"Draco, what is the meaning of this?!" Pansy called beside him, her voice barely audible over the rising roar that filled the Great Hall. Jealous Slytherins muttered under their breath while students from other houses shouted outright, their words slicing through the air like thrown stones.

"Attention-seeking prat!" someone from Gryffindor sneered. "Figures a Malfoy would cheat his way in!" a Ravenclaw added, followed by a ripple of laughter that made Draco's stomach twist.

Then something snapped. His jaw locked, lips pressed into a thin line, and the wild, flickering fear inside him hardened into something sharp and controlled. Draco Malfoy was not weak. He would not crumble here, not when his parents expected more, not when the Goblet had chosen him for a reason.

His eyes swept over the Hall, daring anyone to challenge him, and for the first time since the name had been called, he felt the tiniest flicker of pride. The whispers and gasps might try to shake him, the pointing fingers might try to shame him, but he would not falter. He would face this. He would own it.

Without so much as a glance at his friends, he pushed back from the Slytherin table and began his walk toward the front. The noise swelled around him, whispers and jeers bouncing off the enchanted ceiling. Every step he took seemed to stretch the distance, and yet he refused to flinch, refused to let them see the way his pulse raced. Eyes followed him like they were caught in a spell, dozens upon dozens of them, some wide with shock, others narrowed with disgust. He kept his chin high, every bit the Malfoy he'd been raised to be. Untouchable, cold, and proud.

But then he caught a gaze. The one that knocked the air right out of his lungs. Harry Potter. Brow furrowed, lips parted as if he wanted to say something, and those green eyes—those maddeningly earnest eyes—were filled with concern. Not scorn. Not fury. Concern. It made Draco's chest twist in a way that felt annoying. He didn't want Potter's pity. He didn't need anyone's sympathy, least of all his. Let them whisper, let them call him names. He'd rather face every cruel word in the room than the quiet worry in Harry Potter's eyes.

As he nodded politely to the three other competitors, Draco lifted his chin, ready for Dumbledore to announce them as this year's champions and bring the spectacle to an end. The Great Hall buzzed with noise: whispers, laughter, disbelief rippling like waves through the crowd. But then Dumbledore raised a hand, his voice slicing cleanly through the chaos. "Order," he said, and the word carried enough weight to silence hundreds. The torches flickered. The air itself seemed to still.

"Our last nominee"

Draco exhaled quietly, expecting a name he didn't care to know. Instead, Dumbledore's next words struck the air like lightning.

"Harry James Potter."

For a moment, Draco thought he must have misheard. Surely it was a trick of his ears, the echo of someone else's gasp filling the Hall. But the eruption of sound around him made that impossible. Gasps, shouts, and an explosion of movement surged from every table, colliding in a chaotic wave.

His eyes snapped toward the Gryffindor table, and there he was, frozen, wide-eyed, mouth slightly open, that cursed, bewildered expression stealing every ounce of composure Draco had managed to hold. Draco's pulse thundered in his ears. It wasn't shock that gripped him, not exactly, and it wasn't pure anger either. It was heavier, stranger, a mix of disbelief, irritation, and awe at the sheer audacity of fate or the Ministry or whoever had engineered this impossible outcome.

The Boy Who Lived had been chosen again, standing in the middle of the Hall while every eye turned toward him, some wide with pity, some with fear, and some with cruel curiosity. For the first time, the thrill of challenge coiled inside Draco like fire. He watched Harry, frozen, wide-eyed, standing there in shock, the weight of the announcement settling like a curse. Hermione was beside him, trying to console him, but Harry couldn't seem to react. His expression was a mix of confusion and panic, like he had just been handed a slap to the face.

But Draco knew, deep down, that if he let it show, if he let anyone see just how furious he was, it would only make him weaker. He couldn't let them see him break. Not now. Not after everything he had done to make sure this was his moment.

Then, as if Dumbledore's words had finally pierced through the haze, Harry blinked, once, twice, his green eyes darting around the room in confusion. Hermione immediately stepped closer, her hand brushing against his arm. "Hey... Harry, it's going to be alright. We'll figure this out," Hermione said, her voice soft but urgent, carrying through the thick silence that had settled over the Hall. "You don't have to face it alone." She stepped closer, reaching for his hand and brushing a finger against his face in a small, careful gesture. Her eyes were full of worry, scanning his face for every flicker of doubt or fear, trying to give him some kind of anchor in the middle of the chaos. He was just a boy, standing frozen in front of the entire school, chosen by the Goblet when no one expected it, and the weight of it all pressed down on him like a stone.

Hermione stayed with him, her presence a quiet shield against the fear that wanted to swallow him whole. For a brief moment, Harry let himself lean on her, letting her care give him a little strength even as the terror of what was coming pressed down hard on his chest. Harry's eyes flicked around the Hall, taking in the staring students, the shocked murmurs, and the wide eyes of the teachers, and he seemed petrified.

The Goblet had made its choice, and suddenly the impossible was real. His lips parted, as though he wanted to speak, to protest, to cry out in confusion and disbelief, but no sound came. Hermione's steady presence was a tether, a lifeline he didn't quite know he needed, while Ron's rigid silence made the moment feel even more suffocating.

Draco's chest ached with a mixture of fury and incredulity as he listened to the students assess the situation. How was it that Harry, could be coddled and comforted by others the moment fate dealt him the same hand that had sparked suspicion and scorn in Draco? Every second Potter stood there, untested but treated like a victim, made Draco feel smaller and all the more enraged.

The Goblet had made its decision, and as Harry Potter trembled to secure his spot next to the contestants, Draco Malfoy realized he was no longer the only fourth year it had chosen. For a heartbeat, the thought almost steadied him. Almost. Because the moment passed, and with it came the same cruel truth: It didn't matter that he was chosen too. No one cared about him. They only saw Harry. They whispered about destiny and miracles, not deceit and manipulation. When Draco's name had come, they'd spat accusations and called him a cheat. But now, as Potter stood there pale and trembling, the world rushed to cradle him like some fragile, fallen star.

Draco's jaw tightened. He turned away sharply, a sneer curling across his face before he could stop it. He couldn't even look at Potter right now. The anger burning in his chest was too fierce, too wild to let anyone see. But it was there, boiling quietly beneath the surface, tangled with something he refused to name. He had imagined this moment so many times, standing proud before the school, his father's approval like a crown. But fate had laughed instead. Fate had handed the glory and the pity to Harry Potter. Again.

Draco Malfoy promised himself that sooner or later, he'd have his moment. He'd make them see the difference. He'd be the one standing victorious.

Not Potter.

Not Harry. Bloody. Potter.