Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Between the Atlas project, Defense training, and their Animagus transformations, the summer had been anything but restful.

With Grimmauld Place now officially designated as the Order’s headquarters, most of the quartet had settled into Hampstead for the long haul. Not that Draco minded. The Black family mansion offered far more space than the Burrow or Grimmauld ever could, and with its abundance of guest rooms and magically reinforced privacy wards, it had quickly become everyone’s unofficial second home.

Fred and George, to no one’s surprise, had turned out to be brilliant—borderline unhinged, yes, but undeniably brilliant. Atlas 2.0 was nearly finished now, and it was nothing short of revolutionary. Each device synced to a user's magical signature for secure, personalized use. All it took was a quick tap between Atlases to share information, and from there, you could message anyone, anywhere—track spell theory, take and share notes, even access a full research library right at your fingertips.

Draco still couldn’t believe how well it worked.

The device itself was sleek and refined, with a smooth surface as dark as obsidian, faintly shimmering under the layers of enchantment woven into its core. Rune-marked buttons lined the edges, glowing softly whenever activated, pulsing with quiet magical energy. Clean. Functional. Elegant. He rather liked it.

They’d been testing them all summer. So far, every Weasley—yes, even Percy—Hermione, Harry, himself, Remus, Narcissa, Andromeda, Severus, and Sirius had adopted the devices into their daily routines as though they'd always been part of life. Draco couldn’t help but feel a small flicker of pride every time he saw someone use it.

Draco’s favorite part was texting Harry when they weren’t together.

It was ridiculous, really—borderline sentimental—but there was something addictive about the quiet ping of a message appearing on the screen, the tiny thrill of seeing Harry Potter pop up on the screen.

Draco’s Atlas buzzed against his wrist, vibrating gently with a message notification.

Group Chat: Marauders 2.0

Of course.

He swiped it open with a sigh, already bracing for chaos.

Hermione: As a Reminder; Animagus phials are due tonight at Grimmauld. Also, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HARRY!

Harry: Thanks Mione! I still think I’m going to end up turning into a pigeon. Or a frog. Just a dream I had.

Fred: If it’s a pigeon, we’re getting you a tiny hat.

George: A monocle too, Distinguished Birthday Pigeon Potter.

Ginny: Please be a toad.

Draco: Merlin you’re all idiots. For the record, if Harry is a pigeon, I’m becoming a hawk out of spite.

Harry: What, so you can hunt me down? Kinky, but okay.

Ron: You two flirt in your own chat please.

Hermione: Can we please focus. This is a very complex magical transformation. You need to take it seriously.

George: Hermione, we love you, but it’s Harry’s birthday and we’re a chaos coven. Let us live.

Fred: Speaking of chaos: birthday plans, anyone?

Harry: Sleepover at mine. Sirius is taking me to get my eyesight corrected. No other plans.

Ron: I thought Sirius said he was taking you to get a piercing.

Harry: He’s been trying to convince me.

Draco: Hot

Harry: I’ve been convinced

Hermione: Can you all please stay on topic for more than five minutes.

Fred: Nope.

George: Not even a little.

Ginny: Wait, which piercing?

Harry: Probably ear. Unless I walk out of there with something else and Draco swoons.

Draco: I do not swoon.

Draco: But if it’s your tongue, I’ll make exceptions.

Ron: OH MY GOD.

Hermione: DRACO.

Fred: Tongue piercing Potter. Has a ring to it.

George: Definitely has a ring to it.

Draco: You’re all insufferable.

Harry: You started it

Draco: I maintain I was being supportive.

Ginny: Is that what we’re calling it now?

Draco: Can we circle back to the fact I’ve had a Mandrake leaf rotting in my mouth for a month and still don’t know what creature I’m turning into?

Fred: Bet it’s something majestic. Like a swan.

George: Or something dramatic and moody. A raven. Or a panther.

Draco: Why are we friends.

Harry: Because you’re pretty and I like your face.

Hermione: FOCUS. Tonight. Grimmauld. Final brew prep. We’ll begin the identification meditations tomorrow at dawn.

Ron: You sound like a general preparing for war.

Ron: I still say we place bets on who turns into what.

Fred: I’m betting Hermione’s a cat.

George: Or a swan. Graceful and full of judgment.

Draco: Hermione’s definitely something elegant and terrifying. Like a lynx.

Hermione: …Thank you?

Ron: I don’t know what I’d be. A bear? A dog?

Draco: A goldfish, probably. Attention span of one.

Ron: Oi.

Harry: I don’t care what anyone says, if Draco ends up a ferret again I’m marrying him out of sheer cosmic irony.

Draco: …You’re not allowed to make proposals via group chat.

Harry: Too late. Already written in the stars.

Ginny: THIS IS BETTER THAN THE ROMANCE I WAS READING.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Holding a Mandrake leaf in your mouth for an entire month was, without question, the most vile part of becoming an Animagus.

Draco had endured it—miserably, dramatically, and with no shortage of complaints. But at least he hadn’t suffered alone.

“If I turn into something embarrassing,” Draco muttered, stretching out stiffly on the blanket they’d laid down, “I’m blaming all of you.”

“You mean like a ferret?” Ron asked, far too quickly.

Draco shot him a murderous look. “You are so unoriginal it physically hurts.”

“Oh, come on,” Harry said through a snort. “It’d be adorable.”

“I’d bite you,” Draco replied flatly.

“I’d let you,” Harry said, far too casually.

That shut everyone up for a solid three seconds.

Hermione cleared her throat a bit too loudly. “Anyway,” she said briskly, clearly trying to reroute the conversation before it could spiral, “we need to get these to Severus. We still have to add a strand of hair, dew collected under moonlight, and the Death’s-head Hawk Moth chrysalis to the phials.”

Ron groaned, flopping back onto the grass. “Can’t we just pretend we did all that and skip ahead to the fun bit where we actually turn into animals?”

“Absolutely not,” Hermione replied without even glancing at him. “This is a delicate magical process. One mistake and you’ll be stuck halfway between human and Animagus. Do you want feathers in odd places for the rest of your life?”

George perked up. “Honestly? Bit of flair. Might be an upgrade.”

Fred nodded sagely. “We could start a trend. Feather chic.”

“Please don’t encourage him,” Draco muttered, standing and brushing grass off his trousers.

The night air was crisp, and the full moon hung high above them, casting pale silver light across the lawn. As they gathered their phials and made their way back toward the house, their laughter echoing softly under the stars, Draco found himself smiling despite everything.

It was chaotic, it was ridiculous, it was borderline exhausting—but for once, life felt full. Alive.

And maybe—just maybe—he didn’t mind being a part of it.

Even if he did end up a ferret again. (But Merlin help them all if he did.)

They filed back toward Grimmauld Place in a loose, meandering line—Hermione marching ahead with purpose, Ron trailing behind, muttering under his breath about feathers and ferrets, and the rest somewhere in between, chattering and laughing beneath the moonlight.

Draco fell into step beside Harry, their shoulders brushing as they walked.

“You really meant it?” he asked after a beat, voice low enough not to carry. “About the… proposal?”

Harry glanced over at him, smile tugging lazily at the corner of his mouth. “Obviously.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you like that about me.”

Draco huffed, but didn’t deny it. “You’d still have to get my mother’s approval, you know.”

Harry smiled. “Terrifying thought.”

“She’ll insist on a formal courting letter.”

“I’m doomed.”

“Completely.”

But Harry only grinned wider, bumping their shoulders again. “Worth it.”

Ahead of them, Hermione pushed open the door to the drawing room where Severus, Sirius, and Remus were already waiting—Severus looking deeply unimpressed, Sirius looking smug, and Remus looking like he was halfway to intervening before something exploded.

“You’re late,” Severus said, eyes flicking over each of them. “I assume you weren’t discussing theory.”

“We were discussing animagus forms,” Fred said helpfully.

“And courtship rituals,” George added.

Sirius perked up immediately. “Did someone propose?”

“Not officially,” Harry said innocently, dropping onto the couch beside Draco.

Draco glared at him. “Don’t encourage him.”

Remus chuckled quietly as Hermione rolled her eyes and began lining up the crystal phials on the table.

“One hair from your head,” she instructed, pulling out a small silver case filled with tweezers and labeling charms. “Add it to your phial before we seal them.”

Ron reached up to tug a clump loose, but Hermione intercepted his hand with a sharp look. “One, Ron. Not half your scalp.”

“I’m just being thorough,” he muttered, clearly stung.

Draco plucked a single strand of his own hair with precise, practiced elegance and dropped it into his phial without ceremony.

Sirius, still watching with interest, nudged Remus. “Did we ever have this many steps when we did it?”

Remus gave him a dry look. “Yes. You just didn’t read them.”

“Next step,” Hermione continued, already collecting the sealed phials, “is to store these in a magically shielded space—no light, no interference—until the next electrical storm.”

“And how long until that storm shows up?” Ron asked hopefully.

“Could be days. Could be weeks,” Hermione said. “It’s weather, Ron. Not a timetable.”

“Great,” Ron sighed. “So we just sit around biting our nails until lightning strikes?”

“Or,” Draco said, reclining smugly against the couch cushions, “you could try something productive with your time. Like reading.”

“Blasphemy,” Fred gasped.

With the Animagus preparations officially done for the night, the group spilled back downstairs to the drawing room, where Sirius had taken it upon himself to transform the place into a proper sleepover den.

Blankets and cushions covered every inch of the floor, a fire crackled in the hearth, and floating lanterns drifted overhead, flickering in soft gold and blue. The scent of hot cocoa and melted marshmallow hung in the air, and a plate of still-steaming treacle tart hovered invitingly by the window.

In the center of it all sat a cake—massive, slightly lopsided, but enthusiastically decorated—with a crooked “Happy Birthday, Harry” scrawled in messy green icing and what appeared to be a rather questionable icing rendition of a hippogriff.

“I made it myself,” Sirius said proudly.

Harry stared at the cake, visibly touched, then reached for the nearest fork. “If this kills me, I die happy.”

“You’re not dying until we figure out if you’re a pigeon or not,” Draco said, settling on a floor cushion beside him and stealing the first bite of cake before Harry could get to it.

“Oi!” Harry elbowed him playfully, then retaliated by grabbing a fistful of whipped cream and smearing it directly onto Draco’s nose.

Chaos erupted.

Fred and George dove for the cake knives (strictly for offensive purposes), Ron took cover behind a couch cushion, and Hermione shrieked when a glob of icing hit her sleeve.

“You’re all children,” she declared, brushing herself off with haughty precision—before hurling a scoop of frosting squarely at George’s face.

“I love birthdays,” Fred declared through a mouthful of cake as he ducked behind Sirius for cover.

Eventually, peace was restored—mostly because Remus confiscated the cake weapons and Sirius summoned a second round of hot cocoa with a flourish of his wand.

Everyone settled again in a warm sprawl across the floor—limbs tangled, blankets pulled tight, and plates resting on their knees.

Harry stretched out beside Draco, letting his head drop lazily onto Draco’s stomach.

“Tired?” Draco asked softly, brushing cake crumbs out of Harry’s hair.

Harry made a sleepy little sound of agreement. “Best birthday I’ve had in ages.”

“You say that now,” Ron mumbled from the other end of the room, already half-asleep and clutching a blanket like a lifeline. “Wait until the twins snore.”

“We don’t snore,” George argued.

“Lies,” Ginny muttered, already curled up under a blanket beside Hermione.

As the fire crackled low and the lanterns dimmed, conversation softened into laughter, and then laughter melted into comfortable silence. Someone started humming a tune—Draco thought it might’ve been Remus—and it echoed softly in the warm, sleepy stillness of the room.

Draco glanced down at Harry again, watching the steady rise and fall of his breath.

Harry’s eyes fluttered open just slightly, catching Draco’s gaze with that familiar, soft kind of smile—the one he only ever wore when he was tired and warm and entirely at peace.

“Hi,” he murmured, voice low and a little rough with sleep.

Draco huffed a quiet laugh. “Hi.”

Harry’s fingers found Draco’s, curling loosely around them under the blanket. It wasn’t anything grand or showy—just a quiet touch, something small and grounding. Draco gave his hand a gentle squeeze in return, his thumb brushing lightly across Harry’s knuckles.

Harry shifted a little, lifting himself just enough to press a kiss to the corner of Draco’s mouth—quick, quiet, impossibly soft.

Draco’s breath caught, just for a second.

And then Harry was settling back down again, head tucked against his chest, fingers still tangled with his.

“Happy birthday,” Draco said quietly, brushing a curl off Harry’s forehead.

Harry hummed again in response, already drifting off.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

It took only twelve days before they were finally blessed with a thunderstorm.

By then, every potion had turned the perfect shade of deep, shimmering blood-red—just as it was meant to. It would have been reckless for all of them to undergo the transformation in the same place, so they scattered—each returning to their respective homes, potions clutched carefully, instructions memorized to the last syllable.

Draco settled onto the floor of his bedroom, legs crossed, potion vial resting in his palm. Outside, thunder cracked through the sky, echoing off the old walls of the Black family manor. Lightning streaked across the windows, illuminating the room in flashes of silver and white.

He took a deep breath, steadying his nerves, and raised his wand tip to his heart.

“Amato, Animo, Animato, Animagus,” he said clearly, voice steady despite the thrum of anticipation tightening his chest.

Then, without hesitation, he downed the potion.

It burned.

Fire lanced down his throat and spread through his body like molten metal—hot and sharp, twisting in his veins. His limbs trembled, vision flickered, and for a terrifying moment, he couldn’t breathe.

Then it came—the double heartbeat.

He set his wand down and began meditating like they’d practiced. And then—a vision.

Not just a blur or a flicker, but a shape—a clear, undeniable sense of what he was about to become.

Soft fur. Long ears. Keen hearing. Powerful hind legs. Twitching nose. A creature quick to flee but quicker to fight when cornered.

Draco inhaled sharply, eyes wide with shock.

…No. No, no, no, no.

But the magic had already chosen.

And there was no turning back.

When it was over, he was no longer sitting on the floor.

He was much smaller. Fluffier. Very much not human.

He twitched.

His ears flopped forward into his eyes.

He thumped one foot experimentally against the floor and froze at the sound it made—too loud, too sharp for such a tiny body. He tried to stand and promptly fell sideways, landing in a soft puff of fur and wounded dignity.

His mirror across the room caught the movement, and he hopped forward, awkward and ungainly, until his reflection came into view.

He stared at it.

A small, white rabbit blinked back at him—velvety fur, a little too regal-looking to be truly wild, with grey eyes and an utterly judgmental expression for a creature with no eyebrows.

Draco twitched again. He was going to murder someone for this.

Probably Harry. This was clearly all his fault.

The Animagus form was supposed to reflect your inner self—your soul’s instinctive shape. So why, why, why was he a rabbit?

He flopped dramatically onto his side, ears flattened in dismay.

A soft tap echoed at his door, followed by the familiar creak of it opening just a crack.

“Darling?” his mother’s voice drifted in, calm and elegant as ever.

Draco, still curled awkwardly on the rug, ears twitching slightly and fluffy tail pressed indignantly against his side, let out a long, dramatic sigh through his tiny rabbit nose.

The door opened a bit more, and Narcissa stepped inside with all the grace of a queen inspecting her court. She took one look at him, then arched a delicate brow.

“Oh,” she said lightly, lips curving into the faintest of smiles. “Well. Aren’t you just the most precious little bunny I’ve ever seen.”

Draco flattened his ears in mortification.

“Mother,” he tried to say, but it came out as an indignant squeak.

Narcissa crouched beside him, utterly unfazed by his glare—or as much of a glare as one could muster with big round eyes and twitchy whiskers. She reached out and stroked a gentle hand along the soft fur between his ears.

“I always suspected you’d be something elegant,” she mused. “But this is far better. Soft and sweet with a vicious little kick if anyone gets too close.” She smiled, clearly delighted with herself. “Very you.”

Draco thumped his foot in protest, his fluffy tail twitching behind him, ears drooping in exasperation.

Narcissa only laughed. “Don’t pout, darling. It’s terribly unbecoming of a rabbit.”

He squeaked again—indignant, offended, and thoroughly betrayed by genetics.

He let out a high-pitched squeak—half indignation, half outrage—and turned away dramatically, as much as a rabbit could manage.

Still, he focused. Closed his eyes and centered his thoughts, pushing away the lingering embarrassment in favor of determination.

It took time—five long, frustrating minutes—but eventually, he felt the shift. The strange, rippling pull of magic folding in on itself, reshaping fur into skin, paws into hands, bones stretching and realigning until, with a final breathless rush, he was himself again.

He sat back on his heels, clothes seamlessly intact, hair slightly mussed, cheeks flushed.

Narcissa offered him a silk handkerchief with a knowing smile. “There you are, darling. Still adorable. Though I must admit… I miss the ears.”

Draco narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “Not a word to the others,” he warned, voice low and deadly serious.

Her smile only widened. “Of course not,” she said sweetly. “Your secret is safe with me...”

Draco sighed, resigned to the inevitable, and reached for his Atlas. The screen lit up instantly, pulsing softly beneath his fingertips—and of course, the group chat was already going.

Group Chat: Marauders 2.0

Harry: GUESS WHO’S A FOX.

Hermione: Vulpes vulpes, to be precise. Sleek, dark coat. Very fitting.

Harry: Anyone else transformed yet?

Hermione: Owl.

Ginny: A majestic bird of prey. No one’s surprised.

Fred: We’re cinnamon ferrets!

George: Coordinated chaos.

Hermione: That… explains so much.

Draco: HA! Nobody can call me a ferret anymore.

Ron: Me and Gin are still working on it.

Harry: What about you, Draco?

Draco: …

Hermione: Draco?

Ginny: Dracooooo?

Fred: Don’t tell me you chickened out.

George: Or turned into a chicken.

Draco: I’m never telling.

Fred: Oh, so it was a chicken.
George: A stylish chicken, perhaps? Feather boa and all?
Hermione: Draco, be serious. You already transformed, didn’t you?
Harry: Come on, Bunny, don’t leave me hanging.
Draco: …I hate all of you.

Ginny: CONFIRMATION. IT’S SOMETHING FLUFFY.

George: Definitely fluffy. Possibly ridiculous.

Fred: Ominously adorable.

Draco: Fine.

Draco: White rabbit.

Ginny: STOP.

Harry: I’m picturing the ears already.

Harry: I’m picturing them a lot.

Hermione: Oh, Draco! That’s actually perfect.

Ron: I’m never going to stop laughing.

Fred: Fluffy little bunny prince.

Draco: That is not how you respond to this revelation.

Harry: No, seriously. I’m going to start bringing you snacks.

Draco: If you toss me a carrot, I’m hexing you in your sleep.

Fred: Carrot cake?

George: Carrot-print pajamas?

Ginny: Bunny slippers!

Ron: I’m losing my mind.

Hermione: Can we please be mature about this?

Fred: Never.

George: Absolutely not.

Harry: I want to see him like that. Right now.

Draco: Harry, no.

Harry: Harry, yes.

Draco groaned and flopped face-first into a pillow, muffling the undignified sound that escaped him. His Atlas buzzed again, and he peeked at the screen from under his arm.

Harry: On my way.

Draco let out another groan—louder this time—and kicked his pillow for good measure. “Traitorous genetics,” he muttered to himself, then dragged himself off the bed just in time to hear the whoosh and crackle of the Floo downstairs.

Narcissa’s amused voice floated up from the drawing room. “Honestly, Potter, you’re worse than a lovesick Kneazle.”

“I’m here on official business,” Harry replied, far too cheerfully. “Important Animagus research. Totally professional.”

Draco considered locking his door. Briefly. Decided it was futile. Instead, he crossed his arms and waited, glaring at the door like it had personally offended him.

Sure enough, it creaked open a moment later and Harry stepped in, still slightly dusted with soot and wearing the most infuriatingly smug grin Draco had ever seen.

Harry stepped inside, closing the door behind him with slow dramatic flair, then leaned casually against it. His eyes swept over Draco, lingering just a little too long, unrepentantly fond.

“Show me,” he said, the grin widening.

“No,” Draco said flatly. “I’m never transforming again. Ever.”

Harry snorted. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I am precisely the appropriate amount of dramatic,” Draco snapped.

“Stop stalling.” Harry took a step forward, smile softening just slightly. “Come on. I promise not to laugh.”

“You probably already laughed,” Draco accused.

Harry gave him a crooked smile. “Maybe a little. But only because I’m obsessed with you.”

Draco groaned, tipping his head back in despair. “That’s emotional blackmail.”

“It’s effective,” Harry said smugly, taking another step closer. “Please? Just once? I want to see you.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at him, weighing his pride against the very real possibility that Harry would simply wear him down with affection until he gave in anyway. He sighed, long and theatrical.

“You’re the worst,” he muttered, already reaching for his wand. “If you laugh—even once—I’m hexing you.”

Harry held up both hands in mock surrender. “No laughter. Total reverence. Swear on my scar.”

Draco sighed through his nose, rolled his eyes one last time for good measure, and let the familiar heat surge through his veins. It was easier now—less sharp, less jarring. The shift was smooth, magic curling around his bones, reshaping him into something smaller, softer, unbearably fluffy.

A heartbeat later, he was a bunny again.

Harry made a sound—somewhere between a gasp and a laugh—then quickly clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle it. He dropped to his knees, eyes wide and glowing with delight.

“Oh,” he breathed, awestruck. “You’re perfect.”

Draco glared at him the only way a rabbit could—by fixing him with the most withering stare possible and twitching his nose ominously.

It did not have the effect he hoped.

Harry’s grin only widened. “You’re so soft.”

Draco tried to growl. It came out as a distinctly unimpressive squeak.

Undeterred, Harry reached out, fingertips brushing gently through Draco’s fur, slow and reverent. “You’re cute, you know,” he said softly. “Even like this.”

Draco froze. His nose twitched once. Twice.

And then—reluctantly, indignantly—he allowed himself to be scooped up into Harry’s arms, settling against his chest with a long-suffering sigh.

Maybe being a bunny wasn’t entirely dreadful.

…Just mostly.

Still, Harry’s hands were warm. His voice was soothing. And when he scratched behind Draco’s ears just right, Draco’s eyes fluttered closed for a second longer than he meant to.

Fine. He’d allow it.

But only for Harry.

Without warning, Draco shifted back—magic rippling over him in a flash—and suddenly he was human again, sprawled across Harry’s lap.

Harry made a startled sound, hands still midair where a bunny had been seconds ago. “Bloody hell—”

“I hate you,” Draco muttered, breathless and flushed, his heart thudding wildly in his chest.

And then he kissed him—slow and deep, unapologetically hungry. His lips parting with intent, tongue sliding in with a confident flick that drew a sharp, involuntary gasp from Harry.

Harry melted into it instantly—no hesitation, no resistance—his hands flying to Draco’s waist, dragging him closer. He kissed back like he’d been waiting for this exact moment all day—eager, messy, open-mouthed and warm. Their tongues slid together, lips moving in a frantic rhythm, every brush of contact sparking low heat in Draco’s belly.

Draco shifted forward, hips rocking down instinctively—just once, but enough to make both of them shudder. The friction was maddening, dizzying, perfect. He broke the kiss for just a moment, panting softly, eyes dark with want.

“Still think I’m cute?” he whispered, voice low and wrecked.

Harry’s eyes were heavy-lidded, dazed with want. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

Draco smirked, then leaned back in, mouth claiming Harry’s again—this time harder, deeper, rougher. His fingers tangled in Harry’s hair, pulling just enough to make him groan. Draco grinding down again, breath catching at the slow, delicious pressure.

And Merlin help him—Harry met him with equal urgency, clutching at his hips, fingers digging in like he couldn’t get close enough. He kissed Draco like he needed him to breathe.

Draco’s brain was a mess—static and heat and hormones. Sitting on Harry’s lap like this filled his head with a thousand wildly inappropriate thoughts, none of which he had the strength to ignore. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to melt into the floor or climb inside Harry’s skin and never leave.

Why did Harry have to be so ridiculously hot? So maddeningly solid and warm and stupidly gorgeous?

Draco left one hand tangled in Harry’s hair. The other hand slid over Harry’s back—feeling the flex of muscle beneath, the steady warmth of his body, the thundering heartbeat that matched his own.

He pressed in again, chest to chest, breath to breath—like proximity alone could burn off the ache coiling in his stomach.

It didn’t help.

Not even a little.

Draco ripped himself away before they went too far—breath ragged, heart pounding, nerves alight with heat and need. He sat back, straddling Harry’s lap, flushed and dizzy and trying not to completely combust. His hands trembled slightly as he ran one through his own hair, the other still planted firmly on Harry’s chest like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Harry blinked up at him, dazed and rosy-cheeked, lips kiss-bruised and pupils still blown wide. His fingers were still curled around Draco’s waist, thumbs rubbing mindless circles against his hips like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

Draco tipped his head back and glared at the ceiling, trying to will his brain back into order.

“We were two minutes away from me doing something monumentally stupid,” he muttered.

Harry didn’t disagree—just tilted his head slightly, still breathless. “Would’ve been mutual.”

Draco huffed and clambered off his lap, pacing a tight circle across the rug, tugging at the hem of his shirt in agitation. “My mother is literally downstairs.”

Harry flopped back onto the floor, arms spread wide like a starfish, grinning up at the ceiling. “She probably knew the second I came over.”

“She definitely knew the second you started moaning.”

Harry had the audacity to smirk. “I was being appreciative.”

Draco shot him a withering look. “You were being a menace.”

Harry didn’t deny it—just pushed himself up onto his elbows, eyes still dark with residual heat. “Yeah, well. You’re the one who transformed back on my lap. What was I supposed to do? Not kiss you like my life depended on it?”

He cleared his throat and sat back on the edge of his bed, forcing his heartbeat to slow. “You’re lucky I didn’t bite you.”

Harry grinned. “You still can.”

“Harry.”

“Kidding.” A beat. “Unless you’re not.”

Draco groaned and threw a pillow at him.

But the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.

He lay back on the bed and covered his face with his forearm, exhaling slowly. “We need rules,” he mumbled into the crook of his elbow. “Clear boundaries. No turning me into a puddle of hormones when my mother’s one floor away.”

Harry, now lounging at the foot of the bed like he hadn’t just nearly melted them both into the floorboards, laughed softly. “Noted.”

A pause.

“Still the hottest bunny I’ve ever seen, though.”

Draco hurled another pillow at him—harder this time—but his cheeks were unmistakably pink.

“Show me yours,” he said, trying to sound cool and unimpressed, but failing miserably.

Harry’s brows shot up. “Well—okay, but your mum’s downstairs—”

“Harry!”

“I meant my Animagus!” Harry grinned, utterly unrepentant. “Obviously.”

Draco groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” Harry said, already pushing himself to his feet with a smug little smile, “you still want me to turn into a fox in your bedroom.”

“Just transform, Potter.”

“Whatever you say, Bunny.”

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

The rest of the summer blurred into a whirlwind of training drills, Atlas upgrades, and increasingly chaotic Animagus practice. Ginny had fully mastered her hawk form—sleek, sharp-eyed, and insufferably smug about it—and Ron had, against all odds, managed a complete transformation into an excitable Irish terrier, tail-wagging energy and all. It was ridiculous. Endearing, but ridiculous.

Most of the group needed time—lots of it—to shift back and forth smoothly, but of course, Harry and Draco picked it up almost immediately. Naturally. Within days, Harry’s sleek black fox was darting across the lawn like a shadow, and Draco’s white rabbit form was slipping effortlessly through hedges, under furniture, and generally showing off his superior agility. He wouldn’t say it aloud, but he was quite proud of that.

Two weeks before term, the Hogwarts letters arrived—ushered in by a chaotic flurry of wings and feathers and Ron’s panicked realization that it was nearly September.

Draco’s letter, however, held more than just the usual supply list.

Tucked neatly inside was a gleaming silver Prefect badge.

He stared at it for a moment, blinking in surprise. Then, slowly, a smug little grin curled across his lips. Oh.

Of course.

With deliberate satisfaction, he pinned the badge to his shirt and turned to the mirror, inspecting the way it caught the light.

“Naturally,” he said aloud, chin tilting ever so slightly. “As it should be.”

He wore it around the house for the rest of the day.

Not because he wanted to show off—though, if anyone happened to notice, well, that wasn’t his fault—but because it felt good. It felt right. It was a quiet kind of validation, something solid and official to remind him that he wasn’t Draco Malfoy, ex–Slytherin Prince turned Gryffindor anomaly. He was Draco Black. Prefect. Responsible. Trusted. Respected.

(Also: he very much wanted Harry to notice. Which he had not yet, because Harry was too busy wrestling Ron in the backyard and being an absolute menace.)

Draco found him later in the kitchen, flushed from the sun, hair messier than usual, laughing at something Ginny said as he stole bits of treacle tart off her plate.

Naturally, Draco leaned against the counter with an exaggerated sigh and made sure to tilt his chest just so, the badge glinting in the light.

Harry glanced at him, eyes trailing briefly over the silver glint—then back to his tart. “Oh. You got it, huh?”

Draco arched a brow. “That’s all you have to say?”

Harry grinned. “What do you want, a speech? You were always going to get it.”

Draco tried not to beam at that, but failed completely. “Still,” he said loftily, “some praise wouldn’t kill you.”

Harry leaned in, eyes warm, voice low. “I think you’re brilliant, Bunny.”

Draco turned pink instantly, nearly choking on air. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he muttered.

Harry grinned. “So I’ve heard.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop smiling.

Chapter Text

“Why exactly do we have an escort?” Draco asked, eyeing the cluster of adults hovering around them with mild suspicion.

“You don’t,” Harry replied smugly, adjusting his bag over one shoulder. “I do. Something about the ‘parentals’ worrying Voldemort might try to snatch me off the pavement or whatever.”

Draco rolled his eyes. Of course. Because Merlin forbid anything be normal when it came to Harry Potter.

The walk to King’s Cross took twenty minutes, and, thankfully, nothing remotely life-threatening happened during that time—unless one counted Sirius scaring a few unfortunate alley cats purely for Harry’s amusement. Honestly, Draco wasn’t sure who was more entertained.

Once inside the station, they lingered casually by the barrier between platforms nine and ten, waiting for the moment to slip through unseen. As soon as the coast was clear, each of them leaned against the stone in turn and vanished cleanly onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

The Hogwarts Express stood waiting, belching great clouds of sooty steam over the crowded platform. The air was filled with shouting, laughter, last-minute instructions, and the clatter of trunks and trolleys.

“All clear,” Moody muttered to Mrs. Weasley and Tonks. “Didn’t spot anyone following.”

Seconds later, Mr. Weasley appeared, flanked by Ron and Hermione, all looking a bit windblown but otherwise intact. They’d just about managed to unload the cart when Fred, George, and Ginny turned up with Lupin in tow.

“No trouble?” Moody barked.

“Nothing,” Lupin replied simply.

“I’ll still be reporting Sturgis to Dumbledore,” Moody growled. “That’s the second time he’s vanished in a week. Might as well be Mundungus at this point.”

Draco caught his mother exchanging a knowing look with Andromeda. Whatever was happening behind the scenes of the Order, it clearly wasn’t going unnoticed.

Lupin moved down the line, shaking hands with everyone before reaching Harry last. “Take care of yourself,” he said, giving Harry a firm clap on the shoulder.

Moody followed with a gruff handshake and his usual paranoia. “Keep your head down, eyes sharp. And for Merlin’s sake—watch what you write. If you have doubts, don’t send it at all. Use those enchanted devices you lot spent all summer fiddling with.”

Draco smirked to himself.

A sharp whistle pierced the air, drawing attention back to the train. Students were scrambling to board, some still dragging half-packed trunks behind them.

“Quick, quick,” Mrs. Weasley said, flitting between them in a flurry of hugs and motherly fussing. She hugged Ron and Ginny first, then caught him in a quick squeeze.

“Well,” she said briskly, patting his shoulder like it was the most normal thing in the world, “look after yourselves, all of you.”

Draco glanced sideways at Harry, who looked entirely too pleased.

They boarded the train in a rush of motion—students pressing forward, trunks rattling over the narrow steps, the familiar clang of the train’s doors echoing through the corridor.

Draco had just turned to follow Harry—already picturing a few blissfully quiet minutes before departure—when Hermione caught his sleeve.

“Draco and I are supposed to go to the prefects’ carriage,” she said, sounding apologetic but determined.

“Right,” he sighed, not bothering to hide his disappointment.

Still, he leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to Harry’s cheek before stepping away. Ron made a strangled noise that might’ve been a snort, but Draco didn’t spare him a glance.

Harry gave him a soft look in return—one of those stupid, heart-stirring ones that made Draco want to skip the prefect meeting entirely.

But duty called.

“Try not to miss me too much,” Draco said dryly.

Harry grinned. “No promises.”

Draco rolled his eyes and turned to follow Hermione down the corridor, already counting the minutes until he could escape whatever dull introduction awaited him in the prefect carriage—and return to Harry.

Where he actually wanted to be.

The prefects’ carriage was, as expected, far too stuffy and formal for Draco’s liking.

Hermione, of course, looked like she was thriving.

She sat upright with her notebook already out, quill poised, nodding along eagerly as the Head Girl—a rather severe Ravenclaw named Olivia Rowe—droned on about patrol schedules, inter-house cooperation, and updated prefect protocols.

Draco slouched elegantly in his seat and tuned out most of it.

“Draco,” Hermione whispered, nudging him gently under the table as Olivia launched into the shift rotation chart, “focus.”

“I am focused,” he muttered back. “I’m just focusing on not dying of boredom.”

It was going to be a very long meeting.

And all Draco could think about was how fast he could politely excuse himself and get back to the compartment with Harry.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

An hour later Draco stalked down the corridor, determined to find his way back to something resembling sanity. Namely: Harry.

He slid open the compartment door and found a group already gathered—Ginny and Ron bickering half-heartedly over a Chocolate Frog card, Neville fussing with a plant in his lap, and Luna gazing dreamily out the window with a copy of The Quibbler upside down in her hands.

Harry, however, was slouched in his seat near the window, legs stretched out, chin resting on his hand, gazing blankly at nothing in particular. He didn’t even glance up when the door opened.

Draco didn’t bother with pleasantries.

He stepped in, let the door slide shut behind him, and marched over with a purpose. Then—without a single word—he grabbed Harry by the tie and pulled him forward into a kiss.

Not soft. Not sweet. Intentional. Firm. A bit reckless.

Harry made a startled noise, body stiffening for half a second—just long enough for his brain to catch up to what was happening. Then his hands were on Draco’s waist, pulling him closer, kissing him back like he meant it—open-mouthed, warm, grounding. All of it.

And yes, Draco would admit—it was a little showy. But after an hour trapped in a train car with Blaise, Pansy and all the stuffy prefects, Draco figured he’d earned it.

A dramatic gagging sound finally broke them apart.

“For Merlin’s sake,” Ron groaned. “Can’t you two do that somewhere that’s not here?”

Draco pulled back just enough to shoot him a smirk over his shoulder, still half in Harry’s lap. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Weasley.”

Harry only grinned, dazed and breathless, his tie still clutched loosely in Draco’s hand.

Ginny snorted. “Ten Galleons says they don’t even make it to dinner without sneaking off again.”

Luna turned a page in The Quibbler. “They have very strong mating instincts.”

Draco nearly choked on air.

Harry burst out laughing.

Draco, still half-flushed from the kiss and Luna’s comment, collapsed sideways onto Harry’s shoulder with an exaggerated groan.

“I was simply reclaiming my sanity,” Draco huffed. “You’re the only tolerable person on this bloody train.”

“Aw,” Harry teased, turning his head to nuzzle slightly against Draco’s hair. “You say the sweetest things.”

Across the compartment, Ron muttered something about “being cursed to witness things no brother should ever see,” while Ginny calmly stole another Chocolate Frog from his stash.

Hermione chose that moment to slide open the door. She took one look at the scene before her—Draco sprawled across Harry, Ron and Neville looking mildly traumatized, and Ginny chewing smugly—and sighed.

“I leave you alone for five minutes.”

Five minutes too long,” Draco said sweetly, not bothering to move.

Hermione rolled her eyes but said nothing, instead taking the seat beside Luna and opening a book. “Just try not to scandalize the first years in the corridor.”

“No promises,” Harry said, grinning.

Draco snorted and curled further into him. Harry’s arm came around his shoulders without a second thought, fingers absentmindedly tracing circles along the edge of Draco’s sleeve.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Draco was only half-listening as they approached the carriages, the familiar sounds of returning students echoing around the platform. He was already calculating how quickly they could get to the castle, unpack, and possibly sneak in some private time before the feast.

Then Harry’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“What are those things, d’you reckon?” he asked aloud, nodding toward the front of the carriages.

Draco frowned. “What things?”

“The horse—”

Luna appeared beside them, seemingly out of nowhere, cradling Pigwidgeon’s cage in her arms. The tiny owl was fluttering around in its usual hyperactive manner.

“Here you are,” she said serenely, offering the cage to Ron. “He’s a sweet little owl, isn’t he?”

“Er… yeah… he’s all right,” Ron muttered, taking the cage with a faint scowl.

They began making their way toward one of the carriages, where Hermione and Ginny were already seated.

“What were you saying, Harry?” Ron asked absently.

“I was saying—what are those horse things?” Harry repeated, glancing back toward the front of the carriage. “The things pulling them.”

Draco blinked, startled. They were only a few feet away now, and Harry was staring directly at the carriages.

Ron looked completely lost. “What horse things?”

“The horse things pulling the carriages!” Harry said again, sounding more frustrated now.

Draco’s stomach turned sharply.

He hesitated for a second too long, then said quietly, “Oh. Thestrals, probably. You… you can see them?”

The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

Of course Harry could see them.

Of course he could.

He’d watched Cedric Diggory die right in front of him.

Harry turned toward him slowly, confusion settling over his features. “You can’t?”

Draco cleared his throat and looked away, jaw tight. “Uhm. No. I can’t.”

“I can,” Luna said cheerfully from behind them, as if discussing the weather. “I’ve always been able to see them. Ever since my first day here. They’ve always pulled the carriages.”

Harry stared at the creature again, his brow furrowed. “Why couldn’t I see them… until now?” He turned back to Draco. “And why can’t you?”

Draco hesitated again, something bitter curling in his throat. He hated this part—the way grief carved quiet scars into people, the way it made you see things others couldn’t. The way it made Harry see things.

“Because Thestrals are only visible,” he said softly, “to those who’ve witnessed death… and truly understood it. What it means. What it leaves behind.”

Harry’s expression shifted—something solemn, something broken—but he only nodded and stepped into the carriage.

Draco followed in silence, throat tight.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Umbridge was insufferable.

All powder-pink cardigans and syrupy smiles, with a voice like sugar curdled in vinegar. Every simpering giggle, every faux-kind tilt of her head grated against Draco’s nerves like sandpaper. She addressed the Great Hall as though they were dim-witted toddlers, and the way her gaze flicked across the students—as if already cataloging who to punish—made his skin crawl.

Draco might’ve listened to her speech if he hadn’t been preoccupied with something infinitely more important: the number of people staring at Harry.

It was honestly ridiculous.

If Draco had found him attractive last year—which, obviously, he had—then this year Harry was downright dangerous. Something about the summer training had sharpened him, carved muscle beneath his clothes and steadied the way he moved. His clothes actually fit now—tailored, flattering, annoyingly perfect—and they did absolutely nothing to hide the strength in his shoulders or the lean lines of his legs.

(Draco was endlessly grateful he was still just a hair taller. Just barely. But it counted.)

Still, it wasn’t just how Harry looked—it was how he carried himself now. That quiet, effortless confidence. That unshakable calm that made people pause and look twice. He’d grown into himself over the summer, and it showed in every step, every glance, every bloody turn of his head.

Draco adored it.

He also loathed it—because everyone else had noticed too.

Cho Chang had spent most of the feast staring at Harry like he was a dessert platter. As if Draco wasn’t very clearly sitting beside him. As if Harry weren’t obviously dating the most gorgeous blond in the room.

(Which he was. Obviously.)

Draco found himself pressed up against Harry’s side more than usual—an arm slung over the back of his chair, a hand on his knee beneath the table, fingers idly toying with the hem of his sleeve. It was possessive, maybe. Territorial, definitely. But subtlety had never been Draco’s strong suit when it came to Harry.

The message was simple: Mine. Look elsewhere.

And he made sure to glare at every single person who gave Potter those annoyingly dreamy, longing looks. Girls. Boys. Everyone.

Draco leaned in closer, letting his hand slide just a little higher on Harry’s thigh, lips brushing the shell of his ear under the pretense of whispering something. He caught the way Cho looked away quickly, cheeks pink.

Draco smiled smugly into his goblet.

Let them stare.

Harry was his.

And Draco had no intention of letting anyone forget it.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Unfortunately, the next day wasn’t any better.

History of Magic remained, as always, the pinnacle of academic suffering. Professor Binns’ ghostly monotone drifted endlessly through the classroom as he droned on about the Giant Wars—an unending slog of dates, treaties, and battles that not even Draco’s sharp note-taking could make interesting.

Predictably, Hermione was the only one still scribbling furiously beside him. Draco, out of sheer pride and spite, made a point to keep his quill moving too. Everyone else had long since surrendered to boredom.

Harry, to his credit, tried valiantly to keep up—at least for the first thirty minutes.

Then, inevitably, he turned to a far more compelling subject: Draco himself.

“What?” Draco muttered under his breath, eyes still on his notes.

“You,” Harry said easily, not even pretending to be sorry about it.

Draco turned slowly, raising an eyebrow. “Why?”

Instead of answering, Harry reached out, fingers brushing gently against Draco’s cheekbone. Just the barest touch of his knuckles, soft and slow.

“I like these,” he murmured.

Draco blinked. “What?”

“The freckles,” Harry said, his voice low and warm, pulling his hand back with a crooked smile. “I like them.”

Draco went still.

Heat rose sharply to his face, traitorous and instant. He could feel it—his ears, his cheeks, the fluttering low in his stomach. He was vaguely aware that his grip on his quill had gone tight, that he should say something scathing, something sharp and dismissive.

Instead, he blurted, “They’re not freckles.”

Harry tilted his head, amused. “They look like freckles.”

“They’re sunspots,” Draco snapped, though it came out far more flustered than fierce.

Harry grinned wider. “Sunspots, then. Still like them.”Draco turned back to his notes with a huff, ears still burning.

But he didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the lesson.

That smile, however, promptly vanished the moment class ended—and Ron and Hermione resumed their favorite extracurricular activity: bickering.

“How would it be,” Hermione began icily as they stepped out into the corridor, “if I refused to lend you my notes this year?”

Draco glanced sideways, mildly entertained as Ron blinked in confusion, clutching his parchment—a mess of doodled broomsticks and squiggly lines.

“Oh, come on, Hermione,” Ron groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. “I was paying attention… sort of.”

Hermione shot him a flat look. “You didn’t write down a single useful word.”

Ron, clearly scrambling, turned to Harry. “Neither did he! And Draco’s just going to help him with everything anyway!”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “I do not do Harry’s work for him,” he said coolly. “We study together. He learns better when I’m teaching him, which also helps me revise. It’s mutual. Efficient. Civilized.”

Ron made a noise of theatrical despair and threw his head back dramatically. “Traitors. The both of you. I’m going to fail my OWLs and it’ll be your fault.”

“You’d deserve it,” Hermione snapped, arms crossed tightly. “You don’t even try! You just assume I’ll hand you everything because I always have!”

“I do try!” Ron insisted, holding his hands up in mock innocence. “I just don’t have your brains or memory or whatever absurd study stamina you two have. Some of us are normal.”

“Oh, please,” Hermione said sharply. “You’re perfectly capable of doing well if you’d put in half the effort you spend whining!”

Ron gave her a crooked smile. “You make it sound so easy—‘just put in the effort,’ like that’s going to magically make Binns sound less like a talking teabag.”

Draco snorted. “Honestly, it’s impressive how dull he makes wars sound.”

“Thank you,” Ron said triumphantly, gesturing at Draco like he’d just made his point.

“Don’t agree with him,” Hermione hissed at Draco.

Draco just raised a brow. “I said Binns was boring, not that Ron isn’t hopeless.”

That shut Ron up for about half a hallway.

But only half.

By the time they stepped out into the courtyard, a fine misty drizzle was falling—so light it felt like walking through a cloud, but just enough to dampen everything in a thoroughly unpleasant way. Groups of students stood in scattered huddles, their outlines blurred at the edges, collars turned up and robes pulled tighter against the chill.

Draco followed Harry, Ron, and Hermione toward a quieter corner beneath a stone balcony dripping steadily onto the cobblestones. He pulled his cloak tighter, suppressing a shiver, and leaned into the shelter of the overhang as they started discussing what fresh hell Snape might throw at them in their first Potions lesson of the year.

“Something difficult, obviously,” Draco said dryly, arms crossed. “He’ll want to remind us all that holidays are over and that our incompetence is still his personal burden.”

“Something poisonous, probably,” Harry added, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “Or something that smells like feet.”

“I’d prefer poisonous,” Draco muttered. “At least it’s interesting.”

They’d just begun speculating about antidote theory when someone rounded the corner toward them.

“Hello, Harry!”

Draco stiffened the moment he heard the voice.

Cho Chang.

Of course.

Her smile was bright—far too bright for this weather—and she’d tucked a strand of damp hair behind her ear as she approached. “I was hoping I’d catch you before class.”

Draco barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes—or, more satisfyingly, inserting himself bodily between her and Harry. Restraint was a virtue. Unfortunately.

“Oh, hey,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck in that awkward, endearingly idiotic way he always did when faced with mild social interaction. “Did you… er… have a good summer?”

Draco winced. Brilliant, Potter. Absolutely inspired.

You watched her boyfriend die, had a front-row seat to a resurrected Dark Lord, and you’re asking her how her summer was?

As if she'd spent it lounging on a beach somewhere sipping pumpkin daiquiris and not, oh, mourning Cedric Diggory.

Draco would have laughed if it weren’t so painfully uncomfortable.

Something flickered across her face—tightening, almost imperceptibly—but she forced a polite smile and said, “Oh, it was all right, you know…”

Draco resisted the urge to make a sarcastic noise in the back of his throat.

Harry, predictably oblivious, nodded like she’d just given the most profound answer in the world. “That’s… that’s good.”

Draco wanted to bang his head against the nearest stone pillar.

Cho tilted her head slightly, gaze softening in that way that made Draco’s skin crawl. “Have you settled back in all right?” she asked, her voice lower now, almost intimate.

Her eyes lingered on Harry’s face for a moment too long—like she was studying him, storing away every detail—and it made something ugly twist low in Draco’s chest.

Harry gave another awkward smile. “Yeah, more or less.”

Cho returned the smile, gentler now, her eyes sweeping over Harry in a way that made Draco’s jaw twitch. “I’m glad… you look… better,” she said softly.

Better.

Draco’s jaw clenched so tightly it was a miracle his teeth didn’t crack. He’d had just about enough of this.

“Did you need something, Chang,” he said smoothly, stepping slightly closer to Harry, his voice syrupy sweet with venom beneath it, “or did you simply come over to flirt with my boyfriend in front of me like I’m not standing right here?”

He flashed her a smile so polished it practically sparkled, all gleaming white teeth and manufactured pleasantness—exactly the kind of smile that said I will hex you where you stand and make it look like an accident.

Cho blinked, startled. “I—what? No—I wasn’t—”

“Mm,” Draco said, still smiling. “Because it certainly seemed like it.” He cocked his head, voice still honeyed and dangerous.

Harry coughed beside him, clearly trying not to laugh.

“I wasn’t—” Cho stammered, cheeks flushed pink now. “I just wanted to say hello.”

“Well,” Draco said brightly, “you’ve said it. Off you go, then.”

There was a beat of awkward silence before Cho gave a stiff little nod and turned, walking briskly back the way she came.

Draco didn’t move until she was well out of sight—shoulders tight, jaw clenched.

Harry turned to him, grinning like the smug menace he was. “Jealous?”

Draco sniffed, lifting his chin in dramatic defiance. “Maybe I am a little jealous. Can you blame me? She was practically pretending I didn’t exist.”

Harry’s expression softened immediately. He reached out, fingers brushing Draco’s wrist gently. “Hey,” he said, voice low and sincere. “Look at me.”

Draco did.

“I’m yours,” Harry said, eyes locked on his. “And no one can change that.”

Draco’s heart stuttered so hard he was sure it echoed through the corridor. His breath caught, his cheeks flushed, and for a moment, he couldn’t think of a single coherent thing to say.

Of course, that was the moment Ron decided to ruin it.

“Gods, you two are so gross,” he muttered, making a face like he'd just bitten into a lemon.

Hermione, far more composed, simply smiled. “I think it’s quite sweet, actually,” she said, glancing fondly between them. “Honestly, I’d love to have someone treat me the way those two treat each other.”

"I didn't think you were that kind of girl." Ron said annoyed

Hermione’s smile instantly vanished.

“What exactly is that supposed to mean?” she said, turning to Ron with narrowed eyes.

Ron, looking suddenly like he regretted opening his mouth at all, shrugged awkwardly. “Nothing! Just— I didn’t think you were into all that… mushy stuff.”

Hermione put her hands on her hips, clearly amused. “You mean affection? Respect? Emotional intelligence?”

Ron scowled. “No, I mean—never mind.”

Hermione crossed her arms, thoroughly unimpressed. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re impossible to impress,” Ron shot back, then added under his breath, “unless you’re a Bulgarian Quidditch player.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Are you seriously still on about Krum?”

“I’m just saying,” Ron grumbled, not meeting her eyes, “he wasn’t exactly subtle, was he?”

Before Hermione could launch into what was surely going to be a very long, very sharp rebuttal, Harry interjected with all the enthusiasm of a soggy Flobberworm. “That’s the bell,” he said, nodding toward the students already flooding the corridor on their way to the next class.

Draco trailed behind them, thoroughly unimpressed.

Ron and Hermione were at it again—snapping at each other with the kind of fiery familiarity that made everyone else around them miserable. Their footsteps echoed down the stone steps toward the dungeons, voices escalating with every passing second, like a pair of wind-up toys fueled exclusively by mutual annoyance.

Honestly, it was exhausting.

Draco rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle he didn’t sprain something. He caught Harry’s gaze beside him—tired, resigned, and vaguely amused. Harry looked like he was mentally somewhere far away, possibly imagining a world where Ron and Hermione hadn’t made their romantic tension everyone else’s problem.

Draco leaned in slightly, his voice low and laced with dry amusement. “You’d think they’d shag already and get it over with.”

Harry snorted under his breath. “Should we be shagging then?”

Draco choked on air, tripping slightly on the next step.

Harry, the absolute menace, didn’t even pretend to hide his grin. It spread slow and smug across his face, equal parts innocent and infuriating.

Draco shot him a withering look, cheeks faintly pink. “You’re vile.”

Harry leaned in closer, voice just low enough for only Draco to hear. “You started it.”

Draco sniffed, chin lifting. “Yes, but I was being clever and observational. You were being indecent.”

Harry shrugged, utterly unapologetic. “You didn’t say no.”

Draco sputtered. “I—It wasn’t a question!”

“Wasn’t it?”

Draco groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Merlin, I’m dating a delinquent.”

Harry chuckled, shoulder bumping lightly against Draco’s as they reached the dungeon entrance.

Draco sighed dramatically, casting one final glance at Ron and Hermione, still snapping at each other.

“Honestly,” he muttered. “I’d rather shag you in the Potions storeroom than listen to another second of this.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up, amused and intrigued. “Is that a proposal?”

Draco didn’t dignify that with an answer—but his blush deepened, and Harry’s grin widened.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

The moment they stepped into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, Draco felt the shift in atmosphere. The air was unusually still, thick with a kind of quiet dread that coiled in his chest like smoke. At the front of the room, Dolores Umbridge sat primly at the teacher’s desk, her ridiculous pink cardigan clashing horribly with the cold stone walls of the classroom.

She didn’t stand. She didn’t even look up right away—just sat there like some porcelain doll with teeth, sipping tea from a hideous kitten-patterned cup.

Draco didn’t like her.

Not that he’d expected to, really—but there was something about her that set his nerves on edge. Too polished. Too controlled. Too smug.

The entire class filed in with that same cautious tension, eyes darting toward her like she might pounce at any moment. Blaise raised a brow at Draco in silent question, but Draco didn’t respond. He simply took a seat beside Harry and crossed his arms.

“Wands away,” she said sweetly, and Draco immediately knew this class was going to be a disaster.

Harry stiffened beside him. Draco didn’t even need to look to know his jaw was clenching. He could feel it—the familiar ripple of frustration rolling off his boyfriend in waves.

Draco slid his wand back into his sleeve with deliberate slowness. He didn’t like being told to disarm in a Defense class.

Umbridge stood with a ruffle of her cardigan, picking up a stick of chalk and scribbling on the board in large, loopy script: Ministry-Approved Course Aims.

Draco’s lip curled in distaste. Subtle as a sledgehammer.

Beside him, Harry looked like he wanted to hex the entire blackboard. And honestly, Draco didn’t blame him.

The Ministry was frightened. They wanted control. And that meant making sure no one learned anything useful—least of all them.

Draco had flipped through Defensive Magical Theory over the summer, just to see what sort of drivel the Ministry was peddling. It was worse than he expected. Full of vague platitudes and convoluted nonsense about “non-confrontational tactics” and “passive resistance.” His mother had laughed outright when Draco read him a few passages.

Useless.

Hermione clearly agreed. She hadn’t even opened her book. Her hand was already in the air, straight-backed and composed, but there was a sharpness in her expression that Draco knew all too well. She was about to light a fire.

And honestly? He was here for it.

It didn’t take long for the rest of the class to notice. One by one, books were abandoned and eyes turned toward her raised hand.

Eventually, Umbridge looked up from her tea and gave a sugar-coated smile. “Yes, dear?” she cooed, her voice too sweet to be genuine. “Did you have a question about the chapter?”

Draco smirked. That condescending tone wasn’t going to work on Granger.

“Not about the chapter, no,” Hermione said, her voice calm but cutting.

Umbridge’s smile flickered, just slightly. “Well, we are reading right now, Miss…?”

“Hermione Granger,” she replied, already sounding irritated.

“Miss Granger,” Umbridge repeated in that same nauseating tone, “if you have questions that don’t pertain to the reading, we can address them at the end of class.”

But Hermione didn’t back down. Of course she didn’t. “Actually, I have a question about your course aims.”

And just like that, the tension sharpened.

Draco leaned back in his chair, watching with no small amount of admiration as Hermione delivered her next line.

“There’s nothing in your aims about actually using defensive spells. How are we supposed to defend ourselves if we don’t practice?”

A ripple went through the room—whispers, shifting chairs, wide eyes. Draco caught the way Harry glanced at Hermione with quiet pride, and even he couldn’t deny the satisfaction curling in his chest. She’d said what they were all thinking, plain and unflinching.

Umbridge’s smile tightened like a drawstring purse. “The theory of defense is perfectly sufficient for the purposes of examination,” she replied, voice syrupy and brittle.

Ron, predictably, couldn’t contain himself. “We’re not going to use magic?” he burst out, incredulous.

Umbridge’s eyes snapped to him, her expression still eerily serene. “You won’t be needing it,” she said, condescendingly cheerful. “You are perfectly safe here at Hogwarts.”

Draco scoffed under his breath. Safe. Clearly, she hadn’t read a single incident report from the last four years.

Hermione’s hand shot up again, sharp and insistent, but Umbridge waved her off like a bothersome fly.

“Are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Miss Granger?” she asked with poisonous sweetness, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. The tone was pure condescension, dressed in a pink bow.

Harry shifted beside Draco, tension radiating off him. Draco felt it like static electricity, prickling through the air between them.

And then Harry spoke.

“Are you, Professor?” he asked, voice calm but sharp enough to cut stone.

Draco’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and even Ron looked at Harry like he’d grown an extra head. But Harry didn’t flinch—he held Umbridge’s gaze, posture relaxed but eyes like steel.

Umbridge’s smile curdled. “Hand, Mr. Potter,” she said, voice suddenly ice beneath the sugar.

Harry raised his hand with exaggerated precision, the smirk on his face far too smug for Draco to handle. A few other hands shot up as well—Dean, Seamus, Lavender.

Dean beat them to it, his voice steady despite the tension. “If we’re going to be attacked—”

“I repeat,” Umbridge cut in, tone sharpening, “do you expect to be attacked during my class, Mr. Thomas?”

Dean opened his mouth again, but she didn’t give him the chance.

“You have all been exposed,” she said, louder now, “to some very irresponsible ideas. Ideas planted by reckless individuals—many of whom have no proper Ministry credentials whatsoever.” Her eyes flicked pointedly toward Harry, and then—more subtly—to Draco.

Draco’s jaw tensed.

“And I’m afraid,” she added, with a dainty smile that made Draco’s skin crawl, “you’ve also been influenced by extremely dangerous half-breeds.”

That did it.

Draco sat up straighter, his entire body coiled tight with cold fury. He could feel Harry tense beside him as well, his hand curling slightly into a fist on the desk.

“If you mean Professor Lupin,” Dean said, his voice loud and clear, “he was the best teacher we ever had—”

A low murmur of agreement swept through the classroom, a quiet undercurrent of solidarity. But Umbridge didn’t seem to hear it—or perhaps she simply didn’t care. Her focus was on regaining control, her eyes narrowing, smile growing brittle.

“You are behaving,” she said, voice rising just slightly, “as though you might be attacked at any moment.” Her gaze swept the room with feigned innocence. “Who exactly do you think would attack children like yourselves?”

The condescension in her voice was suffocating.

For a heartbeat, the classroom fell silent again. The question hung heavy in the air—weighted and baiting—and Draco could practically feel the moment something snapped in Harry.

He didn’t even need to look.

He knew that look. That sharp glint in Harry’s eye. The tension in his jaw. The way his shoulders squared like he was bracing for a fight.

Draco moved before Harry could speak.

Under the desk, he reached out and squeezed Harry’s thigh—firm, deliberate, grounding. His fingers pressed a warning into the fabric of Harry’s trousers, and without turning his head, he whispered under his breath, low and urgent:

“Don’t.”

It wasn’t fear—not exactly. Draco wasn’t afraid of Harry speaking up. He admired it, even. But this—this wasn’t the moment. Umbridge was waiting for it, hungry for it. And if Harry snapped now, she’d use it against him.

Harry’s gaze flicked toward him, eyes blazing with frustration.

But not even Draco can convince Harry not to something reckless.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

News of Harry’s shouting match with Umbridge had spread through the school faster than a cursed howler. By breakfast the next morning, it was all anyone seemed to talk about—whispers echoing through corridors, heads turning wherever Harry went.

Harry, of course, didn’t appear particularly bothered by it all—shrugging off the stares with a casual flick of his hand and that maddening, infuriatingly calm expression that made Draco want to hex something.

Draco, on the other hand, was thoroughly offended. On Harry’s behalf. On principle. The sheer gall of that simpering, Ministry-backed toad humiliating Harry and handing out detention like she was distributing sweets—it made his blood boil.

They’d skipped dinner in the Great Hall in favor of their usual spot beneath the willow tree by the lake, a makeshift picnic spread between them. The breeze carried the scent of early autumn and rippled gently through the grass, but Draco was still fuming.

“I can’t believe you got detention this early into the term,” he said, picking at his sandwich more than eating it. “You were doing so well controlling your temper—and now you’ve gone and let that toad of a woman get under your skin.”

Harry looked over at him, one corner of his mouth quirking upward. “She deserved it.”

“That’s not the point,” Draco huffed, folding his arms across his chest. “She wanted you to snap. You handed her exactly what she wanted, Potter. On a silver platter.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, entirely too amused. “You sound like McGonagall.”

“Don’t insult me.”

Harry chuckled under his breath, and Draco scowled harder, though it lacked any real heat. He was still annoyed—but mostly because Harry was already brushing it off like it didn’t matter, while Draco couldn’t stop thinking about it.

“She’s not going to stop, you know,” Draco muttered, quieter this time.

Harry’s smile faded slightly, replaced by something more thoughtful. He reached over and laced their fingers together, warm and steady. “I know,” he said softly. “But I’ve got you.”

Draco swallowed hard, glancing down at their joined hands.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “You do.”

He cleared his throat, then reached into his bag with a practiced flick of his fingers. “Enough sulking,” he said briskly, trying to mask the warmth still blooming in his chest. “Let’s get to work. Should we start with History of Magic or Potions?”

Harry chuckled, eyes still soft with affection. “Whichever one makes you feel less like hexing the next person who mentions Umbridge.”

Draco arched a brow. “So… Potions it is, then.” He settled cross-legged on the blanket, already scribbling a title across the top of his page in elegant, looping handwriting.

Harry, predictably, did not do the same.

Instead, he leaned back on his elbows, watching Draco with a lopsided smile, eyes half-lidded in the golden afternoon sun. “You know, I learn better when you read to me,” he said casually.

Draco rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched at the corners. “Fine. But if I’m going to read aloud, you’re taking notes.”

Harry groaned dramatically. “You drive such a hard bargain, Bunny.”

“You have no idea,” Draco replied smoothly, flipping the book open and beginning to read in his best professor-voice: “‘The primary effects of powdered asphodel when paired with—’”

“You know,” Harry interrupted, voice low and casual, “your voice does things to me.”

Draco froze mid-sentence, quill hovering in the air. He turned slowly, raising a withering brow. “Potter.”

“No, seriously,” Harry said, sitting up with an expression far too pleased with himself. “It’s very… scholarly. Sexy, even.”

Draco blinked once. His ears started to heat. “You have a deeply concerning academic kink.”

Harry grinned. “And you have a deeply concerning effect on my ability to concentrate.”

Before Draco could deliver a scathing retort, Harry shifted closer across the blanket—close enough that their knees brushed. Draco’s brain short-circuited a little.

“I have a theory,” Harry continued innocently.

“Oh Merlin. Go on.”

“I think I’d get better grades if you tutored me shirtless.”

Draco sputtered. “What—absolutely not!”

“Just a theory,” Harry said innocently, already inching closer, fingers brushing along Draco’s sleeve like he was testing the waters.

“I—I’m not taking my shirt off out here! Are you mad?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Oh, but you’re willing…?”

Draco’s face went scarlet. “We haven’t even— I mean, we’ve barely— We’re still barely in the snogging phase, Potter!”

Harry laughed, entirely too pleased with himself. “You make it sound like we’re following a checklist.”

“We are,” Draco snapped, flustered. “And nowhere on that list is ‘strip in the middle of the Hogwarts grounds during a Potions review.’”

Harry leaned in just a little more, eyes glinting. “So… later, then?”

Draco groaned, dropped his quill, and buried his face in his hands. “Merlin help me.”

“You’re adorable when you blush,” Harry said, clearly proud of himself.

Draco flopped onto his back with a dramatic sigh, flinging an arm over his eyes. “I’m doomed. Utterly doomed.”

“Not a no, though,” Harry said brightly.

Draco peeked at him from beneath his arm, cheeks still very pink. “It’s a firm not-right-now,” he said with exaggerated patience. “You’re derailing our study session.”

Harry leaned over him, voice softer now. “Can I derail it just a little more—for a snog? Then we can go back to asphodel properties, I promise.”

“…Fine,” Draco muttered, trying to sound exasperated. It came out far too fond.

Harry beamed, leaning in until their noses brushed. “Academic incentives,” he murmured against Draco’s lips. “I’m very motivated.”

Draco kissed him—and promptly forgot what asphodel even was.

Chapter Text

Harry had been doing better, Draco would admit that. He was holding his tongue more often, biting back the sharp retorts he usually couldn’t help but fling at Umbridge like hexes. But something about him had changed—something quieter, more withdrawn. It was subtle, at first. Just a delay in his laughter. A heaviness in his shoulders. A quietness that hadn’t been there since before the summer, before they’d returned to Grimmauld Place and reminded each other what breathing without fear felt like.

His detentions with Umbridge ran long—longer than anyone else’s—and he never really said much about them beyond the vague, “She makes me write lines.”

Draco had tried to press for more. He wasn’t stupid; he knew something was wrong. But Harry—bloody infuriating, gorgeous, manipulative Harry—always managed to derail the conversation with a sly compliment, a distracting kiss, or some ridiculous, filthy innuendo that left Draco too flustered to keep interrogating him.

It was annoying. And effective. And it made Draco want to hex something.

At least he could help with the other things. With Harry falling behind in classes thanks to those cursed detentions, Draco had taken it upon himself to keep him caught up. They studied late into the night, side by side in the common room, their books open and parchments scattered, quills scratching quietly as the castle slept around them.

But it wasn’t until Thursday night that Draco noticed it—the thing that Harry had been hiding so carefully.

They were curled up in the common room again, parchment and ink everywhere, books stacked in messy piles. Everyone else had gone to bed long ago; the fire had burned low, casting warm orange flickers across Harry’s cheekbones. He was hunched over his essay, chewing absently on the end of his quill when Draco caught sight of his hand.

Not his writing hand—his other one.

It was angled just slightly wrong in the firelight, and for a brief second, Draco caught the shimmer of something red and raw beneath the skin. He frowned, reaching out before Harry could move.

“Hold still,” Draco said sharply, catching his wrist and pulling his hand gently toward him.

Harry stiffened. “Draco—”

“What is that?” Draco demanded, his voice low but firm. He turned Harry’s hand over in his own, and then everything in him went cold.

There, etched into the back of Harry’s hand in painful, swollen script, were the words: I must not tell lies.

Draco’s stomach dropped.

“Merlin,” he breathed, tracing the letters with his fingertips. The skin was split—angry and healing and clearly carved into him over and over again. “She’s making you write lines with a blood quill.”

Harry didn’t say anything.

“She’s torturing you,” Draco said quietly, his voice suddenly a razor’s edge. “And you didn’t tell me.”

“It’ll scar,” Harry said, voice strained. “It’s not a big deal.”

Draco looked up at him slowly, his expression flat and disbelieving. “Not a big—Harry, it’s your blood. I don’t think you understand how dark a blood quill is.”

“It’s detention. What was I supposed to do?” Harry snapped, jaw tight.

“Tell me. Tell anyone.” Draco replied flatly.

Harry looked down, guilt flickering in his eyes.

Draco gently let go of his wrist, but the fury simmering in his chest remained. He stood, pacing a few steps away before raking a hand through his hair.

“I’m going to kill her,” he muttered. “I swear to Circe, I’m going to—”

“No,” Harry said softly, standing now too. “Don’t make this worse.”

Draco turned toward him again, eyes burning. “She made you carve yourself open with a dark object for hours on end four nights in a row. And you think I’m just going to sit here and let her get away with it?”

Harry stepped closer, reaching for his hand this time. “You don’t have to protect me, Draco.”

“I’m not protecting you,” Draco said quietly. “I’m loving you. And watching someone hurt the person I love while I’m supposed to sit here and do nothing—that is unbearable.”

Harry just stared at him—wide-eyed, lips parted, like the air had been knocked out of him.

Draco realized what he’d said a heartbeat too late.

The words hung there, suspended in the quiet of the common room, louder than any shouting match, heavier than any silence.

His throat felt tight suddenly. He hadn’t meant to say it—not like that. Not during an argument. Not anytime soon. But the words had slipped out, raw and sharp and completely, undeniably true.

“I…” Draco faltered, blinking hard. “I didn’t mean to—well, I did, obviously, I just—Merlin—”

Harry surged forward and kissed him.

It was sudden and fierce and warm, Harry’s hand curling into the front of Draco’s robes like he needed something to anchor himself. Draco melted into it, breath catching, heart pounding, fingers tangling in the back of Harry’s shirt to hold him closer, closer, closer.

When they broke apart, Harry didn’t move far. He stayed close, nose brushing Draco’s, their foreheads pressed together, breathing in sync.

“I love you too,” Harry whispered, voice low and sure, like a truth he'd known for ages.

Draco blinked. “You do?”

Harry laughed—soft and breathless, like the question was ridiculous. “Of course I do. I really, really do.”

Draco’s heart was doing something dangerous in his chest now—light and wild and aching all at once. He couldn’t stop staring at Harry—like seeing him for the first time again.

“Good,” he said, a little breathless. “Because I wasn’t planning on taking it back.”

“Good,” Harry echoed, grinning slightly before pulling him into another kiss—this one slower, sweeter, lingering. Like they had all the time in the world.

Draco melted into it for a beat too long, then abruptly pulled back, flushed and flustered. “Stop distracting me!” he huffed, though the way he was still holding Harry’s hand gave him away.

Harry raised an eyebrow, all innocent mischief. “Distracting you? I was professing my undying love.”

“Well, profess it later,” Draco snapped, though his lips twitched. “We need to tell Severus about the blood quill. Now.”

Harry’s smile dimmed just slightly, but he nodded, more serious now. “Yeah. You’re right.”

Draco squeezed his hand. “Of course I’m right. And after we deal with this, you can profess more things—preferably with more tongue.”

Harry’s laugh echoed through the quiet room, and Draco pretended not to smile as they gathered their things and headed toward the door.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Ron made the team as Keeper.

He’d been visibly jittery, practically vibrating with nerves by the time he took the pitch—but all the practice sessions with Draco had clearly paid off. He held his own, made solid saves, and didn’t fall off his broom once. Which, frankly, was an achievement in itself.

By the end of the tryouts, he’d earned his spot fair and square, and the whole common room exploded in celebration that night—full of noise, Butterbeer, and overexcited Gryffindors.

But for Draco, the celebration wasn’t just about Quidditch.

It was about this—Harry, smiling again. Really smiling. That rare, genuine kind of happiness that lit up his whole face, the kind Draco hadn’t seen nearly enough since the term started.

Eventually, they slipped away from the center of the chaos, claiming a quiet corner in the common room while the rest of Gryffindor reveled around them. Music was playing, someone had conjured a glittering charmed banner over the fireplace, and Ron was being handed a Butterbeer for every goal he didn’t let in.

But Draco couldn’t care less.

He and Harry curled up on the oversized loveseat near the window—half shielded by the drawn curtain, half hidden behind a stack of discarded cushions—and that was all the excuse they needed.

They kissed lazily, unhurried, like the rest of the world didn’t exist. Fingers tangled in hair, hands slipping beneath jumpers just far enough to tease without crossing lines. Harry was warm and soft against him, tasting faintly of Butterbeer and firewhiskey-laced chocolate, and Draco didn’t even try to resist leaning in again and again.

Harry’s hand curled around the back of his neck, thumb stroking lightly at his skin, and Draco sighed into the next kiss, melting further into him.

If anyone noticed, no one said a word. Or maybe they were all too distracted by the celebration. Either way, Draco couldn’t bring himself to care.

Harry's fingers brushed along Draco’s jaw, gentle and absentminded, like he couldn’t stop touching him even if he tried. Draco’s head was tipped slightly back, eyes half-lidded, breathing steady as he leaned into the warmth of Harry’s palm.

“You’re staring,” Draco murmured, voice low and drowsy.

Harry grinned, not bothering to deny it. “Can you blame me?”

Draco huffed a soft laugh and nuzzled against his hand. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re gorgeous,” Harry replied simply, pressing another slow kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Especially when you let yourself relax like this.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but he didn’t move away. If anything, he curled in closer, resting his head lightly against Harry’s shoulder, fingers idly tracing invisible shapes on Harry’s knee.

The common room was still buzzing in the background—laughter, music, the occasional explosion of applause as someone told another dramatic retelling of Ron’s final save—but it all felt far away now. Blurred and softened, like a distant echo under the heavy quilt of peace that had settled over the corner where they sat.

“Think they’d kick us out if we fell asleep here?” Harry asked, already blinking slower.

Draco smiled faintly. “Not if I hex anyone who tries.”

“Merlin, I love you.”

Draco’s breath caught for a beat, and then he kissed him again—slow and deliberate, like a reply in a language only they spoke.

Eventually, they did fall asleep there—tangled together beneath a charmed blanket someone had tossed over them, the soft flicker of the fireplace painting gold against their skin. They both slept soundly.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

“She's an awful woman,” Hermione said sharply, arms crossed as she paced in front of the fireplace. “A dreadful teacher. We're not going to learn any proper defense from her at all.”

Draco hummed in agreement from his seat, his feet in Harry’s lap, flipping a page in his notes. “That’s assuming she’s even trying to teach anything useful in the first place. She’s not. She’s here to babysit us with Ministry-approved fluff.”

“Well, what can we do about it?” Ron yawned from his slouched position in one of the armchairs. “It’s too late now, isn’t it? She’s got the job. Fudge will make sure she keeps it.”

Hermione paused, then glanced hesitantly at Harry before pressing on. “I was thinking today… maybe the time’s come for us to take things into our own hands.”

Harry eyed her warily. “Take what into our hands?”

Hermione took a breath. “I mean… learn Defense Against the Dark Arts ourselves.”

There was a moment of silence.

Ron groaned. “You’re suggesting extra homework, aren’t you?”

“It’s not homework, Ronald,” Hermione snapped. “It’s survival.”

Draco sat up straighter now, intrigued. “You mean… form our own study group?”

“More than just a study group,” Hermione said, eyes bright with determination now. “We practice. Properly. Real spells. Real defense. Not just what’s in that ridiculous Ministry book.”

Harry blinked at her. “You want us to teach each other?”

“Not each other,” Hermione said pointedly. Her gaze shifted directly to Harry. “You.”

Harry looked stunned. “Me?”

“Who else?” Draco said smoothly, his voice low but firm. “You’re the only one of us who’s actually fought Death Eaters and lived to tell the tale. You’ve done more practical defense than most of the professors we’ve had.”

Harry flushed slightly, but Hermione nodded. “You’re the most qualified person here, Harry. And let’s be honest—none of us feel safe with the way things are going. We need to be ready.”

There was a pause. Then, slowly, Harry looked around at all of them. “…Alright,” he said at last. “Let’s do it.”

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Draco sat beside Harry, arms crossed, eyes scanning the door every time it creaked. He wasn’t nervous, not exactly—just… wary.

“So, who exactly is supposed to be meeting us?” Harry asked, lifting his butterbeer and sipping. Draco could see the way his fingers tapped absently against the glass—casual, but just slightly restless.

“Just a few people,” Hermione said, though she was already glancing toward the door again. “I told them to arrive around now… Oh, wait—this might be them.”

The door creaked open, sunlight spilling across the floor before being blocked by a small stream of students filing in.

Draco arched a brow as the trickle became a crowd.

Neville Longbottom, Dean Thomas, Lavender Brown. Parvati and Padma. Cho Chang—of course she came—and one of her ever-present giggling friends. Luna floated in behind them, looking as ethereal and half-lost as usual, her gaze immediately fixating on a dusty corner like it held secrets no one else could see.

Then came Katie, Alicia, and Angelina, looking focused and fierce. The Creevey brothers tumbled in, wide-eyed and starstruck as ever. Ernie Macmillan, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Hannah Abbott, and a Hufflepuff girl Draco didn’t recognize. A few Ravenclaws followed—Goldstein, Corner, Boot—then Ginny appeared, dragging some blond Hufflepuff Quidditch player behind her.

Fred and George, of course, brought their own chaos, dragging in heavy bags clinking ominously with Zonko’s products. And to Draco’s mild surprise, just behind them, Blaise and Pansy slipped in—cool and quiet, like they’d simply wandered in by accident.

“A couple of people?” Harry repeated under his breath, glancing at Draco with a crooked smile.

Draco smirked faintly. “Your fan club’s multiplying.”

Hermione, ever the picture of smug satisfaction, stood and addressed the crowd with her usual Gryffindor zeal.

“Thanks for coming,” she began, tone steady and confident. “As you all know, the lessons we’re getting in Defense Against the Dark Arts this year are… inadequate.”

Draco snorted quietly into his butterbeer. That was one way to put it.

More than a few heads nodded in agreement.

Hermione continued, her eyes scanning the room like she was already mentally assigning study partners. “The point of this is to take matters into our own hands. We need to learn how to defend ourselves. We need to be prepared. And who better to teach us than Harry?”

There was a ripple through the room—half anticipation, half admiration—and Draco didn’t miss the way Harry’s ears turned faintly pink under the attention.

“I’ve... faced some pretty dark stuff,” Harry said quietly, steady and serious, though Draco could see the subtle flicker in his eyes. “And if Voldemort’s really back—”

Half the room flinched. Draco didn’t. He was already watching the crowd, cataloguing who looked nervous, who looked angry, and who looked like they were just waiting for someone else to speak first.

“—then we can’t just sit around doing nothing. We need to be ready.”

There were quiet murmurs of agreement. Hermione smiled encouragingly, clearly proud, clearly moved.

“We’re not just doing this to pass our O.W.L.s,” she added, glancing around the crowded room. “We’re doing this to protect ourselves. No one else is going to teach us what we really need to know, so this is our chance.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed slightly as a voice cut through the group—sharp, too loud, and obnoxiously self-assured.

“Where’s the proof You-Know-Who’s back?”

Draco’s jaw clenched, and beside him, Harry stiffened just a little. Not enough for most people to notice, but Draco knew every inch of his posture by now. He could feel the shift, the flicker of tension in his boyfriend’s spine.

“Well, Dumbledore believes it—” Hermione started.

“Yeah, Dumbledore believes him,” Zacharias snapped, tilting his chin toward Harry. “But how do we know for sure? Why should we just take your word for it?”

Ron looked ready to launch across the table, but Harry beat him to it. His voice was quiet, cold, and completely unflinching.

“I saw him.”

That shut everyone up.

Draco watched the flicker of discomfort ripple across the room. He could see the weight behind Harry’s words even when no one else could fully comprehend it.

“But all Dumbledore said was that Cedric Diggory was killed,” Zacharias insisted. “He didn’t say how. Maybe we’d all like to know what really happened—”

Draco could feel something hot coil in his chest—protective and furious. This wasn’t curiosity. It was gossip masked as concern. Harry’s voice cut him off before Draco could.

“If you came here to hear about Cedric’s death, I can’t help you,” Harry said sharply. “I’m not here to relive it for your entertainment.”

Draco’s heart clenched at the look on Harry’s face—so carefully composed, but with grief simmering just beneath the surface. This wasn’t how tonight was supposed to go. They were supposed to build something here—something strong, something that mattered.

Hermione stepped in again, sensing the tension. “This isn’t about convincing anyone. It’s about learning how to protect ourselves. So, if you’re still interested in that, we need to figure out how often we’re going to meet and where we can practice without being disturbed.”

The mood shifted—thank Merlin. The room softened, some of the earlier unease dissolving under the weight of Hermione’s rational calm.

Then, a quiet voice from the back broke the silence.

“Is it true you can produce a Patronus, Harry?” Susan Bones asked, eyes wide with wonder.

Harry blinked, caught off guard. Draco could see the flicker of uncertainty flash across his face—he wasn’t used to being admired. Not like this. He nodded hesitantly. “Yeah. I can.”

“A corporeal Patronus?” she pressed.

“Yeah,” Harry repeated, clearly uncomfortable. “It’s a stag.”

Gasps. Awestruck murmurs.

Draco rolled his eyes fondly. Harry really had no idea how ridiculous he was, did he?

“Blimey, Harry,” Lee Jordan said. “That’s brilliant.”

Fred and George shared a knowing grin. “Mum told us not to spread it around,” Fred said, “but yeah. He’s always been a showoff.”

Harry flushed, trying to deflect. “It’s not that impressive. I’ve just had practice.”

“Is it true you killed a basilisk?” someone else asked—Boot, maybe?

Harry gave a reluctant nod, and more murmurs spread through the group like wildfire.

Hermione, ever the general beneath her academic polish, seized the moment. She stood taller, voice cutting clean through the chatter. “Right. If we’re agreed on the purpose, we need to decide where we’re meeting. Somewhere private. Somewhere no one will interrupt us.”

The room fell quiet again, thoughtful now.

“Library?” Katie Bell suggested tentatively.

Draco scoffed softly under his breath. Even Harry raised an eyebrow.

“Not sure Madam Pince would be thrilled with us doing jinxes in there,” he said, shaking his head with a half-smile.

“Maybe an unused classroom?” Dean offered.

Ron nodded. “Yeah, McGonagall let Harry use hers for Triwizard practice—”

But Harry was already shaking his head. “I don’t think she’ll be as keen this time. This might be considered a bit more… rebellious.”

Draco arched a brow. “We need somewhere Umbridge won’t sniff out in ten minutes. That rules out anything remotely obvious.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Hermione said, already reaching into her bag. She pulled out a piece of parchment and a quill, her expression set with purpose. “But for now, I think everyone should write their name down. Just so we know who was here—and more importantly, so we all agree to keep this quiet.”

There was a pause. The weight of that suggestion settled over the group like a fog.

“If you sign,” she continued firmly, “you’re agreeing not to breathe a word of this to Umbridge. Or anyone else. This has to stay between us.”

Fred didn’t hesitate—of course he didn’t. He swooped forward and signed his name with a flourish, quill practically dancing off the page.

Draco noticed, however, the ripple of hesitation that followed. Zacharias Smith was staring at the parchment like it might bite him. Ernie looked visibly uncomfortable.

“We’re prefects,” Ernie said finally. “If this list is found—”

“You just said this was the most important thing you’d do this year,” Harry said flatly, the edge in his voice unmistakable.

Draco almost smiled. There it was again—that quiet steel in Harry’s voice. Subtle, but unmistakable. It always thrilled him a little.

“Yes, but… well, if Umbridge finds out—”

“Ernie,” Hermione said sharply. “Do you really think I’d leave this lying around?”

That seemed to do it. Ernie sighed, clearly still nervous, but signed his name. The rest followed soon after—some eagerly, others more reluctantly. Cho’s friend hesitated longer than most, but even she eventually added her name to the bottom.

“Well,” he murmured, voice low so only Harry could hear, “look at you. General Potter.”

Harry gave him a dry look. “Don’t start.”

Draco smirked. “Too late.”

Chapter Text

Umbridge’s latest Educational Decree threw a temporary wrench in their plans—but it wasn’t going to stop them. If anything, it only added fuel to the fire. The announcement had barely been posted in the corridor before Harry turned to Draco with a crooked grin and said, “Well, at least we know we’re getting under her skin.”

Draco had to admit, Harry looked lighter these days. Not carefree, but focused. Purposeful. And knowing they were doing something real—something that defied both Umbridge and the Ministry—seemed to be helping. It was hard to feel powerless when you were building something of your own.

There was still the issue of where to meet. The school was full of eyes and ears, and they needed a place secure enough to house a roomful of secret rebels without raising suspicion.

And then there was the other problem: not everyone in the D.A. had an Atlas yet.

Draco and Hermione were already working on that. In fact, Hermione had come up with the idea first, but Draco had instantly agreed—it was practical, secure, and clever in all the right ways.

“One for each D.A. member,” Hermione said, flipping through her notes in the common room, her voice low but determined. “Personalized, magically synced to the user. If this works, maybe they’ll gain some popularity before we start mass production.”

Draco nodded, lounging sideways in his chair with his Atlas balanced on one knee. “Think of it as our version of a membership badge,” he said, twirling his quill between his fingers. “Only instead of a cheap little pin, you get encrypted messaging, shared study tools, curated spell libraries... And it doubles as a cover story if anyone gets nosy.”

Hermione hummed in agreement. “Academic collaboration sounds a lot more innocent than secret training.”

Draco smirked. “Exactly my point.”

With Quidditch practice on hold—thanks to Umbridge refusing to reinstate the Gryffindor team—it didn’t take long for Draco, Hermione, and the Twins to knock out enough Atlases for every member of the D.A. A week later, Draco was standing smugly in front of Harry with a satchel full of the sleek, obsidian devices, each one tucked beside a neat little instruction pamphlet Hermione had made, complete with diagrams and a charmingly formal font.

Harry arched a brow, pulling one out and weighing it in his hand. “You lot have been busy.”

Draco preened. “Some of us are gifted.”

Harry flipped through the pamphlet with a crooked grin. “So now we just need somewhere to actually practice. It has to be secret, obviously, but everywhere I’ve thought of is either too small… or too creepy.”

“Too creepy?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow.

“The Chamber of Secrets,” Harry said flatly.

Draco gave him a horrified look, scandalized. “Merlin, Harry, absolutely not. That’s a dreadful idea. If I went back down there, I’d have a panic attack, drop dead, and haunt you forever just to complain about it.”

Harry winced. “Exactly my point.”

“And anyway,” Draco continued with a dramatic shiver, “we wouldn’t even be able to snog properly down there—what with the snake statues and the skeletons of long-dead creatures watching. It's a mood killer, Potter.”

Harry laughed, eyes crinkling in that way that made Draco’s insides do embarrassing things. “Wasn’t planning on it, but… noted. So what, you’re hoping this secret training room doubles as a place for snogging?”

Draco’s brain short-circuited for a full second.

Because—yes. Obviously yes.

Did he want to make out with Harry? Constantly. Desperately. Pathetically. He was practically vibrating with want half the time. They were stuck in a castle crawling with nosy students, bothersome ghosts and way too many meddling professors. The Gryffindor common room? Always packed. The library? Not nearly private enough. Even the Astronomy Tower wasn’t safe—Filch had a sixth sense for sneaky students and hormonal tension.

At this point, if they didn’t find a private place soon, Draco was convinced he might actually die. Of longing. Or frustration. Or both.

He tilted his head and gave Harry his most shameless smirk. “Obviously,” he said coolly, even though his pulse was out of control. “Any room I can get you alone in is automatically doubling as a place for snogging. I don’t make the rules.”

Harry looked delighted by that answer—dangerously so. His grin widened, eyes glittering. “Don’t you have access to the prefects’ bathroom?” he asked, far too innocently. “Sirius mentioned—”

Draco cut him off immediately, cheeks flaring crimson. “I don’t want to know what my dear cousin has done in that bathroom, thank you very much.”

He really didn’t. Just the idea of Sirius and—ugh, no. Absolutely not. Mental scarring aside, Harry was looking at him with that look—smug and knowing and just a bit wicked. Harry knew Draco was nervous about taking that next step. Knew Draco wanted him, but wasn’t quite ready to go that far. The whole being naked together in a giant bubble bath thing was… a lot. Tempting, yes. Incredibly tempting. But still—terrifying.

Harry wiggled his eyebrows like the absolute menace he was. “Just saying… the tub’s massive. Enough bubbles to drown in. And the door locks—”

Draco made a strangled sound and threw up his hands like he could physically swat the thought away. “Okay! Yep. Harry, I get it,” he groaned, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? He did get it. His imagination had run with it—Harry, shirtless. Hair wet and wild, water glistening on his tan skin. Droplets sliding down that stupidly defined chest of his like—

“Circe help me, you’re incorrigible,” Draco muttered, voice too high and breathless to sound properly annoyed.

Because sure, he was a prefect. And yes, he was supposed to be responsible and mature and all that. But also? He was a fifteen-year-old boy, completely obsessed with his too-fit, too-flirty boyfriend, and now his brain was short-circuiting over the mental image of Harry in a bathtub.

He was going to die. Death by hormones.

Right here in the common room.

Still tragically unsnogged.

Harry leaned in closer, voice low and smug and warm at Draco’s ear. “Only for you.”

Draco might’ve whimpered. Just a little.

Draco opened his mouth to say something—something biting, or flirty, or vaguely coherent—but he didn’t get the chance.

Because Hermione cleared her throat. Loudly.

“If you two are quite finished flirting,” Hermione said, her tone sweet as honey but sharp enough to draw blood, “we were meant to be brainstorming locations for the D.A. I, for one, think the Chamber is entirely too grim—and don’t even get me started on the logistics of sneaking twenty students through Myrtle’s bathroom. She’d sell us out for a bit of attention.”

Draco slumped back in his chair, dragging a hand through his hair with a sigh that was at least fifty percent sexual frustration. “I thought for sure Fred and George would have some secret hiding place up their sleeves,” he muttered. “Even Sirius and Remus came up short. Honestly, the only beings who might know more about this castle than them are the bloody house-elves.”

“House-elves,” Hermione echoed, blinking like she’d just solved a riddle. Her eyes lit up as her mind kicked into gear. “That’s actually… that might work.”

Harry frowned slightly, brow furrowing. “Er—the kitchens are great and all, but I don’t think a bunch of us crammed between stoves and treacle tart trays is exactly ideal—”

“No, Harry, not the kitchens,” Hermione cut in, already sitting up straighter. “The house-elves themselves. We could ask them.”

Harry still looked a little lost, so Draco leaned in, arms folded across his chest. “They’ve lived in this castle for centuries, Potter. Some of them have been here longer than most ghosts. Their families have probably served Hogwarts since the founders were alive. If anyone knows where to find hidden rooms—even the ones not on the Marauder’s Map—it’s them.”

Harry’s eyes widened with dawning understanding. “You think they’d actually tell us?”

“Well, not if you march in there like you own the place,” Hermione said, her tone crisp. “But if we’re respectful—if we explain what we’re trying to do—I think they will. They like you, Harry. They like being helpful.”

Harry was already reaching for his Atlas, his mouth tugged into a grin. “Alright. Let’s ask them this weekend.”

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

The moment Draco and Harry stepped into the Hogwarts kitchens, they were immediately swarmed.

A dozen tiny figures in mismatched tea towels and aprons popped into view with delighted gasps and high-pitched squeaks, their wide eyes lighting up at the sight of Harry.

“Harry Potter, sir!” one squeaked, darting forward so quickly that Draco took a reflexive step back. He squinted at her. Beekey? Blinky? Something with a B—he was sure of it.

“Is you being wanting hot chocolate again, sir?” the elf asked, beaming up at Harry like he’d just apparated out of a storybook.

Draco opened his mouth, but Harry beat him to it, offering the elf a warm, practiced smile. “Not this time, Beeney—we were actually hoping you could help us with something else.”

Draco’s eyebrows flicked upward. Beeney. Knew it.

At that, Beeney’s ears perked up, and her eyes somehow managed to grow even wider. “Help? Oh yes, Beeney is always helping Harry Potter, sir!”

Draco stepped in, carefully keeping his tone respectful. “We’re looking for a room,” he said. “A hidden one. Private, quiet. Out of the way.”

“For studying,” Harry added quickly. “We’ve got a group… and Umbridge.”

At the mention of her name, Beeney’s nose wrinkled with surprising ferocity. “Umbridge,” she spat, practically vibrating with distaste. “We house-elves isn’t liking Umbridge. She is speaking like we is dirt.”

Draco blinked, careful not to show too much of the satisfaction curling in his chest. “Yes, she… isn’t exactly known for her manners.”

“Is you needing a secret room away from her, then?” Beeney asked, now glancing around suspiciously as though Umrbidge might be hiding behind a sack of flour.

“Exactly,” Harry said. “A room where we can meet without anyone knowing.”

Beeney nodded so quickly her ears flapped. “Oh yes, sirs! Beeney is knowing just the place! The Come and Go Room. Or Room of Requirement, some is calling it. It is coming when you is needing it most. Very special magic.”

Draco straightened slightly, interest piqued. “And how many people know about this room?”

Beeney leaned in conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a dramatic whisper. “We elves knows. Headmistress Weasley found it many, many years ago, but it is not being used often now. Most wix is not knowing it exists.”

She paused for effect, then added, “Most peoples is finding it by accident. They is needing something, and the room appears. But they is not knowing how to make it come back again. They forget. They don’t know how to work it.”

Draco raised a brow, thoroughly intrigued. “And how do you work the room?”

Beeney puffed up, clearly proud to be the keeper of such secret knowledge. “Is easier to show you, sirs!”

Before either of them could reply, she had grabbed their hands—Harry’s in one, Draco’s in the other—and began tugging them determinedly toward a shadowed corridor behind the barrel stacks.

Draco stumbled to keep up. “She’s stronger than she looks—”

“Secret passage?” Harry asked, ducking as the ceiling suddenly dipped low.

“Of course,” Beeney said matter-of-factly. “Castle is full of them. Room is being on the seventh floor. Come, come!”

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

The room was perfect—absolutely perfect.

Spacious, private, and charmed to adapt itself to their needs, it had everything they could’ve asked for: tall shelves lined with books on defensive spells, enchanted dummies for practice, cushions scattered for dueling drills, and even a chalkboard Hermione would undoubtedly commandeer.

Draco turned in a slow circle, taking it all in, barely suppressing the delighted shiver that ran down his spine. It was so much better than he expected.

“Perfect for the D.A.,” he said smoothly as he pulled out his Atlas and began typing a message to Hermione. “Let’s not tell everyone how it works, yeah?”

Harry raised an eyebrow, equal parts amused and suspicious. “Gatekeeping, are we?”

Draco smirked, unapologetic. “Absolutely. If the mechanics stay between the four of us, we control access. That way, we can use it for other things.”

Harry tilted his head, clearly enjoying himself. “Other things like… snogging?”

Draco flushed immediately—treacherously—and shot him a half-hearted glare. “Well—yes. Obviously. But also to study. Or nap. Or host an incredibly tasteful party.”

But mostly for snogging. Gods, the snogging.

This room?

It was about to become his sanctuary.

Harry grinned, that annoyingly sexy, boyish grin that always made Draco’s stomach flip. “So self-serving. Utterly Slytherin of you. I’m impressed.”

Draco lifted his chin with mock dignity. “I do have standards to uphold.”

Harry grinned wider. “So self-serving. Utterly Slytherin of you. I’m impressed.”

Draco lifted his chin with mock dignity. “I do have standards to uphold.”

Harry caught both his hands, tugging him gently toward the door, mischief dancing in his eyes. “I wonder what the room would turn into,” he mused, voice a little too low and a little too close, “if I asked it for a place to snog you.”

Draco’s composure—never that sturdy to begin with—wavered catastrophically.

“R-right now?” he stammered, brain promptly short-circuiting. “I thought you said you needed help with that essay and—and I told Hermione we’d be back soon and—”

Harry laughed—bright, warm, unfairly attractive—and squeezed his hand. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he said gently, voice sincere despite the grin tugging at his lips. “But if you think you’re the only one dying to snog their boyfriend, you’re incredibly wrong.”

Draco’s heart stuttered, heat flooding his face before he could stop it. “O-okay,” he managed, barely louder than a whisper.

They stepped out of the Room of Requirement, the hallway quiet around them. Draco stayed close as Harry paced in front of the wall three times, murmuring under his breath.

Seconds later, a door shimmered into view, and Harry shot him a grin that could only be described as wicked.

Draco hesitated, nerves tangled with anticipation. But when Harry opened the door and stepped aside with a small, “After you,” Draco braced himself and walked in.

And then promptly short-circuited.

Because the room was… glowing with warm mood lighting, soft cushions scattered across a plush sitting area, and floating candles casting a golden shimmer over everything. The air held a comforting warmth, like it had been waiting for them. A polished table sat off to one side, perfect for studying—or pretending to. And tucked near the back, in front of a gently crackling fireplace, was a velvet couch that looked criminally inviting.

Draco stopped dead in his tracks.

“Oh,” he said faintly. “You’re trying to kill me.”

Harry shrugged, utterly unrepentant. “I told it what I wanted.”

Draco arched a brow. “And what was that? ‘Make it look like I’m about to ravish my boyfriend in a romance novel’?”

Harry grinned, stepping closer, his hands sliding gently around Draco’s waist. “Something like that.”

Draco’s breath hitched as Harry’s fingers toyed with the hem of his jumper, not quite moving further but making it impossible to focus on anything else. Circe, he was going to combust. Right here. In a room that literally manifested to make him weak in the knees.

“Are you sure?” Harry asked, voice low now, like he knew what he was doing. Too close, too warm, breath brushing right over Draco’s ear like he had no idea Draco was hanging on by a thread.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn't think.

“We can just sit. Talk. Nap,” Harry went on, voice all fake-innocent and unbearable. “I can read you poetry about your eyes, or—”

“Shut up,” Draco breathed, and Merlin, it didn’t come out how he meant. He sounded wrecked. Wrecked and ready to beg.

Harry didn’t pull back. He smirked, lips dragging feather-light along Draco’s cheek. “So I can kiss you?”

Draco made a strangled sound, equal parts desperation and exasperation. “At this rate, I’ll drop dead before you get around to it.”

That grin—filthy, hungry, triumphant—and then Harry was on him.

It was anything but gentle—deep, heady, and filled with weeks of pent-up want. Draco melted into it immediately, fingers curling into the front of Harry’s shirt to keep himself steady.

Harry kissed like he was starving, like he’d been thinking about this as obsessively as Draco had—every night, every time their eyes locked in class and Draco had to look away before he melted.

Draco gasped against his mouth, lips parting wider, letting him in. His tongue met Harry’s and the sound he made was shameless. His fingers pushed under Harry’s layers, dragging along hot skin, ribs, the tight lines of muscle that made Draco’s head swim.

Harry groaned, deep and rough, and it shot straight through Draco’s spine. Then strong hands found his waist and shoved him back until his thighs hit the table.

Draco didn’t even try to act composed. His knees parted instinctively and Harry moved between them, pressing close enough to feel how aroused the other boy was and Draco nearly moaned from the contact. His whole body lit up.

His arms wrapped around Harry’s neck, dragging him deeper into the kiss, teeth catching Harry’s lip just to feel something sharper. Harry growled—actually growled—and Draco lost control.

He rocked forward, shamelessly grinding against him, breath breaking in gasps against Harry’s mouth. The friction sent sparks skittering down his spine, but it wasn’t enough—not even close—not with these fucking robes in the way, heavy and suffocating.

Then Harry’s hand slid over his knee, creeping higher, fingers dragging slow and deliberate up the inside of his thigh. Draco’s breath hitched, back arching just slightly into the touch.

And of course Harry was smirking—Draco could feel it against his mouth, cocky and smug like he had all the time in the world.

So Draco caught his bottom lip between his teeth and bit—hard.

Harry jolted, pulling back with a startled breath—then laughed. Actually laughed. The sound was breathless, maddening, way too pleased with himself.

Draco didn’t want to stop. He didn’t want to talk. He wanted these stupid, suffocating robes off.

Draco growled under his breath, fingers clawing at fabric, yanking his robe and jumper off in one frantic motion. He didn’t care if he ripped something—he needed them gone. They hit the floor in a heap, forgotten, leaving him in just his collared shirt and dress trousers, flushed and strung so tight he could snap.

Harry didn’t hesitate. He shrugged off his robe and jumper, tossing them aside—barely a second to breathe before Draco grabbed him by the tie and yanked him in, crashing their mouths together in another filthy, frantic kiss.

Harry made this low, broken sound in the back of his throat—needy, wrecked—and Draco swallowed it greedily. Hauling him closer until they were pressed together, nothing between them but layers Draco wasn’t ready to get rid of.

Draco canted his hips forward to grind his hard dick against Harry’s relentlessly. It felt insane. Like his brain had short-circuited and all that was left was heat and noise and Harry. Blinding. Addictive. Like if he let go now, he’d actually die.

Then Harry’s mouth left his—moved lower, dragging over his cheek, jaw, and then his neck. And shit—he was sucking, nipping, biting.

Draco’s breath hitched, head tipping back automatically, hands tightening in Harry’s hair.

He was definitely leaving marks.

“Gods, Draco,” Harry muttered against his neck between hungry, open-mouthed kisses.

Draco could hardly hear anything over the pounding in his ears. He was panting into Harry’s neck, hips jerking like his body had a mind of its own. “H-Harry…”

He wasn’t even sure what he was trying to say—his thoughts were scattered, messy, lost somewhere between need and overload. He was so close.

Harry groaned, voice low and wrecked. “So perfect, Bunny.”

Draco whimpered, biting back a curse. Gods, Harry needed to shut the hell up—his voice alone was enough to undo him.

“Sh—stop talking,” he gasped, voice shaky, desperate.

But Harry didn’t listen. Of course he didn’t.

“Your skin is… so soft. Creamy. Fuuuck, you’re incredible,” he murmured, dragging the words out like he knew what they did to him.

Oh fuck. Draco really, really liked when Harry talked. He had a sickening feeling—no, a fantasy-confirming certainty—that Harry was the type to talk you through an orgasm and then keep going just because he could. Dangerously good at dirty talk. Like, ruin-your-life, crawl-into-his-lap-and-stay-there good.

He was trembling now, flushed from the tips of his ears down to his chest. His voice cracked as he begged, “Please, please—more—”

Harry’s tone stayed maddeningly calm, smug even. “More what?”

“Ugh—H-Harry! Please, s-so close,” Draco choked out, hips stuttering, completely undone.

“You like when I talk, yeah?”

“Mhmm,” Draco whimpered, nodding frantically. “Please.”

Harry’s breath hitched, just barely, and Draco felt the shift—like Harry felt that plea all the way down his spine. His hands tightened on Draco’s waist, grounding and possessive, but his voice stayed low, teasing, devastating.

“Yeah?” Harry murmured, lips brushing his ear now. “You want me to tell you how good you feel? How fucking pretty you sound when you beg like that?”

Draco gasped, body jerking, his fingers clawing at Harry’s shoulders like they were the only solid thing left. His knees were weak, trembling.

“Yes—yes, fuck, anything—just talk—”

Harry chuckled, wrecked and hot against his skin. “You’re losing it, huh?” he whispered.

Draco nodded, helpless and shaking, completely gone. His face was on fire, thighs trembling, every filthy word out of Harry’s mouth dragging him closer like a hand at the small of his back, pushing.

“You’re gonna come like this, aren’t you?” Harry growled, voice rough and cracking with want. “Fuck, Bunny, you love it.”

“Oh—yes… yes… oh—” Draco cried out, clutching at Harry like he might fall apart without something to hold onto. The orgasm hit hard, tearing through him, sharp and deep—he felt it in his fingertips, in his toes, behind his eyes.

Somewhere in the haze, he was aware of Harry’s grip tightening, of his voice low and broken against Draco’s neck, of the way he was still rocking against him in desperate little thrusts, chasing the last sparks of it, groaning like he couldn’t stop.

Draco’s forehead dropped to Harry’s shoulder, skin damp and flushed, hair sticking slightly with sweat. He could still feel his pulse in places it shouldn’t be—wrists, thighs, everywhere. Harry’s arms were still around him, loose now but firm, like he wasn’t planning to let go anytime soon.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Just the sound of their breathing, slowing bit by bit, filling the space between them.

Then Harry’s voice, quieter this time—rough, but almost tender: “You okay?”

Draco nodded against him, still catching his breath. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “You?”

Harry let out a soft laugh, kissed the side of his head. “Never better.”

Draco rolled his eyes weakly, but didn’t move. His body felt like it had melted into Harry’s. His muscles were too far gone to hold up a single ounce of pride.

“…You really don’t shut up, do you?” he murmured.

Harry grinned against his skin. “Not when you beg like that.”

Draco groaned. “Merlin, shut up.” But he didn’t move away. Not even a little.

Harry pulled back just enough to catch his eye, grin still infuriatingly smug, his gaze heavy-lidded and far too pleased with himself. “Mm. Noted. I’ll keep talking, then.”

Draco gave him a withering look—well, tried to. It was hard to pull off with flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips.

Then his Atlas pinged. The sharp buzz made him groan, and he reluctantly peeled himself off Harry just enough to glance at the screen.

Hermione: Past curfew? Where ru?

Draco let his head fall back against Harry’s chest with a dramatic sigh. “Fuck. It’s Mione. I told you she was expecting us.”

Harry chuckled, unbothered, arms tightening slightly around him. “Tell her we got... held up.”

Draco shot him a look, but started typing anyway.

Draco: Got held up. Be back soon. Don’t wait up.

A pause. The three dots popped up immediately.

“She’s typing,” he muttered. “Merlin, she’s always typing.”

Harry shifted just enough to glance at the screen, still glued to Draco’s side like a particularly smug shadow. “Bet you five galleons she asks if we were snogging.”

Draco didn’t get a chance to answer.

Hermione: Back soon meaning tonight, or back soon meaning you’ve currently got Harry’s tongue down your throat?

Draco’s face went crimson in half a second. “Merlin’s tits, she’s unhinged.”

Harry burst out laughing, absolutely thrilled. “Wait until she tells Pansy. You’ll never hear the end of it.”

Draco groaned. “You would find this entertaining.”

Another ping.

Hermione: Use protection

Draco let out a strangled noise and dropped his face into Harry’s chest, voice muffled and mortified. “I’m never speaking to her again.”

Harry looked down at him, grin equal parts smug and unbearably fond. With a lazy wave of his hand, he cast a quick cleaning charm, getting rid of the uncomfortable coolness in Draco’s pants.

“Stop being dramatic,” he murmured, brushing his fingers through Draco’s hair. “Let’s get cleaned up and head back, Love.”

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Thankfully, Hermione hadn’t stayed up late enough to tease them, and the excitement over finding a proper meeting space for the D.A. seemed to distract her completely. A minor miracle, really.

The next day passed in a blur of quiet recruitment. He, Harry, Hermione, and Ron slipped between classes and corridors, pulling aside the students who had signed the list in the Hog’s Head to quietly inform them where to meet that evening. It all felt very cloak-and-dagger, which Draco secretly loved.

By half-past seven, they left the Gryffindor common room and made their way up to the seventh floor. As they paced in front of the blank stretch of wall, the Room appeared.

“These’ll be good when we’re practicing Stunning,” Ron said enthusiastically, nudging one of the conjured cushions with his foot.

“And just look at these books!” Hermione added, already running her fingers along the spines of several thick, leather-bound tomes. “A Compendium of Common Curses and Their Counter-Actions… The Dark Arts Outsmarted… Self-Defensive Spellwork—oh, this is brilliant…”

She beamed at Harry, absolutely glowing, and Draco could practically see the last of her doubts evaporate into the candlelit air.

“Harry, this is wonderful,” she said breathlessly. “There’s everything we need here.”

Without another word, she plopped onto the nearest cushion, cracked open Jinxes for the Jinxed, and began to read like the world outside no longer existed.

A gentle knock sounded at the door, and Harry turned just as Ginny, Neville, Lavender, Parvati, and Dean slipped in, wide-eyed.

“Whoa,” Dean said, staring around. “What is this place?”

Harry started explaining, but the door kept opening, more students pouring in in small, excited groups. By the time the enchanted clock above the fireplace struck eight, every cushion was filled and the room buzzed with anticipation.

Harry moved to the door and turned the key with a loud, echoing click. Conversation died instantly, every eye now trained on him.

Hermione carefully marked her page and set the book aside. Draco rolled his eyes fondly.

Harry cleared his throat. “Right. This is the place we’ve found for practices—and, well, looks like you all found it okay—”

“It’s fantastic,” said Cho, a little too brightly.

Draco’s jaw tensed.

Harry smiled back—just politely, Draco noted—but that didn’t stop the low flicker of jealousy from tightening in his chest.

Before he could spiral, Draco stepped forward, drawing attention with the sharp snap of his satchel opening. “Before we begin,” he said, voice smooth and deliberate, “we made something for all of you. This—” he held up a sleek black device that shimmered faintly with magic, “—is an Atlas.”

That got everyone’s attention.

He began handing them out, one by one, presenting the obsidian devices like they were priceless artifacts—which, to be fair, they practically were. “They’re personalized. Magically synced to your magical signature. Direct messaging, spell glossaries, study tools, event calendars, and so on.”

He paused, then added dryly, “Hermione made a very thorough pamphlet with instructions.”

A few people laughed as they accepted theirs, fingers already tracing the softly glowing runes etched into the edges.

“They’re like Muggle phones,” Draco went on, casually tossing one to Seamus, who fumbled and nearly dropped it. “But better. And in the future, they would’ve cost you a small fortune. So don’t lose them.”

“Hear, hear,” Fred called, as George showed Lee Jordan how to register his magical signature. The screen on Lee’s device blinked once, then displayed his name in glowing script.

Hermione stepped forward next, all business as usual. “They’ll help us stay organized—and discreet. Harry will send messages when meetings are scheduled, and your Atlas will update automatically. No parchment notes to drop or owl post to intercept.”

Draco scanned the room, watching them interact with the Atlases. He let his eyes drift back to Harry—and caught him smiling.

That stupid, soft smile—the one that was only for him.

Draco’s stomach flipped. He looked away quickly, cheeks warming, but the smug little smirk creeping onto his face was impossible to suppress. So far, so good.

He stepped back and let Harry and Hermione run the show. She launched into a quick overview of defensive wand safety like she was prepping them for live combat (which, honestly, wasn’t far off), and Harry began weaving through the room, demonstrating spellwork with calm focus and maddening gentleness.

Draco snagged Blaise as his partner and dragged him toward the back of the room.

“Expelliarmus,” he said with a flick of his wand, grinning when Blaise stumbled a step backward.

He let Harry and Hermione take over from there. Hermione launched into a quick explanation of wand safety like she was prepping them for battle (which, to be fair, wasn’t far off), while Harry started walking the room, demonstrating basic spell technique.

Draco grabbed Blaise as his partner for the evening, and the two of them took a spot near the back.

“Expelliarmus,” Draco said, flicking his wand just hard enough to make Blaise stumble. He grinned.

Blaise rolled his eyes, catching his wand again. “You’ve been waiting all day for this haven’t you?”

“Obviously.”

His gaze drifted across the room again, locking briefly on Harry—who was now standing way too close to Dean, gently adjusting his wrist, speaking in that low, patient tone that was honestly unfair.

Draco zoned out for a second too long.

Whip—

His wand shot from his hand, disarmed easily by Blaise.

“Focus, lover boy,” Blaise drawled, tossing it back.

Draco caught it midair, scowling. “I am focused.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow.

Draco exhaled through his nose, rolled his shoulders, and reset his stance. “Again.”

He was, in fact, managing to stay focused—until he heard it.

A high-pitched giggle, followed by the most tragically mangled spellcasting he’d ever heard in his life.

“Oh no!” Cho chirped wildly as she flounced toward Harry. “Expelliarmious! I mean, Expellimellius! I—oh, sorry, Marietta!”

Her curly-haired friend yelped as her sleeve caught fire. Marietta put it out with a huff and immediately glared at Harry like he had set her ablaze.

Cho, ever the dramatist, gave Harry a rueful smile and said, “You made me nervous, I was doing all right before then!”

Draco blinked. Slowly.

Blaise, standing beside him, didn’t even pretend to hide his grin. “And here we go,” he muttered, clearly far more interested in Draco’s reaction than the disarming drills.

Draco tilted his head slightly, watching the scene unfold. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. His jaw did a little twitch thing it tended to do when he was trying not to hex someone.

Blaise leaned in. “So… are you going to murder her now, or do I have time to get popcorn first?”

Draco rolled his eyes and squared his shoulders. He wasn’t going to storm over there. He wasn’t going to cause a scene.

Harry was his. And if Cho Chang needed to embarrass herself trying to flirt with someone else's boyfriend in front of two dozen witnesses? That wasn’t Draco’s problem.

Mostly.

“That was lousy, but I know you can do it properly,” Harry said, encouraging as ever. “I saw you do it before I came over…”

Draco watched from across the room, arms crossed, jaw tight. Harry, of course, was blissfully unaware that Cho had butchered the spell on purpose. No one accidentally said Expellimellius. That was a cry for attention.

“I—yes, well, I think maybe my stance is off?” Cho offered, all wide eyes and fluttering lashes. “Maybe you could—”

“Your stance is fine,” Harry cut in, still polite but entirely missing the point. “I think your pronunciation was off just then.”

Draco snorted quietly, unable to help himself.

Beside him, Blaise leaned in and muttered, “So oblivious. It’s honestly impressive.”

Draco didn’t respond. He just raised his wand again with a slow, deliberate flick.

Blaise barely had time to react before his wand flew across the room.

“That was rude,” Blaise said, retrieving it with a dry look.

“Sorry,” Draco said, not sounding sorry at all. “My aim gets better when I’m annoyed.”

And right now? He was very annoyed.

Cho didn’t seem deterred by Harry’s unintentional rejection—in fact, she only doubled down, stepping slightly closer and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in what was clearly supposed to be a charming gesture.

“I just… maybe I’m too tense,” she said, biting her lip in that performative way that made Draco want to hex something. “You could show me? Like, stand behind me and correct my form?”

Draco’s wand twitched in his hand.

Blaise let out a low whistle. “She’s really committing to the bit.”

Harry, bless him, looked genuinely confused. “Er—I think you’ve got the movement right. Just try saying it slower. Ex-pelli-ar-mus.”

Draco’s eye twitched. Deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. Don’t hex her. Don’t hex him.

Blaise leaned closer, barely hiding the grin tugging at his lips. “You know,” he murmured, “you could always just walk over and lick his face. Might be more subtle than what she’s doing.”

Draco blinked. That… was actually a brilliant idea. Horrifying, impulsive, undignified—and brilliant.

He was halfway to doing exactly that—because honestly, why not?—when Harry, finally, finally turned away from Cho, stepping over to help Neville adjust his stance.

Draco let out a slow breath, tension bleeding from his shoulders as he watched Harry offer a kind word and a quiet correction, completely unaware that he’d just narrowly escaped being publicly claimed like a dog with a chew toy.

He felt the tight coil in his chest ease slightly, the twitch in his jaw relaxing.

“Crisis averted,” Blaise said.

“For now,” Draco muttered.

But still. Maybe next time, face-licking wasn’t entirely off the table.

“Well, that was pretty good,” Harry said, brushing a bit of hair from his face as he looked around the room. “But we’ve overrun—we’d better leave it here. Same time, same place next week?”

“Sooner!” Dean Thomas called out eagerly, with several others nodding in agreement.

Angelina jumped in quickly, ever the responsible one. “Quidditch season’s about to start—we’ll need time for team practices too!”

“Let’s say next Wednesday night, then,” Harry decided, already pulling out the Marauder’s Map, eyes scanning it with focused attention.

Draco watched him from a short distance, arms crossed. There was something stupidly attractive about how serious Harry got when he was managing something. Like he didn’t even realize how natural leadership looked on him.

Harry checked the map carefully, brow furrowed, lips pressed together in thought. One by one, he sent everyone off in small groups, watching the tiny dots on the parchment with all the caution of a man smuggling fugitives—not just teenagers with homework and curfew. Hufflepuffs headed toward the kitchens, Ravenclaws up to their tower, Gryffindors down the corridor to the Fat Lady’s portrait.

Eventually, only four remained: Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Draco himself.

“That was really, really good, Harry,” Hermione said, beaming at him.

“Yeah, it was!” Ron added, practically vibrating. “Did you see me disarm Hermione?”

“Only once,” Hermione replied, lifting a brow. “I got you more than that.”

“Whatever,” Ron mumbled, but Harry wasn’t listening.

He’d turned to Hermione, a faint crease between his brows. “Did you, uh… see Cho?”

Draco, who had been doing his best to forget that disaster, tensed again.

“Oh yes,” Hermione said flatly, crossing her arms. “I think everyone did. It was… quite embarrassing, really.”

Ron looked between them, blinking. “See her do what?”

Harry shrugged a little. “She messed up her pronunciation? I mean… I guess she was acting a bit weird…”

Draco stared at him.

So did Hermione.

There was a long pause—thick with disbelief—before Harry glanced between them with that confused puppy-dog look that somehow made it worse.

“What?” he asked.

“Harry,” Hermione said, slowly and carefully, like she was trying not to scare him. “She was flirting with you.”

Harry blinked. “What—no, she—was that flirting?”

Draco resisted the urge to throw something.

“She asked you to stand behind her and fix her stance,” he said flatly. “She mispronounced a first-year spell twice and nearly set her friend on fire. That wasn’t nerves. That was theatre, Potter.”

Harry looked properly horrified. “That was intentional?”

Ron furrowed his brows, still clearly lost. “How in the name of Merlin is that flirting?”

Draco turned to him, expression flat. “Ron, she literally staged a damsel-in-distress moment. ‘Oh Harry, I’m so helpless, please save me from my tragic inability to function.’ She wasn’t even trying to be subtle.”

He threw in a dramatic hand flourish, voice soaked in sarcasm.

Hermione snorted. “She might as well have written Rescue Me, Chosen One across her forehead.”

Draco tilted his head mock-thoughtfully. “Or across her chest. Might’ve had more impact, don’t you think, Harry?”

Harry choked. “Draco!”

Draco threw up his hands, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. “What? I’m simply wondering what it would’ve taken for you to bloody notice! Would it have taken her kissing you? Throwing herself into your lap screaming ‘Take me!’”

His tone was clipped now, something tight pulling at his jaw. He wasn’t even looking at Harry anymore—because if he did, he might actually lose it.

Harry hesitated, brow furrowing. “Draco… come on. I didn’t notice because I wasn’t looking.”

Draco let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, well, you had a front-row seat to her little performance. Forgive me for assuming you might’ve enjoyed the show.”

“Seriously?” Harry stepped closer, voice low now, more serious. “You think I’d be into someone who nearly incinerated her own friend to get my attention?”

“I think she wouldn’t have bothered if you weren’t so busy being sweet and helpful and bloody adorable all the time,” Draco snapped, then instantly regretted how honest that came out.

Harry blinked, caught off guard. “You think I’m adorable?”

Draco groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “That’s what you take from this?”

Harry’s lips tugged into a grin despite himself. “Hard to focus when you’re jealous and flustered. It’s cute.”

“I am not cute,” Draco hissed. “I’m furious.”

“Furious and cute,” Harry said, stepping even closer now. “Which, frankly, is my favorite combination.”

Draco glared at him, pulse racing, jaw locked tight—and Harry leaned in, his voice dropping to something softer, sincere.

“You’re the only one I’m looking at, Draco. Always. You could’ve hexed her and I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

The fire in Draco’s chest cracked—then shifted, softened, turned molten.

His voice came out low. “No. But I was about two seconds away from licking you in front of everyone.”

Harry blinked again, processing. “You were gonna—what?”

Draco didn’t flinch. “Lick. You. Publicly. As a territorial display.”

Harry’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Like… on the face?”

“Wherever would’ve gotten the point across fastest,” Draco said coolly, though the flush creeping up his neck betrayed him.

Harry stared at him for a beat longer, then let out a short laugh, eyes crinkling. “You’re insane.”

Draco shrugged. “Possessive. There’s a difference.”

Harry stepped in, close enough that their chests brushed. “Is there?”

“Please stop,” Ron groaned, sounding personally victimized. “I’m going to throw up.”

“Ron!” Hermione scolded, smacking his arm. “I was watching that!”

“My bad,” Ron muttered, rubbing his arm. “Kinda thought we were trying not to get caught in corridors past curfew?”

Draco didn’t look away from Harry. “We are. He’s just making that incredibly difficult.”

Harry grinned. “Admit it—you like the risk.”

Draco huffed. “I like you. The risk is just extra.”

Ron turned his back fully on Draco and Harry, as if sheer denial would make them disappear. “I don’t understand why you like it,” he grumbled.

Hermione scoffed. “Because it’s sweet, Ron! Also, I may or may not be formulating a plan to get myself two boyfriends.”

Ron spun around, horrified. “Hermione! Tell me you’re joking.”

She shrugged, entirely too casual. “They don’t have to be into each other. I’m just saying—logistically, emotionally, and aesthetically—it’s appealing. You cannot tell me you wouldn’t like two girlfriends.”

Ron opened his mouth. Closed it. Spluttered. “I can’t even get one girlfriend, and you want me to manage two?”

Hermione patted Ron’s arm with exaggerated sympathy. “Good point. But still—can you imagine?”

Harry chuckled and reached for Draco’s hand, lacing their fingers together as he gently tugged him toward the corridor. “I’m good with just one boyfriend, thanks.”

“Agreed,” Draco said smoothly, giving Harry’s hand a squeeze. “But for you, Hermione? I’ll admit—yeah, it’d be hot.”

Hermione lit up. “Right?!”

Ron looked like he was seriously reconsidering all his life choices. “I need to go lie down.”

Chapter Text

Classes were marginally more tolerable now that the D.A. was up and running. At least there was something to look forward to. Thanks to the Atlases, organizing sessions was ridiculously efficient. Timetables synced, messages sent, meetings scheduled in seconds. Almost too easy.

The downside?

Everyone had an Atlas now.

And with that came the true curse of magical communication: the group chat.

What was meant to be a simple channel for D.A. updates had descended into absolute chaos. It pinged constantly.

Lovegood: Are toads allowed in the greenhouse after hours? Asking for a friend. (His name is Reginald.)

Blaise: Why is this chat awake before 8am.

Ginny: because we are, Zabini. Can’t silence the revolution.

Mione: Please stop calling it a revolution. It’s a study group.

Chang: Does anyone have the countercurse for the hiccup jinx? Asking for Marietta—she can’t stop floating.

Seamus: Who jinxed her??

(Draco didn’t reply. He wasn’t about to admit he’d been aiming at Cho Chang after she gave Harry that look. The fact Marietta had floated out of her chair instead? Unfortunate. But not entirely regrettable.)

Fred: Unclear. But it’s hilarious.

George: She drifted out of Transfiguration like a sad balloon. Sprout waved her off like she does the bees.

Draco had his notifications silenced by default—except for Harry’s messages, of course. And maybe Blaise and Pansy. And sometimes Ginny, and Mione but only when they were being tolerable.

Still… he checked the chat more often than he liked to admit.

Mostly to make sure no one else (Cho) was flirting with his boyfriend.

Dean: Wait—has anyone realized Halloween’s coming up??

Dean: I miss trick-or-treating. Muggle Halloween is top tier. Free sweets and costumes? Peak childhood.

Justin: Agreed. I went as a pirate every single year. No regrets.

Pansy: Hold on. Dress up? And what’s “trick or treating”?

Hermione: Muggle kids dress up in costumes and go door to door asking for sweets. It’s harmless. Mostly.

Pansy: Costumes?

Pansy: WHY have we never done this?! I’m already planning outfits.

Blaise: Wait, so Muggles just give them the sweets? No bribery?

Pansy: I’m into it. Let’s throw a party. Costumes required.

Seamus: If it’s a party you want, I know a guy who knows a guy who keeps a case of firewhisky under his bed.

Hannah: I can get weed.

Hermione: Absolutely not.

Fred: That sounds like a yes… with extra steps.

George: Fred and I are on food and butterbeer.

Draco: I am absolutely not wearing a costume.

Draco: …unless Harry is. Then maybe.

Ginny: Oh, he’s definitely dressing up. I’ll make sure of it.

Harry: Not in this lifetime.

Dean: Too late. We’re throwing a Halloween rager and you, Potter, are the poster boy.

Lavender: Actually, Dean, you’re the one who can draw. So you’ll be making the poster.

Parvati: Lav, we can’t make a poster. If Umbridge sees it, we’re dead.

Mione: As a prefect, I can only allow a party if there’s no alcohol or drugs.

Justin: As a prefect, I feel it’s my duty to attend and make sure no one gets too drunk.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Pansy spun around in front of the mirror, the glossy black wings of her costume flaring out behind her. The fabric shimmered like silk, trimmed with soft fur at the collar, and her arms and legs were completely bare. The design hugged her figure, plunging low in the front to reveal an unapologetic amount of cleavage. Antennae curled delicately above her head, and her eyes were lined with dramatic black.

“Hermione showed me examples of Muggle costumes,” she said, inspecting her reflection with a critical eye as she adjusted the neckline—downward. “This is perfectly acceptable. Besides, me, you, and Mione will sort of match. It’s like a group thing.”

Draco raised a brow, trying not to look too shocked. “What’s even interesting about moths?” He paused, gesturing vaguely at her very exposed limbs. “And Pans, it’s just so… immodest.”

Pansy smirked, entirely unbothered. “I’m not letting my father’s pureblood sensibilities ruin my fun. Mione says it’s perfectly fine, so it’s not a big deal.”

She gave another spin, letting the wings of her costume flare dramatically before landing back in place with practiced confidence. With a wink, she added, “Besides, the whole point is to be a little scandalous. That’s half the fun! And yours isn’t even that bad.”

Draco looked horrified. “I never agreed to be part of this. I’m—not wearing anything even remotely close to that.”

Pansy gasped, scandalized. “But Draco! You have the perfect complexion for a luna moth. Pale, tragic, slightly ethereal—it’s your whole aesthetic!”

“No!” Draco snapped, face flushing. “I—I’ll look like a girl!”

“So?” Pansy said, folding her arms. “You used to dress up with me all the time when we were little.”

Draco’s expression tightened. “Yes, and Father beat me for it, Pans. That’s why we stopped.”

The room went quiet for a beat, her excitement flickering into something softer.

“…Okay,” she said gently, voice lowering. “Then you don’t have to. But just so we’re clear—there’s nothing wrong with it. You looked better in my dresses and tiaras than I ever did.”

Draco gave her a weak, reluctant smile. “Obviously.”

Pansy brightened, emboldened by the crack in his resistance. “Do you… want to see what I had in mind for your costume?”

Draco opened his mouth, fully prepared to shut the idea down—but Pansy was already raising her hands in surrender, eyes wide and innocent. “You don’t have to wear it, love. I promise. I just… I got excited and blew the cauldron before it boiled. You could at least take a peek.”

“I don’t want to try it on,” he said flatly.

“Don’t have to.” She turned back to her wardrobe, digging through layers of enchanted silk and shimmering fabric. “Just look.”

She pulled out the pieces one by one—soft, dreamy layers in pale green, snowy white, and warm, earthy brown. The main garment was… daring, to say the least. A fitted brown bodysuit formed the base, snug at the waist and high-cut at the hips, a sheer brown piece that would fall between his legs, leaving them entirely bare.

A cloud-like collar, plush and impossibly soft, framed the neckline and shoulders. The wing attachments—transparent and delicately veined—caught the light like spun glass, rippling with every shift as if alive.

And then, the finishing touch—tall, velvety moth antennae, the exact shade of luna green, meant to perch delicately atop his head.

“I thought it suited you,” Pansy said quietly, laying the costume down with the kind of care reserved for something precious. “Delicate, rare, soft—but not weak.” She hesitated, then added, “We could use a hair growth potion, maybe. I think long hair would make it even better.”

Draco stared at the costume.

Then at Pansy.

Then back at the costume.

His mouth felt dry. Words stuck somewhere between his throat and pride. It was beautiful—gorgeous, even—but she actually wanted him to wear it?

“W-What does Mione’s look like?” he asked, voice coming out rough and uncertain.

Pansy grinned, sly and a little too pleased. “You’ll have to wait and see,” she said, folding her arms. “But I promise—it’s similar.”

Draco shifted, eyes flicking back to the outfit. “I don’t know, Pans…”

She softened, just a bit. “Think about it,” she said, gently this time. “You’ve got a few days.”

So he did.

A bit too much, actually.

Draco spent the next two days with the image of that costume burned into his brain—those pale green wings, the soft fur collar, the absurdly high-cut bodysuit. It wasn’t that he hated it. He didn’t. That was the problem.

He couldn’t stop thinking about how it might feel, how it might look—how it might look on him.

And the night before Halloween, he found himself sitting in the Room of Requirement with Hermione, Ron, and Harry, all of them pretending to study. The room had shifted into something library-esque: shelves, soft lighting, comfortable chairs. Peaceful. A perfect place to drown in self-doubt.

He hadn’t said much. Barely looked up from his book.

Across from him, Harry finally spoke, his voice quiet and careful. “You’ve been quiet.”

Draco glanced up, meeting Harry’s gaze for a second too long before looking back down at his parchment.

“Just thinking,” he muttered.

Ron snorted. “Dangerous.”

Hermione elbowed him sharply without looking up from her notes.

Harry didn’t look away. “Thinking about what?”

Draco hesitated, fingers idly tapping his quill. “The party.”

Ron perked up immediately, looking up from his textbook. “I am so excited for the party.”

“Me too,” Hermione added, a little too casually. “Pansy and I are matching.”

She didn’t even try to hide the pointed look she shot at Draco.

“I was just going to go as a Cannons player,” Ron said, grinning, “but Pansy said she’d make me something.”

Draco shifted in his seat. “W-what are you being, H-Harry?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant and failing.

Harry blinked at him. “Oh—Pansy’s sorting costumes for me, Ron, and Blaise. I thought she’d offered to make one for you too?”

Draco’s stomach twisted.

Of course she was coordinating them.

Why do they get to match?

He didn’t want to sound petty, but the thought jabbed at him anyway. Sharp and sudden.

Why was he the one grouped with the girls?

“She did—offer, I mean,” Draco said, voice a little too tight. “I might not wear it. It’s a bit… much.”

Hermione gave him a knowing look. “She’s very good with clothes, actually. I told her about some fashion designers, and now I think she’s got a whole new career plan.”

Draco jumped on the change of subject like it was a lifeline. “She’s always been good with clothes, yes.”

Hermione hummed, still scribbling in the margins of her notes. “She’s got an eye for fashion, that’s for sure. Very… bold choices.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Draco muttered, then quickly added, “Not in a bad way. Just—she has a flair for the theatrical.”

Harry leaned forward slightly, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “So what’s it like? The costume.”

Draco froze, fingers curling around his quill again. “It’s—uh… dramatic.”

Hermione looked up now, eyebrows raised, clearly amused.

“I haven’t seen mine,” Harry said, glancing sideways. “She won’t let me.”

“Mine either,” Ron added with a shrug. “But Blaise says it’s cool, so…”

Draco stared at him. “You are both entirely too trusting.”

Ron snorted. “Please. I’ve been friends with Harry for years—I’ve seen worse than whatever Pansy’s putting together.”

Draco smirked, tapping his quill against the table. “Can’t wait to watch you choke on those words, Weasley.”

If their costumes were anything like his, they really shouldn’t have trusted Pansy.

He still hadn’t decided if he was actually going to wear it.

Just thinking about walking into the party like that made his stomach twist all over again.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like it—he did. In some strange, uncomfortable way, he liked it too much.

He just wasn’t sure he could pull it off.

Or worse—what if he could?

That thought a thorn in his chest.

It brought with it a thousand old echoes—his father’s lectures, tight-lipped warnings, disapproving glances, all the things he’d been told not to be.

Too soft. Too feminine.

Too much.

Things that didn’t fit the Malfoy name.

His Mother had never minded. She used to sit through his and Pansy’s pretend fashion shows, perfectly composed, offering gentle applause and fixing crooked hems with a smile.

But maybe that had only been acceptable when he was eight.

When it was just pretend.

When it didn’t mean anything.

Now it felt different.

Now, he was fifteen—walking into a party wearing something soft, something that shimmered and clung and showed a lot of skin… it would say something.

Draco was still staring at the same sentence in his textbook—had been for at least five minutes—when his Atlas gave a soft pulse against the table.

He flicked it open with mild annoyance, half-expecting more chaos from the group chat, but it wasn’t that.

It was Pansy.

Pansy: If you’re interested, the hair growth potion needs to be drunk tonight. x

Short. Simple. No pressure. But he could practically hear her voice behind the words—light, careful, just this side of hopeful.

His eyes lingered on the message.

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he stared at the glowing text, heart tapping against his ribs like it wanted to escape.

He glanced up, just for a second. Harry had gone back to flipping through his notes, lips pressed together in a little furrow of concentration. Ron was chewing on his quill. Hermione was muttering to herself as she scribbled something in the margin of her Arithmancy book.

Draco looked back at the message.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he typed:

Draco: Leave it with Gin. I’ll think about it.

A few minutes passed in silence, the kind that only settled when everyone had given up on pretending. Ron was the first to stretch, his arms cracking above his head as he yawned.

“I’m calling it,” he said, already packing up his things. “My brain’s fried. Coming, Harry?”

Harry looked up from his notes and glanced at the time. “Yeah, probably should. If I fall asleep in Transfiguration again, McGonagall might actually hex me.”

He started gathering his things, then paused, eyes flicking to Draco with a small, expectant look. “Coming?”

Before Draco could answer, Hermione cut in, still scribbling in the margin of her parchment. “Actually, Harry, you two go on ahead. I wanted to ask Draco something.”

She didn’t even look up, like it was the most casual request in the world.

Harry raised an eyebrow but didn’t question it. “Alright. Don’t keep him too long—he gets broody if he gets less than seven hours.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I do not brood.”

Harry leaned down, brushing a quick, familiar kiss against his cheek. “You absolutely do.”

And with that, he turned and followed Ron out of the room, the door swinging shut behind them with a soft thud.

Hermione didn’t say anything at first. She just kept writing, flipping a page like she wasn’t waiting for anything.

Draco cleared his throat. “If this is about me threatening Ron earlier, I didn’t actually mean I wanted him to choke on his words.”

Hermione gave him a look. “That’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

Draco leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Alright, then. Let’s hear it.”

Hermione capped her ink bottle and finally set her quill down, fingers laced together in front of her. “I’m nervous too, you know.”

Draco’s shoulders stiffened. His jaw tightened. “Why would you be?”

She gave a small shrug, eyes on the table. “It’s more revealing than anything I’ve ever worn.”

“But it’s different for you, Mione,” Draco said, voice low and sharp. “At worst, you’ll be—what—fending off half the boys at the party?”

He hesitated, breath catching before he added, quieter, more bitterly, “I’ll be a joke. I’ll be laughed at. I’ll never hear the fucking end of it.”

Hermione tilted her head, watching him carefully. “I didn’t realize you cared so much about what everyone else thinks.”

“I don’t—” he started, too fast.

“But you care about what Harry thinks?” she said, calm and devastating.

Damn this witch for being so gods-damned perceptive.

Draco looked away, jaw clenched.

“I don’t think Harry will mind,” Hermione said gently. “In fact... I think he’ll love it.”

Draco didn’t answer right away. His fingers curled around the edge of the table, knuckles white. He hated how exposed he felt—like she’d peeled something open without even trying.

“I just…” he started, then trailed off, shaking his head. “It’s not that simple.”

“I know,” Hermione said quietly. “It never is.”

He swallowed, throat dry, something tight curling in his chest.

“I’ve seen you more confident this year than ever before,” she went on. “More yourself. Don’t shrink now, just because it’s scary. That costume? It’s brave. And you’ll look—” she paused, then smiled, “—stunning.”

Draco was silent for a long moment.

Then, under his breath, barely audible: “It’s not the costume I’m scared of.”

Hermione’s voice dropped too, gentle and certain. “I know.”

She didn’t press further. Whatever she wanted to say, she’d said it.

With a small nod to herself, she began gathering her things, tucking her notes neatly into her bag. Draco followed suit, slower, still caught in the weight of the moment.

They didn’t speak on the way to the common room. The silence between them wasn’t awkward, just… settled. Like a decision waiting to be made.

As he stepped through the portrait hole, Ginny was waiting, perched on the arm of a chair like she’d been expecting him.

She held out a small glass vial. The liquid inside shimmered faintly, catching the firelight.

“Pansy said you need to take this before midnight,” she said simply.

Draco took it carefully, fingers closing around the cool glass. “Right. Okay.”

He didn’t say anything else—just turned and headed up the stairs.

In the bathroom, he moved on autopilot. Locked the door. Brushed his teeth. Washed his face. Ran a brush through his hair with more care than usual. Changed into his pajamas.

Then he just… stared.

The mirror reflected someone he wasn’t sure he knew. Or maybe someone he’d spent a long time trying not to know.

He reached for the vial with hesitant fingers. Held it up to the light. The liquid inside shimmered like melted silver.

Before he could think about it too much, he popped the top and tipped it back.

The taste was sharp and earthy, not unpleasant, but unfamiliar.

He swallowed hard.

No turning back now.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

He woke up for breakfast at six, as usual.

Well—technically as usual. He didn’t actually get up. He just sat upright, still tucked in bed, grateful beyond words that his bed curtains were drawn and that none of his dormmates had a reason to open them yet.

His hair had grown.

A lot.

Like—a lot a lot.

Eight inches at least, soft strands brushing his collarbones and spilling onto his shoulders in a way that felt… unfairly sensual.

Still half-asleep and already spiraling, he grabbed his Atlas and fired off a message with stiff, trembling fingers.

Draco: How strong is this potion?

Pansy: It’s meant to last 15–20 hours. Grows an inch every hour.

Draco: Are you trying to make me look like my father?

Pansy: Absolutely not. Yours will be much prettier. I was planning to cut and style it properly before the party—thank you very much. No point in all that drama if you don’t look fabulous.

He stared at the screen, feeling—oddly—like the top of his head weighed more than it should.

He didn’t want to get up. He didn’t want to see it. Not yet.

Instead, he sat there under the covers and just—ran his fingers through it.

Again and again.

It was soft. Silky. Ridiculous. A little tangle at the end made his chest flutter in the worst way.

It trailed over his skin, brushing his shoulders, his collarbones, the nape of his neck. And the more he touched it, the more he couldn’t stop touching it. His brain was spiraling in circles—half horror, half fascination, and maybe a good ten percent please don’t let Harry see me like this.

Which was unfortunate, because that’s exactly when he heard movement.

Harry.

“You’re usually up by now, bunny,” came Harry’s voice, soft and low, still scratchy from sleep. “You okay?”

The curtain rustled.

No.

No, absolutely not.

Draco lunged and yanked the fabric shut, both hands gripping it like a lifeline.

“F-fine!” he squeaked—squeaked, like a child. His face burned. He cleared his throat, tried again. “I’m fine.”

Silence.

A long pause.

“Are you gonna be late for class?” Harry asked, trying for casual, but he was definitely still hovering.

Draco groaned into his blanket. “I, um… might be, yeah.”

Another pause.

“Love,” Harry said gently, “you’re scaring me.”

Draco winced.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Harry continued. “Can… can I come in?”

Draco stared up at the canopy. His heart was pounding like a snitch was stuck in his chest.

He could say no. But Harry was going to see it eventually, right? Better now than in the middle of Arithmancy.

If Harry hated it, he’d have Pansy cut it all off. Easy. Clean. No questions.

He exhaled.

“Promise not to laugh?” he muttered.

“Why… would I laugh?” Harry asked, voice softer now. “Draco, I—what’s going on?”

Draco didn’t answer. Just reached through the curtain, grabbed a fistful of Harry’s sleeve, and yanked.

Harry tumbled onto the bed with a startled oof, landing in a tangle of limbs and blankets. Before he could even sit up, Draco flicked his wand and spelled the curtains shut, tight.

No escape.

Just them.

Harry blinked, caught between confusion and concern.

“…Hi,” he said.

Harry blinked again, taking in the sight in front of him. His gaze locked on Draco’s hair.

His mouth parted slightly.

Draco’s stomach twisted.

Here it comes, he thought. Harry was going to say it was too much. That he looked like Lucius. Or too feminine. Or that it was just... weird. He braced himself for the polite letdown, the awkward silence, the ‘maybe you should go with something simpler.’

But Harry just stared at him.

Like he’d forgotten how words worked.

“…Well?” Draco snapped, voice tighter than intended. “Say something.”

Harry blinked, eyes wide like he’d just snapped out of a trance. “I—sorry, you just… you look…”

Draco’s heart dropped.

Here it was.

“…Really hot,” Harry said.

Draco blinked.

Harry’s mouth curved into a slow, crooked smile, and he reached out, brushing his fingers gently through the pale strands resting on Draco’s shoulder, like he couldn’t stop himself. “Seriously. It suits you. You look like… I don’t know, some elven prince.”

Draco stared at him, completely thrown. “You’re kidding.”

Harry shook his head, still staring. “No, I’m—Merlin, Bunny. It’s ridiculously pretty.”

Heat rushed to Draco’s cheeks so fast it made his ears burn. He looked away, muttering under his breath, “You’re just a hormonal idiot with no real taste.”

Harry didn’t deny it. He just leaned in closer, fingers drifting behind Draco’s ear to tuck his hair back, letting it fall in soft waves down his neck like it belonged there.

Draco shivered.

Then Harry’s voice dropped, low and teasing. “So… is this the part where we skip class to make out?”

Draco gaped at him. “No!” he hissed, scandalized.

Harry grinned, completely unfazed. “You sure? Because you’re sitting there with your hair down, blushing like that, looking like every fantasy I’ve ever had—”

“Harry!”

“—and you expect me to just walk away and pay attention in classes?” Harry finished, grinning like it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.

Draco groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Stop reminding me I have to go to class like this.”

Harry chuckled, clearly enjoying himself far too much for Draco’s comfort. “You act like you’ve been cursed.”

“I might as well have been,” Draco muttered through his fingers. “Do you know what people are going to say? What they’ll think?”

Harry tilted his head, still lazily tracing a finger along a lock of Draco’s hair. “They’ll think you look incredible. Because you do.”

Draco dropped his hands just enough to glare at him, though the heat in his face made the effort less effective. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re dramatic,” Harry said cheerfully. “Which is lucky, considering you’re about to float down the corridor like a deity.”

Draco groaned again, this time collapsing back onto his pillows. “I hate you.”

Harry flopped down beside him, propping his head up on one arm. “You really don’t.”

Draco huffed, but didn’t move away. His heart was still hammering, nerves twisted tight in his chest, but Harry’s presence—warm and solid beside him—helped. A little.

They lay there for a moment in silence.

Then Harry added, almost thoughtfully, “You know, if you’re really nervous, we could always say you did it for me.”

Draco blinked. “What?”

Harry shrugged. “I mean, I am your boyfriend. People might be less likely to run their mouths if they think it was my idea.”

Draco stared at him.

Then, quietly: “You’d take the blame?”

Harry smirked. “Only if I get credit when you show up tonight looking like a god.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but something in his chest loosened.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But if anyone asks, you begged me to do it.”

Harry grinned. “Deal.”

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Pansy, as usual, had been right—annoyingly so. His hair didn’t stop growing until just before dinner, and by then it was brushing against his hips. His actual hips.

He slid onto the bench at the Gryffindor table, the length of it draping over his back and shoulders.

Surprisingly, most people hadn’t been too insufferable about it. A few stares, some whispers, and one particularly bold second-year who asked if he’d lost a bet.

But whenever someone said something just a little too loud or a little too smug, Harry would shoot them a look. The protective, sharp-jawed, absolutely-do-not-mess-with-my-boyfriend kind of look.

Which, frankly, was a bonus. Because it was hot. Unfairly hot.

Draco pretended not to notice. And definitely didn’t blush about it.

Much.

To his mild surprise, the general reaction wasn’t as unbearable as he’d feared. A few double takes, some muffled whispers, and one brave second-year who loudly asked if he’d lost a dare.

But every time someone said something just a little too loud, or lingered with a smirk a little too long, Harry would fix them with that look.

Protective. Sharp. All jaw and narrowed eyes and mine without saying a word.

It was a problem. A hot, unfair, Draco-will-never-admit-he-liked-it kind of problem.

He pretended not to notice. And absolutely, definitely did not blush about it.

Much.

By the time dessert appeared, it felt like the entire D.A. was buzzing with anticipation. No one was really eating. Eyes kept flicking toward the clock, legs bouncing under the table. Everyone was just waiting for an excuse to bolt back to the dorms and get ready.

Draco was practically vibrating with nerves by the time he met Pansy outside the Gryffindor common room. She was waiting with a magically expanded bag slung over one shoulder, eyes sparkling with barely contained excitement.

In the girls’ dormitory, Pansy slipped into her costume first—dramatic, dark, and impossible to ignore—before helping Hermione into hers.

When Hermione finally stepped out of the bathroom, Draco almost forgot how to breathe.

Her gown was a blend of white and pale blue with delicate gold detailing that caught the light with every step. It draped off her shoulders, cinched just below the bust with twin slits that left her legs on full display. White ribbons wrapped around her calves in soft spirals, and golden antennae nestled in her dark brown curls like they’d grown there naturally. Her hair was pinned half-up, the rest cascading in loose, soft waves down her back.

She looked... unreal. Elegant. Lethal in a way only Hermione could be—gorgeous, composed, and entirely unbothered by it.

Draco stared a second too long.

Then finally muttered, “Well. Now I hate both of you.”

Hermione just smiled as she adjusted her antennae with infuriating grace. “You’ll look even better,” she said smoothly. “Pansy made sure of it.”

Draco rolled his eyes as Hermione drifted off to join Lavender and Parvati, who were already elbow-deep in makeup and glitter, dressed as the sun and moon respectively—of course.

Before he could say a word, Pansy grabbed his wrist and hauled him toward the bathroom with zero ceremony, conjuring a stool in front of the mirror.

Draco sat stiffly, eyes locking with his reflection. His heart was already racing. The hair framed his face in a way that was undeniably striking. He liked it. He did.

But it reminded him of him. Of Lucius.

His stomach twisted.

“It just needs layers,” Pansy said casually, already combing through the ends like she owned his head. “Wispy bangs, maybe. Trust me—it’ll look a hundred times better.”

Draco gave a stiff nod, jaw clenched. He didn’t trust many people, but he trusted her hands, her precision. She wouldn’t let him walk into that party looking like his father. She knew better.

He stared straight ahead into the mirror as she raised her wand.

The first soft snip of magic brushed across the ends of his hair, and a lock drifted down like silk. Then another. Each one lighter, softer. A little more him with every pass.

He didn’t say anything, and neither did she.

But for the first time since he woke up that morning, he started to breathe easier.

When she finally stepped back, Pansy gave a satisfied little hum, twirling her wand between her fingers.

“There,” she said, sounding far too smug.

Draco blinked at his reflection. The layers softened the length, the bangs framed his face just right, and it—he—looked… beautiful.

Still very much himself, but softer.

“Now,” Pansy said, clapping her hands, “let’s get you dressed before you lose your nerve.”

Draco opened his mouth to argue—purely to be difficult—but she was already opening the wardrobe and pulling out the costume, the fabric spilling over her arms like enchanted mist.

It was… still as dramatic as he remembered.

The bodysuit looked even more daring up close—tight at the waist, high-cut at the hips, with that sheer brown panel meant to fall between his legs and leave everything else bare.

He was going to die. This was it. This was how he died.

“Stop thinking,” Pansy said, already helping him out of his shirt. “You’ll overthink yourself straight into a turtleneck.”

“I should be wearing a turtleneck,” he muttered.

“You should be wearing this and letting me work magic,” she said firmly, tossing his shirt aside and holding up the bodysuit like it was a divine relic.

It was… snug.

Obscenely snug.

He had to ditch his underwear completely to avoid the shame of his ridiculous snitch-print boxers showing through the fabric. Now it clung to him like it had been painted on—warm, soft, and far too intimate, swaying gently as he shifted. The sleeves off the shoulder.

His legs were entirely bare.

Draco stood there, one hand gripping the edge of the sink, refusing to look in the mirror just yet.

“Don’t say a word,” he warned, voice strained.

Pansy just smirked as she slipped the pale green pieces around his waist, adjusting them with sharp, practiced fingers. Then came the collar—plush, cloud-like, wrapping around his shoulders and neck like a comforting weight. It was warm, grounding, and somehow made the rest of the barely-there outfit feel a little less exposing.

Then came the wings.

She murmured a soft charm, and they shimmered into place behind him—delicate, translucent, and veined with silver and luna green. They fluttered slightly with every breath he took.

“I’ll let you finish the details,” she said, patting him once on the shoulder and setting the final pieces beside the sink—jewelry, the antennae, and a pair of heels Draco looked at like they might bite.

Heels. Absolutely not. That was the line.

Too far.

With a flick of his wand, he transfigured them into pale green flats with matching straps and wound the soft laces up his calves in a spiral, echoing the way Hermione had worn hers. Better. Tolerable.

Breathing carefully, he turned back to the mirror.

The antennae went on last—lightweight, velvety, perfectly curved. They nestled into his hair like they’d always belonged there.

Draco stared at himself in silence.

He looked… unreal.

Maybe not what his father would’ve approved of.

But his father also approved of killing Muggles so.

He took one last breath—deep, shaky—and opened the bathroom door.

All four girls looked up at once.

There was exactly one beat of silence.

Then—

“Oh my gods,” Pansy breathed, hand flying to her chest like she’d just witnessed a divine event.

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “Draco.”

Lavender let out an actual shriek, dressed in gold herself. “You’re stunning!”

Parvati jumped up and down dramatically. “Harry’s going to die.”

Draco flushed instantly, gripping the doorframe like it might keep him from floating away. “Don’t—don’t exaggerate.”

“We’re not,” Hermione insisted, standing up to get a better look. “You look like an actual fae prince.”

“Not without proper ears,” Parvati added mischievously, flicking her wand with a practiced twirl.

Draco yelped as his ears elongated into elegant points, perfectly angled. “What did you do—”

“Improved it,” she said proudly.

“I could cry,” Pansy murmured, clutching her chest like she was watching a coronation. “I might actually cry.”

Draco groaned, but it was already lost under the chorus of excited voices. Pansy grabbed his wrists and spun him gently, inspecting him from every angle like she was presenting her finest creation. Meanwhile, Lavender was pulling out a makeup pouch roughly the size of a small suitcase, eyes gleaming with purpose.

“Sit,” she ordered, patting the stool with an authority that dared him to argue.

Draco blinked. “What—no—I’m done—”

“You thought you were done,” Lavender corrected, already uncapping a soft pastel pigment. “You’ve come this far, sweetheart, let me finish the masterpiece.”

Draco sighed but sat, shoulders tense until Lavender’s fingers gently tilted his chin.

She started with pale green shapes—swooping arcs at the corners of his eyes, tiny wing-like patterns trailing from his temples. She added delicate designs to his arms, mirroring the wings on his back. The shimmer in the paint caught the light every time he moved.

Then came the glitter. A soft, silvery powder brushed over his collarbones, dusted along his cheeks, dabbed down his forearms and legs. Not too much. Just enough to catch the candlelight and make him look like he glowed.

When she stepped back, her eyes lit up.

“There,” she breathed. “Now you’re done.”

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Draco wasn’t sure he was ready to see Harry.

Blaise was helping him and Ron into their costumes in the boys' dorm.

Pansy, naturally, refused to tell him what the boys' group theme even was. She just gave him a smug little smile and said, “You’ll see. They should already be in the Room by now.”

Which did nothing helpful for Draco’s heart rate.

When they finally reached the Room of Requirement, it was clear the magic had understood the assignment.

The space was massive—bigger than when it had transformed into the D.A.’s training ground. The walls shimmered faintly with enchanted lights, music drifted from nowhere and everywhere at once, and floating lanterns bobbed along the high ceiling like lazy fireflies.

A long table was set off to the side, absolutely covered in sweets, spiced treats, and bottles of Butterbeer. A second table, tucked near the back, hosted cauldron cakes, chocolate frogs, and—if Draco’s eyes weren’t deceiving him—packs of Firewhisky and Dragon’s Breath Ale.

The dance floor took up the center, enchanted to shift subtly underfoot like it pulsed with the beat, and around the perimeter, cozy seating areas had been conjured—plush couches, armchairs, little clusters of cushions, all in warm jewel tones. Alcoves broke up the corners of the room, tucked-away nooks with low lighting perfect pretending to need a quiet conversation.

There were even proper bathrooms.

Draco was only half-listening.

Because now that he was here, in the room, dressed like this… Harry was somewhere in this crowd. And Draco wasn’t sure if he was ready to be seen.

He scanned the room, eyes darting through the sea of costumes and color. He spotted plenty of familiar faces from the D.A.—Angelina in a glimmering gold outfit, wings shaped like a Snitch, Cho in an unfortunate bat costume that looked more like it had been attacked by a cat, her friend Marietta beside her dressed, for some reason, as a mushroom.

Dean, Seamus, and Justin had all committed to a chaotic pirate trio—eyepatches, tattered cloaks, and enchanted foam swords that squeaked dramatically every time they clashed. Between duels, they passed around a goblet of something neon and definitely not pumpkin juice.

Draco’s gaze drifted further, sweeping the room, until it landed on Luna near one of the alcoves—dressed as… something.

Her skin was painted a vivid, almost shimmering purple, and her shoes—if they were shoes—had been transfigured to look like webbed feet, three large toes each. Her glasses were even more oversized than usual, the lenses making her eyes appear round and bright yellow.

Draco blinked. “What are you supposed to be, Luna?”

She beamed. “Poison dart frog.”

He stared at her for a beat.

“…Of course.”

Luna beamed at him, entirely unbothered by the pause. “They’re vibrant, lethal, and misunderstood,” she said cheerfully, adjusting one of her webbed gloves. “I thought it felt appropriate.”

Draco opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Right. No, yeah. Makes sense.”

Blaise appeared beside Luna, dressed in full anglerfish regalia—elegant, dark, and vaguely menacing, complete with a softly glowing lure that hovered just above his forehead. The costume clung to him in all the right places, scales charmed to shimmer like oil on water, and—of course—no shirt. Just bare chest and smug energy.

He gave Luna a once-over and raised a brow. “It’s honestly disturbing how well she pulls that off.”

“I know,” Draco muttered, glancing sideways at Blaise’s glittering chest and glistening shoulders. Then, flatly, “Really?”

Blaise smirked, completely unapologetic. “What? It’s a deep-sea aesthetic. Dangerous, mysterious, and tragically shirtless.”

“You just wanted to show off,” Draco said, arms crossing defensively—though the motion made the sheer panel at his hips sway, which immediately reminded him he was in no position to judge.

Blaise’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “You should see your boyfriend.”

Draco’s entire body tensed. “What?!”

He spun so fast his wings nearly knocked over Blaise. Eyes darting across the crowd in frantic panic. “He’s shirtless?! I’m going to kill Pansy.”

Blaise chuckled, slow and savoring every second. “Not technically shirtless,” he drawled, “but what he’s wearing doesn’t exactly leave much to the imagination.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, scanning the room like he was about to catch Harry mid-affair. “I swear to Merlin—”

And then the crowd shifted.

Draco made a noise. A high-pitched, undignified noise.

There was Harry.

Standing near the drink table, laughing with Neville and Hannah, completely oblivious to the fact that Draco’s soul had just left his body.

The shirt—if it could be called that—was a shredded slip of gauze clinging to him like it had survived a shipwreck. The neckline dipped scandalously low, nearly sliding off his shoulder, full of tears and holes that made it useless at covering anything. His torso—firm, glitter-dusted, very much visible—gleamed under the party lights.

And the trousers—dark, loose, sitting obscenely low on his hips, cinched with a wide belt and silver details—did nothing to help Draco’s spiraling thoughts. Cord wraps and bracelets lined his wrists like he’d been adorned with stolen treasure.

And his skin. His skin had been glamoured a deep violet-black, shimmery with hints of blue and silver scales up his arms, over his collarbones, disappearing under that excuse for a shirt.

A fin—an actual fin—curved from the base of his spine. His ears had been transfigured to delicate, webbed fins, pierced with small silver rings that glittered with every turn of his head.

Necklaces hung from his throat in layered chains, swaying when he moved.

He looked like some sea god that had just washed ashore to ruin Draco’s entire night—and possibly his life.

Draco’s mouth went dry. His pulse was everywhere.

And then Harry laughed, head thrown back, hair tousled like he’d just stepped out of a storm.

Draco wanted to die.

Blaise leaned in, radiating smugness. “So. Still mad at Pansy?”

“Yes,” Draco hissed, eyes fixed on Harry like he was a walking security risk. “Because now I have to drag him into a dark corner and hide him from the rest of the school.”

Blaise grinned, utterly unbothered. “Tragic. Truly. Can’t imagine how hard this must be for you.”

The answer, unfortunately, was very hard—and Draco was suddenly regretting every decision that led to him wearing a bodysuit in public.

“Right. Lovely catching up, Blaise,” he muttered, already turning on his heel. “But I have to go kiss my boyfriend real quick.”

He strode across the room, wings catching the lantern light as he made a beeline for Harry. The crowd on the dance floor shifted around him, people parting without thinking—either out of awe or fear, he wasn’t sure, didn’t care.

He was halfway there when someone grabbed his wrist.

“Draco? Is that you?”

He turned, mildly horrified, to find Justin Finch-Fletchley gawking at him like he'd just walked out of a dream sequence.

Draco gave a tight, polite smile. “In the flesh. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

But Justin didn’t let go. In fact, he stepped closer, still holding Draco’s wrist like it was a prize he’d won in a raffle. “You look… incredible,” he said, swaying slightly. “Like—like if a moonbeam decided to have legs.”

Draco blinked. “Right. That’s… something. I have somewhere to be.”

“Wherever you’re going can wait,” Justin said, grinning far too wide now, and definitely tipsy. “Come dance with me—just one.”

“I’m busy,” Draco said firmly, trying to tug his arm back. “And you’re drunk.”

“I’m just appreciative,” Justin said, leaning in a bit too close. “Of good taste. And wings. And—whatever this is.” He gestured vaguely at Draco’s entire outfit. “It’s doing things to me.”

Draco let out a sound that was half laugh, half threat. “If you don’t let go of me in the next two seconds, I’ll do things to you that are not party-appropriate.”

Justin blinked, either not understanding or just too bold to care. “Wouldn’t be the worst way to go.”

Before Draco could respond another hand landed firmly on his waist.

“Funny,” said a low, unmistakably tense voice behind him, “I was just about to say the same thing.”

Draco turned slightly, breath catching in quiet relief as Harry stepped up beside him—close enough that their sides brushed. Warm. Solid. Harry’s hand tightened on his waist. Possessive, deliberate, and calm in a way that made Draco’s pulse stutter.

Justin blinked, slowly processing what was happening. “Oh. Hey, Potter.”

Harry didn’t smile. “Hi, Finch-Fletchley. You can let go of my boyfriend now.”

Draco almost melted on the spot.

Justin raised both hands, wobbling slightly. “Right, right. No harm meant.”

“Mm,” Harry said, still watching him like a hawk. “And yet here you are, touching things that aren’t yours.”

Draco’s heart slammed against his ribs.

It wasn’t just what Harry said—it was how he said it. Calm. Cold. Like he didn’t need to raise his voice to make a point. Like he was ready to throw Justin through a wall with one flick of his wand and a smile.

And Draco loved it.

His stomach swooped, chest warm and tight. He should’ve been annoyed—humiliated, even—but instead, he felt something hot and shamefully pleased curl deep in his gut.

Harry was looking at him like Draco was his, full stop—and Merlin help anyone who forgot it.

Draco didn’t say a word.

He just leaned back into him, smug and flushed and already thinking about how fast he could get Harry alone.

Harry didn’t move for a long moment—still watching Justin with that deceptively calm expression, his hand heavy and steady on Draco’s waist. His thumb brushed a slow, possessive arc just beneath the edge of Draco’s bodysuit.

Draco’s knees nearly gave out.

Justin cleared his throat and backed away a step. “Noted.”

Harry gave him a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Good.”

Once Justin had properly scurried off into the crowd, Harry turned to Draco, the edge in his posture softening only slightly.

“You okay?” he asked, quiet, low. Protective.

Draco nodded, trying to look composed even though his brain was still screaming about Harry’s hand and Harry’s voice and Harry’s face five bloody inches from his own.

“I was handling it,” he said, which was technically true, though he sounded breathless and vaguely unstable.

Harry raised a brow. “Were you?”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “I could have hexed him.”

“I know you could’ve hexed him,” Harry murmured, stepping in closer, and now Draco’s back was just barely brushing the edge of the alcove wall. “I just didn’t want to give you the chance.”

Draco swallowed. “Jealous much?”

“Not jealous,” Harry said coolly, eyes flicking over him now that he was close. “Possessive.”

Draco smirked. “Hot.”

Harry’s gaze dropped to Draco’s legs, lingering a little too long. “Says you.”

“Flatter me harder, Potter.”

“Give me five minutes and a wall,” Harry murmured.

Draco’s breath hitched—sharp and traitorous—and he hated how fast his heart jumped at that. Hated it, and wanted more.

Draco barely managed a smirk. “You’re unbelievable.”

Harry smiled—crooked, wicked. “You’re the one who showed up looking like this.”

Draco flushed, the sheer fabric of his costume suddenly feeling very noticeable. “It’s a moth.”

“It’s a mistake if you didn’t want me pressed up against you in a dark corner five seconds after seeing it,” Harry said, voice shameless now, hands sliding up his sides, slow and reverent.

Draco’s breath caught again, hands fluttering uselessly between pushing Harry back and pulling him closer. “You’re hormonal.”

Harry leaned in, lips brushing the edge of his jaw. “So are you.”

Draco cursed under his breath. He was. Gods, he was.

He let his head fall back against the alcove wall, exasperated and dizzy. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re stunning,” Harry whispered, mouth finally pressing against the edge of his jaw. “And mine.”

Draco whimpered. Actually whimpered.

And Harry—impossibly smug—mouthed a kiss just beneath his ear like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Draco was a second away from giving in right here in the middle of the dance floor—

“Oh come on, not here,” Ron groaned, sounding physically pained.

Draco froze. Harry didn’t even flinch—just sighed and leaned his forehead against Draco’s shoulder like he was the one being inconvenienced.

Draco peeked around Harry’s shoulder, cheeks flaming. “Really? You’re going to interrupt now?”

Ron stood a few steps away, arms crossed, looking scandalized and vaguely betrayed. His koi fish costume—orange and white with subtle shimmer charms and delicate fabric fins that fluttered at his hips—looked good, and he knew it, even if he was pretending not to. Shirtless, too, though he kept tugging at the waistband of his trousers like he wanted them to be higher.

“You were whimpering, mate,” Ron said, face red. “I didn’t need to hear that!”

Hermione, beside him and very clearly high, was absolutely beaming. “You’re both so pretty,” she said dreamily, eyes shining as she leaned into Lavender, who was nodding solemnly beside her like this was a sacred truth. “You look like lovers from a tragic poem.”

Ron made a noise like he might be ill, but sighed. “You do look good,” he said, grumbling. “Weird as hell, but—good.”

Draco blinked. “Was that a compliment?”

Ron grimaced like the words physically hurt. “Temporary lapse in judgment. Don’t make me say it again.”

Draco smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Hermione sighed happily, still leaning on Lavender. “Look at you two, getting along.”

Ron raised an eyebrow, deadpan. “I fight with you more than I do him, Mione.”

Hermione blinked at him, eyes wide and wounded. “I knowww,” she said, all tragic and heartfelt, like he'd just confessed betrayal on a cosmic level. “It hurts.”

Ron looked at Lavender helplessly. “See what I live with?”

Lavender just beamed. “She’s perfect. You’re the problem.”

“I know,” Ron said with a dramatic sigh—and, annoyingly, a charming little smirk like he’d just accepted a tragic, noble fate.

Before Draco could make a cutting remark, Pansy swooped in like chaos in heels, eyes bright with trouble.

“There you all are,” she said, grabbing Draco’s arm with both hands. “We’re playing party games. Time to stop brooding and be social.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, resisting. “Define ‘games.’”

Pansy grinned like the devil. “Never Have I Ever, Veritas or Valor, and possibly Spin the Bottle, depending on how brave people are feeling.”

“Oh, brilliant,” Draco muttered. “Can’t wait to watch everyone humiliate themselves.”

“Exactly,” she said, already dragging him toward the center of the room.

Lavender clapped excitedly. “Mione! Let’s go play!” she squealed, then promptly grabbed Ron’s hand too before he could escape.

“What—no, Lav, I don’t—” Ron sputtered, digging his heels in like a man heading to the gallows, but it was no use. Lavender had him by the wrist and absolutely no shame.

They were being dragged—no, herded—like glittery sheep toward the center of the room.

Draco stumbled slightly as Pansy yanked him along, wings fluttering behind him, his hand still tangled in Harry’s.

The circle they were approaching was already big—and loud. A mess of limbs, laughter, and far too many people already holding drinks or blushing for suspicious reasons.

Cho and Marietta were whispering to each other like they were plotting something. Dean and Seamus were already half-drunk, Seamus leaning on Dean’s shoulder. Blaise sat next to Pavarti and Ginny, who were both laughing at something Fred had just said—while George loudly insisted his version of the story was better.

Neville waved shyly from between Padma and Justin Finch-Fletchley, who looked entirely too relaxed for someone who’d nearly been hexed earlier. Zacharias Smith and Ernie Macmillan were bickering beside Hannah and Susan, while Angelina, Katie, and Lee Jordan were clearly excited for the game.

Anthony Goldstein, Terry Boot, and Michael Corner were all seated near Lisa Turpin who looked like she was either going to flirt or start a duel, depending on how the game played out.

Draco took one look around, then at Harry. “This is a mistake.”

Harry grinned. “Definitely. Sit down.”

Chapter Text

“Okay,” Hannah said brightly—dressed like an aggressively chipper bee, because of course she was—as she stood in the center of the circle. She flicked her wand and a tray of empty cups zipped around the room, floating neatly into everyone’s hands. Draco caught his with a raised brow.

“I figured we’d start with Never Have I Ever,” she continued, like she hadn’t just sentenced the entire room to chaos. “Classic, slightly humiliating, but a good starter to get everyone tipsy before we play anything more daring.”

There were a few groans, a few cheers, and one particularly loud “YES” from Seamus that already made Draco want to leave.

“For anyone who’s never played,” Hannah continued, passing the last cup to Susan, “it goes like this: each person takes a turn saying ‘Never have I ever…’ followed by something they’ve never done. Like, say—‘Never have I ever snogged someone in a broom cupboard.’ If you have done the thing, you take a drink.”

She paused, then added with a cheerful sort of menace, “Also, the cups are spelled. If you try to lie, it’ll make you take a sip anyway—and if you really try to lie, it’ll dump the drink right in your lap. So maybe just… be honest, yeah?”

The room gave a collective murmur of nervous laughter. Draco glanced sideways at his cup, suspicious. It looked innocent enough—sparkling liquid, faintly pink, lightly bubbling. He didn’t trust it at all.

“Cool? Cool,” Hannah said, her bee wings fluttering slightly as she sat back down. “Let’s begin.”

Everyone immediately stiffened. Draco could practically feel the collective dread settle over the group like a fog.

“Who’s starting?” Dean asked, already leaning into Seamus like he regretted breathing.

“I nominate you,” Ginny said, far too smug, pointing at him with her cup.

Dean groaned and lifted his drink. “Fine. Alright. Never have I ever… been caught sneaking out past curfew.”

Draco sighed and took a sip, as did nearly the entire room.

The drink was surprisingly good—citrusy, chilled, and just strong enough to warm his throat. Not bad. He could survive this.

Draco stole a glance at Harry, who casually lifted his cup and took a sip—then winked over the rim like he wasn’t actively trying to kill Draco with flirtation.

Around the circle, people were shifting, laughing, reacting—Zach Smith was trying to argue that his prefect rounds didn’t count, while Blaise just stretched like a smug cat and leaned back on his elbows, clearly proud of whatever mischief he'd been caught doing.

Hannah raised her cup. “Alright, who’s next?”

Pavarti didn’t even wait. She leaned forward with a glint in her eye. “Never have I ever… kissed more than one person in this room.”

Seamus groaned dramatically and took a sip, muttering something about poor life choices. Blaise, unsurprisingly, didn’t hesitate—he lifted his cup with the kind of grace that said yes, and I’d do it again. Cho sipped too, which earned her a sharp, unmistakable glare from Marietta that made Draco raise an eyebrow.

Fred, naturally, grinned like he’d won a prize and downed his drink like it was celebratory champagne.

Draco, meanwhile, kept his cup firmly in his lap.

To his quiet relief… so did Harry.

“Relax, Bunny,” Harry murmured, nudging Draco’s knee and offered the smallest of smirks—like he was saying, see? you’re the only one I want to be kissing in here.

Draco flushed instantly, suddenly very interested in the bubbles in his cup.

“Alright, alright,” Lisa chirped, practically bouncing in place as she grabbed the next turn. “Never have I ever… fantasized about a professor.”

The circle howled—half in horror, half in delight. Hermione immediately buried her face in her hands. Pavarti cackled. Ron choked on his drink, and Neville looked like he wanted to evaporate on the spot.

A decent number of the girls took sips, some more brazenly than others.

Ron, wide-eyed, shot Hermione a betrayed look. “You?!”

She peeked over her fingers, cheeks flushed. “Lockhart, okay? I was thirteen.”

Across the circle, several other girls immediately nodded in agreement—Cho, Pavarti, even Ginny.

“I mean, the teeth,” said Pavarti with a shrug. “And the hair. He had a vibe.”

“He had nothing in his head,” Ron muttered, still looking scandalized.

“Neither did we, at that age,” Hermione fired back, sipping her drink anyway.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Tragic taste.”

Hermione shot Draco a look over her cup—equal parts judgment and amusement—but said nothing.

Lavender, practically vibrating with delight, clapped her hands. “Okay, okay! We’re spiraling—who’s next?”

From there, the game spiraled into a rhythm—people sipping, laughing, groaning. The questions turned tame for a bit. Safer.

“Never have I ever failed a test,” said Susan, blushing.

“Never have I ever fallen asleep in class,” offered Padma, which resulted in almost everyone sipping and Seamus yelling, “I was resting my eyes!”

Draco kept his posture relaxed, one leg crossed neatly over the other, calculating each sip like it was a chess move. He drank for “lied to a professor” but skipped “eaten something off the floor.” There was a comfort in the mundane—safe territory, easy breathing.

Until, of course, Pansy sighed dramatically and stretched like she owned the room.

“You’re all being unbearably dull,” she purred, swirling her drink. “This isn’t a study circle—it’s a party. Spice it up.”

A hush fell over the group—part anticipation, part fear.

Draco didn’t even look at her. He just sighed. “Pansy…”

But she was already grinning, wicked and unrepentant. “Never have I ever… had a sex dream about more than one person in this circle. At the same time.”

Immediate chaos.

“What?!” came from at least five directions.

Fred dropped his cup and howled with laughter. Seamus sputtered on his drink, clutching his chest like he’d been hexed. Lavender shrieked and grabbed Hermione’s arm with the force of a scandalized banshee. Ron made a noise that could only be described as a dying owl. Hermione, meanwhile, just stared into her drink like it had personally betrayed her.

And then… people started sipping.

Blaise drank with all the drama of someone who’d been waiting for this moment. Fred and George exchanged a look and lifted their cups like a toast. Lavender sipped with pride, unbothered.

And then—shockingly, horrifyingly—Hermione took a slow, guilty sip.

A stunned silence dropped over the group like a curtain.

Hermione promptly leaned into Lavender’s shoulder, giggling like she’d just confessed a sin in church and was proud of it.

Harry gaped at her. “Mione, say it wasn’t me and Draco.”

Hermione gave him the most angelic blink she could muster. “Oh, Harry… don’t flatter yourself.”

Draco let out a sharp snort. Ron looked like he was one scandal away from passing out.

Lavender, beaming, patted Hermione’s thigh like she was proud. “She has excellent taste.”

Draco groaned. “I hate this game.”

Right beside him, Harry took a quick sip—too casual, too smooth.

Draco’s head snapped around, antennae swaying with the motion. “Excuse me?!”

Harry didn’t even have the decency to look guilty. He just gave that maddening, lopsided smirk—the one that always meant trouble. “Have you seen yourself in that outfit?”

Draco blinked. Opened his mouth. Shut it. Then opened it again, glare sharp. “Me… and who else, Potter?”

Harry leaned in, eyes glinting with no shame and zero self-preservation. “Does it matter? You’re the one I’m taking to bed.”

Draco flushed pink, narrowing his eyes. “That is not an answer.”

“I know,” Harry said, annoyingly pleased with himself. “But it’s the right one.”

Before Draco could launch into a full interrogation, Hannah clapped her hands loudly and called out, “Alright, alright! I think we’re officially tipsy enough to switch to Veritas or Valor!”

The circle erupted in chaos once again—equal parts thrill and dread.

Hannah, ever the efficient little bee, raised her wand and murmured something under her breath. A soft shimmer swept across the room, settling like mist around the group.

“The circle is sealed,” she announced, her voice suddenly a little more serious. “Everything that happens here, stays here. You won’t be able to talk about it outside of this circle—at least not without getting magically tongue-tied. So don’t bother trying.”

The group quieted, tension crackling now that the game had shifted.

“When it’s your turn, you choose: Veritas—truth—or Valor—dare,” Hannah continued, holding up gold shimmering cards. “The circle will enforce both. Not quite Veritaserum-level honesty,” she added, glancing at them with a raised brow, “but close enough to make lying extremely uncomfortable.”

“And for dares?” Fred asked, already intrigued.

“You do it, or you drink,” Hannah said sweetly. “Refuse both? Or try to cheat the truth? The spell picks a consequence.”

“Consequence?” Seamus echoed.

“Think… singing hex. Floating hair. Glowing skin. Nothing dangerous,” she added quickly, “just embarrassment. Now—each prompt will appear on one of these enchanted cards,” she said, placing them in the center of the circle where they began to glow faintly, “conjured based on the tension, chemistry, and secrets in the room.”

A few people shifted nervously.

Pansy, immediately leaning in. “I vote Blaise goes first.”

“Obviously,” Blaise said smoothly, already picking up the gold card. “Valor.”

The circle leaned in, the air thick with anticipation.

The card shimmered—then words appeared in curling script across its surface.

DARE: Kiss the person you most want to snog in this circle. No explanations. Just do it.

The entire group howled.

Blaise, unbothered, scanned the circle slowly… thoughtfully… and then stood.

Lavender gasped. “Starting strong!”

Draco let out a suffering sigh. “Merlin.”

Blaise stood slowly, theatric as ever, his eyes drifting across the circle like he was selecting a fine wine. He passed Parvati with a nod, raised a brow at Lavender (who winked back), and then—

Stopped in front of Ginny.

The room went dead silent.

Ginny arched a brow, clearly not expecting to be chosen—but not backing down either. “Well?” she said, chin tilted, eyes daring him.

Blaise didn’t speak.

He just leaned down, one hand lightly under her chin, and kissed her.

It wasn’t quick either. Not scandalous, but enough to make half the circle lean in and the other half lose their minds.

When he pulled back, Ginny was flushed, but grinning.

“Expected that to be worse,” she said breezily, grabbing her drink.

Draco didn’t even have time to process the collective gasp before the explosion went off.

“What the hell was that?”

Everyone turned.

Michael Corner. Of course.

He was sitting stiffly, cup forgotten in his lap, eyes locked on Blaise like he was deciding which bone to break first.

Ginny blinked. “What was what?”

“You kissed him!” Michael snapped, blotchy and red like he’d been holding his breath. “Right in front of me!”

Blaise didn’t flinch. “It was a dare.”

“You didn’t have to kiss her like that.”

Ginny crossed her arms. “It’s a party game, Michael. You know—fun? You’ve heard of it.”

Draco sipped his drink and tilted his head. Okay… Corner had a point.

Because if someone dared to kiss Harry right in front of him, he’d have their wand snapped and their eyebrows hexed off before they could blink. Game or not.

And then it hit him—that could actually happen.

This was truth or dare. And Harry was—well, Harry Potter. Dressed like a damn sea god, glittering and glowing and shirtless.

Draco stiffened, spine going ramrod straight as he casually (not casually) scanned the circle for threats. Cho was here. Obviously. Probably already plotting. Lavender, maybe—though if he had to tolerate someone snogging his boyfriend under magical compulsion, at least he like the girl.

Then a far worse thought struck him.

What if the spell picked someone for Harry to kiss? Someone that wasn’t Draco?

Would that mean Harry wanted to kiss them? Or was the game just reading Draco’s jealousy and setting him up to spiral in real time for maximum chaos?

Gods. This was a bad idea.

“I’m done,” Michael snapped, abruptly rising to his feet.

Draco looked up.

“Have fun with your ‘ un’ or whatever this is,” he added bitterly, eyes locked on Ginny.

Ginny didn’t even flinch. “Bye, Michael.”

He turned sharply and stalked out of the Room of Requirement, the door appearing just long enough for him to shove through it before vanishing behind him.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Seamus let out a low whistle. “Well. That’s one way to clear the tension.”

“Not sure it worked,” Ron muttered.

Ginny, bless her crazy heart, just took a long sip from her cup and leaned forward. “Alright. My turn.”

“Veritas or Valor?” Hannah asked, way too cheerful.

Ginny didn’t hesitate. She plucked a gold-edged card from the pile. “Valor. Obviously.”

The script shimmered to life as she read aloud:

DARE: Choose someone in the circle and sit in their lap until your next turn.

A beat passed.

Then—screaming. Mostly from Seamus. A groan from Ron. And an immediate, horrified, “Don’t even think about it!” from Fred.

Ginny grinned like the devil. “Relax. I’m not traumatizing my brother tonight.”

Ron looked mildly relieved. Fred didn’t.

Draco narrowed his eyes, halfway bracing himself in case she got any ideas about Harry.

But Ginny just pivoted on her heel, sauntered straight to Blaise, and plopped into his lap like it was a throne.

Blaise raised a brow, clearly not expecting her again, but didn’t complain. He just leaned back slightly, hands very deliberately not touching her. “Should I be worried you’re trying to start a war?”

Ginny sipped from her cup, lounging back against his chest. “Not at all. Consider this a diplomatic gesture.”

“Diplomacy looks good on you,” Blaise murmured against Ginny’s ear, casual as anything.

“Oh my god,” Ron groaned, dragging a hand down his face like he was trying to erase the image from existence.

The game pressed on. Chaotic, drunk, spiraling fast.

Angelina took a dare and gave Katie a lap dance that had the whole circle howling. Katie looked both overwhelmed and victorious, blinking like she’d just ascended.

Then Hannah got dared to kiss someone, and with zero hesitation, she turned to Neville and kissed him like she meant it. Neville blinked twice, stunned—then melted into it so completely that Draco wasn’t sure if he needed to fan himself or schedule them both therapy.

Lee Jordan ended up standing on the table rapping a filthy rhyme about centaurs. It earned him a standing ovation and three spilled drinks.

Terry Boot got a truth card that asked if he’d ever used Polyjuice for fun, and his awkward silence—and sip—answered that for everyone.

“Who though?” Blaise demanded immediately.

“None of your business,” Terry muttered into his drink, glowing faintly pink from the spell.

And then it was Pansy’s turn.

She sat straighter than usual, spine taut, eyes sharp—but Draco knew her too well. Something was off.

“Valor,” she said, voice a little too light.

The gold card shimmered in her hand.

DARE: Kiss someone unexpected. Make it count.

The circle immediately lost its mind.

Pansy’s eyes flicked around the group, scanning, calculating. Draco assumed she’d choose Hermione—safe, familiar, mildly chaotic.

But then her gaze landed on Ron.

And stayed there.

Draco frowned. What.

Before anyone could say a word, Pansy moved.

She crawled across the circle like some darkly glamorous predator, hips swaying, eyes locked on Ron like he was prey.

And then—without so much as a warning—she straddled his lap and kissed him.

Really kissed him. No hesitation. No half-measure. Just full-on, dramatic, hands-in-his-hair, soul-stealing kissed him.

The group howled.

Draco just stared. “What the actual—?”

Pansy pulled back slowly, lips smug, cheeks faintly pink. Ron looked dazed.

Draco blinked. Turned to Harry. “Did I miss something? Are they—?”

Harry, also stunned, just shook his head. “Nope. That was new.”

“Okay,” Draco muttered, reaching for his cup. “This game is cursed.”

Pansy slid off Ron’s lap with the elegance of a cat who’d just knocked something off a shelf on purpose, smoothed her wings like nothing had happened, and returned to her pillow.

Ron, for his part, sat there blinking, hands still frozen midair like he didn’t know whether to catch her or apologize to the room.

“Mate,” said Seamus, equal parts horrified and impressed. “Are you breathing?”

Ron coughed. “I—I think so?”

Pansy just raised her glass and sipped, all cool detachment. “Unexpected,” she said, eyes sparkling. “And I made it count.”

“Understatement of the year,” muttered Fred, still watching Ron like he was afraid he might combust.

The cards shuffled themselves midair and floated toward Ron.

“Oh, no,” Ron groaned, still pink in the face and blinking like he’d been concussed. “I’m not ready—mentally, emotionally, spiritually—”

“Veritas or Valor, Weasley?” Blaise drawled.

Ron looked around at the circle—half of whom were still grinning, the other half waiting for more chaos. His eyes landed on Hermione for a brief second. She smiled at him, soft and encouraging.

Ron sighed like he was walking to the gallows. “Valor.”

The card floated to him and lit up in his hands:

DARE: Serenade someone in the circle with dramatic flair. Bonus points for sincerity.

Draco just leaned into Harry’s shoulder and muttered, “I will pay you five Galleons if he sings to Pansy.”

Harry grinned. “He’s definitely going to sing to Pansy.”

Ron gave a groan of betrayal, dragged himself to his feet, and after a brief moment of very visible internal suffering, turned to face her.

One painful minute and four terrible rhymes later—including the now iconic line “You kissed me without warning, I thought I might combust”—Ron sat back down, face redder than his hair.

Pansy gave him a slow clap. “Honestly? I’m a little moved.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Draco said flatly, but he was grinning.

The cards kept moving. Around the circle the chaos continued—Ernie Macmillan ended up with a truth about his secret crush on Susan. Anthony Goldstein got a dare to wear Dean’s pirate hat for the rest of the night and dramatically pretend to be his first mate (Dean was delighted).

And then—

Cho.

The cards floated into her hands, gold catching in the lantern light. She didn’t even hesitate.

“Valor,” she said.

Draco caught the look before she even said it. That calculating flick of her eyes around the circle—lingering on Harry for half a second.

Cho held the card like she already knew it was about to start trouble. It shimmered in her hand, glittering lettering curling across the surface with elegant menace:

DARE: Whisper a secret into someone’s ear. Make them blush.

The circle erupted instantly.

Draco didn’t join in the laughter. He was too busy narrowing his eyes.

When she stood up, slow and graceful and full of performance, Draco already knew where this was going.

Her bat wings rustled as she walked the circle, pretending to consider her options—letting her gaze skim over Lavender, over Anthony, over Blaise.

Everyone was watching.

But when she neared Draco and Harry, she didn’t even pretend anymore.

She stopped in front of them.

Right in front of Harry.

Draco’s pulse jumped. He felt Harry stiffen beside him.

And then—deliberate, coy, theatrical—she turned and bent toward Draco.

Draco blinked.

What.

She leaned in, hand brushing his shoulder, and whispered in his ear—low, warm, far too pleased with herself.

“I wanted to whisper it to Harry,” she said, barely audible. “But this way I get to touch you and make him jealous.”

Draco went still. A slow, sharp flush crawled up his neck.

The absolute nerve.

She pulled back with a smug smile, and the second she sat down, the circle exploded with noise.

“Draco’s blushing!” someone shouted.

Harry was staring at him, brows drawn, eyes dark with something unreadable.

“What did she say?” he asked.

Draco took a slow, slightly shaky sip of his drink, tongue flicking out to catch a bit that slipped past his lip. “It’s stupid,” he muttered. “She’s stupid.”

Harry didn’t laugh.

He was still staring at Cho, who was not being subtle about how proud of herself she was. She glanced over her cup at Harry, lashes fluttering, mouth curved in a smile.

Draco saw red. And then white-hot fire. And then maybe stars, because the drink was strong and so was the way his blood was boiling.

He leaned in, mouth brushing against Harry’s ear, voice barely a whisper.

“If you kiss anyone tonight that isn’t me,” Draco hissed, “I’m setting them on fire. I don’t care who it is.”

Harry turned, slowly, finally looking at him instead of her.

His jaw ticked. “You think I want to kiss anyone else?”

“She’s hoping,” Draco breathed, nose brushing Harry’s cheek now.

Harry’s hand slid over his knee, then up—just enough to make Draco's breath catch in his throat—until warm fingers rested firmly on his thigh. He squeezed. Once. Possessive.

“Let her hope,” Harry said, voice low and dangerous.

He hated how fast that melted him. Hated how good it felt. His stomach flipped, face burning hot, thighs clenching involuntarily under Harry’s hand.

Then—because the universe hated him—the cards shuffled themselves midair before presenting themselves to Draco.

He blinked down them.

No.

No no no no—

“Ohhh,” Lavender cooed from across the circle.

Pansy leaned forward, practically vibrating. “Veritas or Valor, darling?”

Draco considered launching himself out a window.

Harry, still annoyingly close and annoyingly gorgeous, leaned in and whispered, “Pick Valor.”

Draco turned to him with a look.

Draco exhaled through his nose and grabbed the card. “Fine. Valor.”

The card shimmered gold and then bloomed with glittering text.

DARE: Kiss the person you’ve been thinking about the most since this game started. Make it good.

Draco stared at the card.

He didn’t need to think. He hadn’t stopped thinking about Harry. Since walking into the party. Since putting on the godsdamned moth costume. Since always.

“Oh my god,” Parvati squeaked, clutching Lavender’s arm. “It’s happening. It’s actually happening.”

“You’re already dating!” Seamus whined. “This is cheating! I want scandal!”

“Shut up,” Hermione muttered, eyes locked on Draco and Harry. “Let them be hot.”

Harry was watching him now—mouth parted, eyes dark, knees spread slightly like he knew what was coming and was absolutely inviting it.

Draco rolled his eyes. “This is so stupid,” he muttered—and before he could let himself second-guess, he slid into Harry’s lap like he owned it. (because he did.)

Then kissed him.

Harry groaned—low and wrecked and barely audible, but Draco felt it everywhere. In the hands sliding up his bare thighs. In the way Harry tilted his head just enough to deepen it. In the heat blooming behind Draco’s ribs like a lit match had been dropped into his chest.

It was desperate. Familiar. Like they’d been waiting all night to stop pretending they weren’t already thinking about dragging each other out of this godsdamned room and finding the nearest locked door.

Draco’s fingers tangled in Harry’s messy hair. Harry’s hand slid under the sheer panel of Draco’s costume to rest at the small of his back.

Someone let out a strangled “bloody hell.”

When Draco finally pulled back, breath shallow, Harry chased the kiss for a second before opening his eyes. His pupils were blown. His hands stayed right where they were.

Draco swallowed, cheeks burning.

“Well,” he said hoarsely. “There. I made it good.”

Harry looked like he might combust.

Literally combust.

His cheeks were flushed deep red, jaw locked tight, pupils blown wide—and he was staring at Draco like he wanted to consume him. Like Draco was something forbidden and too tempting to resist. But more than the look… Draco could feel it.

Oh.

Oh.

Draco shifted in Harry’s lap and that was definitely—yep. Definitely hard.

“Merlin,” Harry choked, hands snapping tight around Draco’s hips like he could anchor him in place. “You’re evil.”

Draco blinked, mock-innocent, and offered a saccharine smile. “I’m sorry.”

(He wasn’t.)

“You ass,” Harry hissed, half-panicked, half-feral. “Now I have a situation.”

“Oh no,” Draco whispered, biting his lip to keep from laughing. “Fascinating.”

Harry glared at him—pink-faced, flustered, and very much not fooling anyone—then suddenly grabbed Draco and spun him around in his lap. Draco landed with his back pressed to Harry’s chest, his legs stretched between Harry’s, and Harry’s arms wrapped tightly around his waist.

“Better,” Harry muttered, voice low and far too close to his ear. “No one can see anything like this.”

Draco hummed, thoroughly smug, and tilted his head just enough to whisper, “Oh yes, very discreet. Nothing says normal like manhandling your boyfriend into your lap to hide your boner.

“Draco,” Harry hissed, mortified.

Across the circle, Hermione was absolutely onto them—beaming like she'd just won a bloody raffle. Seamus had gone red in the face and was whispering furiously to Dean, eyes darting in their direction every three seconds. Hannah looked like she was trying to remember how to astral project. And Cho—well, Cho looked like she was actively dying.

Draco should have felt embarrassed. He probably would have, under different circumstances. But right now, wrapped in Harry’s arms, tucked back against his bare chest, with the heat of him bleeding through the layers of Draco’s costume between them?

He let himself settle more fully, melting back into Harry’s lap, his head resting lightly on his shoulder, his own hands sliding down to cover Harry’s where they were still clasped firmly around his waist.

And then, because he could, because he wanted to, because Harry was losing his mind and Draco liked it when Harry lost his mind—he shifted again.

Slow. Intentional. Just enough to grind his ass against the hardness he felt pressed at his back, the fabric of his costume dragging ever so slightly against Harry’s thighs.

Harry inhaled like he’d been punched.

Draco felt it—felt the breath stutter and catch right against the curve of his neck, felt the sharp flex of fingers at his waist, tightening like Harry was hanging on by a thread. That was it.

Game over.

The room dissolved around them—voices, laughter, the occasional shriek of scandal. Fred yelled something obscene about tongue. Someone clapped. Glass clinked. Draco couldn’t hear a damn thing.

All he could hear was Harry.

Or more accurately, feel him. The quick thud of his heart against Draco’s back. The tremble in his exhales. The sheer tension vibrating through his body like a current.

Draco shifted—just slightly. Barely more than a breath. Just enough to press back and—

Harry hissed, low and rough in his ear. “Knock it off. Damn it.”

Draco smiled. Sweet. Lethal.

Harry’s grip on his waist tightened—fingers digging in, possessive, almost bruising. Draco tilted his head back, exposing the curve of his neck, smug and flushed and fully aware of the power he held in that moment.

“I’m not doing anything,” he whispered, lips curved into something dangerous.

Harry made a noise—soft, wrecked, reverent—and dropped his face into Draco’s hair, breathing hard against his scalp.

“You’re going to kill me,” he whispered, hoarse and helpless.

Draco’s smirk deepened. “I know.”

Then—barely there—he felt the graze of teeth against his neck. Not a bite, not quite. Just a brush. A promise. His breath hitched, spine arching slightly as the heat in his belly twisted tight.

Oh. Shit.

Oh. Oh no.

Because that… that was doing things. And now he was hard.

Which would’ve been survivable—if not for the clingy nature of his costume. If not for the way Harry’s hand had shifted, thumb now brushing slow, lazy circles into his hipbone.

Draco bit down on his bottom lip, hard.

Still. He could play it cool. Pretend nothing was happening. Pretend he wasn’t seconds away from losing it entirely in the middle of a party full of their friends.

Harry’s voice brushed his ear, low and genuinely concerned. “You alright?”

Draco let out a weak, strangled laugh. “No.”

Harry huffed a short, broken laugh. “You started it.”

“Don’t remind me,” Draco breathed.

A burst of laughter erupted across the circle. Someone dared Pavarti to remove her top (she declined and drank).

No one was looking at them.

Yet.

Draco shifted again trying to adjust himself without actually grinding down, but that plan failed miserably.

Harry’s breath stuttered. “Bunny.”

“I know,” Draco whispered back, teeth gritted. “It’s not like I planned this.”

Harry leaned in closer, voice rough and accusing—but not really angry. “You literally climbed into my lap. Don’t play innocent.”

Draco turned his head slightly, meeting Harry’s eyes with something between panic and defiance. “I didn’t plan to get hard, Potter.”

Harry’s flush deepened instantly. “Same.”

There was a beat of silence, charged and miserable.

“Can we just… leave already?” Harry asked, voice low, desperate. “Please.”

Draco groaned. “If we stand up like this, everyone will see.”

Harry closed his eyes like he was in physical pain. “Fuck me.”

“You wish,” Draco muttered, cheeks flushed and voice sharp with frustration.

But neither of them moved. They just stayed there, tangled together, silently enduring the consequences of their own (read: Draco’s) choices. The air between them was charged, tense in the worst and best possible way. Draco’s pulse hadn’t settled.

Eventually, though, the energy in the room shifted. The wild, raucous laughter gave way to something gentler—tired giggles, quiet stretches, the sound of cups clinking and shoes being found.

The circle was unraveling.

People stood in twos and threes, weaving around each other like sleepy bees coming down from too much honey.

“Alright,” Hannah said with a yawn, mid-stretch, her bee wings drooping sadly at her back. “That’s a wrap on my social battery. I’m officially expired.”

“I’m shocked you lasted this long,” Ernie muttered, trying to shake Seamus, who had collapsed dramatically across his shoulder like a particularly clingy throw blanket.

Hermione, still pink-faced but composed, helped Ginny wrangle a tipsy Luna, who was loudly insisting someone had turned her shoes into tadpoles.

Harry sighed against Draco’s neck. “We should go.”

Draco nodded reluctantly. “Yeah. Before I combust.”

Still, neither of them moved.

Draco’s legs were beginning to go numb. His brain—unfortunately, along with everything else—remained painfully awake. Overstimulated. Horny. Absolutely not calm.

They stayed tangled for another minute, letting the room settle around them. Most people had cleared out in slow, giggly waves. A few lingered—Hermione was still chatting with Fred and George, her cheeks pink and her voice suspiciously soft. Pansy was nowhere to be seen, which only made Draco more suspicious.

He exhaled shakily. “Okay. We’re clear enough.”

Harry didn’t reply. Just stood abruptly, grabbing Draco’s wrist and hauling him up with him.

Draco let out a soft “Oof,” stumbling slightly as his legs tried to remember how to work. “Subtle,” he muttered.

But Harry didn’t answer. He was already steering them toward the nearest alcove, grip firm, expression unreadable—except for the very obvious urgency behind his eyes.

Oh.

Oh, they weren’t going back to the dorm yet.

They slipped behind a tapestry and into a narrow alcove still lit with soft, floating lanterns.

As soon as they were out of sight, Harry pushed Draco gently against the wall, crowding into his space with a kind of restraint that was rapidly fraying at the edges.

Draco’s breath caught, sharp and shallow.

“You,” Harry said, voice rough, like it was scraping the edge of control. But he didn’t finish the thought. Just surged forward and kissed him.

Draco melted instantly.

His hands threaded into Harry’s hair, tugging just enough to make him groan.

“You drive me insane,” Harry muttered against his mouth, the words more exhale than speech.

Draco shivered. “Good,” he breathed, dragging his nails down the side of Harry’s neck. “You fucking deserve it.”

Harry groaned—like actual, deep-in-his-chest groaned—and Draco felt it in every nerve.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

By the time they peeled themselves out of the alcove, the Room of Requirement was completely empty and their lips were raw from snogging.

Together, they did a slow lap of the room, checking for any stragglers or unfortunate party casualties passed out under tables. Most of the leftover chaos was harmless—crumpled cups, glitter everywhere, one lone shoe on a couch.

They reached the last bathroom door.

Draco, ever the overachiever, pushed it open without knocking.

And immediately regretted it.

There was Ron. Trousers shoved halfway down his thighs. Freckles. Too many freckles. Pansy was perched on the counter in front of him, bodysuit pulled down, bra very much not where it was supposed to be, one heel still on, the other dangling off her toe. Her hand—

Draco slammed the door so fast it rattled on the hinges.

“Absolutely not,” he said aloud, voice sharp and traumatized.

Harry blinked, eyes wide. “What?”

Draco turned slowly, face drained of color. “I—I think I just walked in on Pansy giving Ron a hand job.”

Harry choked. “Oh, fucking hell.”

They left the room quickly.

For a beat, it was quiet. Horrifyingly quiet.

Then, Harry muttered under his breath, “I mean, no offense to Ron, but that is so fucking unfair.”

Draco blinked, whipping around. “I’m sorry, what?”

Harry had the audacity to look genuinely put out. “He gets his first hand job before I do? It’s obscene. He’s doing everything out of order. There should be rules.”

Draco flushed, the tips of his ears burning. “I—I mean, we could… fix that. If that’s really the issue.”

Harry’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide with something halfway between panic and affection. “I didn’t say that to pressure you, love.”

Draco looked down, suddenly fascinated by his wings. He tugged on them uselessly. “I know. I just—didn’t realize you wanted—” He cleared his throat. “Never mind.”

Harry stepped in, slow and careful, like he was approaching a spooked animal. “I want that with you,” he said, voice warm and low. “But only if you want it, too. Not because Ron got there first.”

That earned him a snort. Draco’s blush deepened, but his mouth twitched. “Gods,” he muttered, “what a sentence.”

Harry’s grin was soft and crooked, like he didn’t know if he should be relieved or more flustered.

Draco, for his part, was still vaguely dying inside. And hot. Merlin, he was too warm—both inside his skin and out of it. The castle was quiet as they made their way through the halls, each step echoing softly off stone walls. The cool air did nothing to help.

By the time they made it back to the Gryffindor dormitory, the common room was empty and the fire had burned low. Their room, mercifully, was dim and quiet—Dean, Seamus, and Neville were already asleep, snoring gently in their beds. Ron, unsurprisingly, hadn’t returned. For… reasons Draco refused to think about.

Draco stood in the middle of the room for a moment, looking down at himself. At the costume.

He’d needed help getting into it earlier.

Which meant…

He swallowed hard.

“Harry,” he whispered, padding over to his boyfriend and tugging at his wrist, dragging him toward the bathroom without waiting for a reply.

Harry blinked, halfway through removing the remaining purple tint and shimmer from his skin, the last traces of the merman glamor still clinging to his collarbones. “What’s up?”

Draco hovered awkwardly in the middle of the bathroom, arms stiff at his sides. “This—um. It zips up the back.”

Harry’s eyes flicked to the collar still wrapped around Draco’s neck, then down the clingy, remains of the costume.

“Want help?” he asked gently.

“Yes,” Draco said, and then immediately added, in a rush, “But—um—I’m not wearing anything underneath it.”

Harry froze.

“Oh.”

Draco flushed scarlet and stared at the floor. “So just—don’t, like, look too much or anything—”

“Draco,” Harry said, voice low and suddenly very serious, “I’ve been trying not to look too much all night.”

That did not help. Not even a little bit.

Draco groaned and buried his face in his hands. “You’re so bad at helping.”

“I’m being honest!” Harry protested, stepping in closer, voice softening. “I’m sorry, I’ll behave.”

Draco peeked between his fingers, still flushed to the tips of his ears. “This is very humiliating for me.”

Harry smiled gently and reached up, fingers brushing the collar at Draco’s throat.

Harry smiled gently and reached up, fingers brushing the collar at Draco’s throat. “It shouldn’t be. But…” He turned slightly, giving Draco a little space, his tone turning careful. “If you’d rather do it yourself—”

Draco shook his head quickly. “No. Just—don’t be weird about it.”

“I’m literally trying not to be weird about it.”

“Then don’t say a single word.”

Harry laughed under his breath and stepped behind him. “Okay, no words. Just zipper.”

Draco rolled his eyes but held still, heart hammering in his chest. He could feel Harry’s presence close behind him, warm and steady. Then—light fingers brushed the top of his spine.

He tensed instinctively.

“Sorry,” Harry murmured.

“It’s fine,” Draco said, not breathing.

The zipper came down slowly. Each inch exposed more skin, more heat. Draco could feel the costume loosening. The fabric whispering as it slipped lower.

The cool air hit his bare back and he shivered.

Harry’s fingers paused, right at the small of his back.

Draco turned his head just slightly. “You’re looking.”

“I’m trying not to,” Harry muttered, sounding genuinely pained. “But you’re literally glowing. And mostly naked. And I’m fifteen.”

Draco huffed a laugh, still pink. “Excuses, Potter.”

The costume pooled delicately at Draco’s waist, still clinging to his hips. He caught it with his hands before it could fall further and turned, holding it to his body like armor.

Harry had the decency to look away, cheeks flushed.

Draco hesitated, then whispered, “Thank you.”

Harry glanced back just enough to meet his eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Anytime.”

Draco gave him a flat look. “Get out so I can change.”

Harry backed toward the door, hands raised. “Yep. Leaving. Immediately. Respectfully.”

The door shut behind him with a soft click.

Chapter Text

Hermione, saint that she was, appeared mid-morning with three steaming cups of tea like some divine post-party healer.

“You are an angel, Mione,” Draco said sincerely, accepting his cup like it was sacred. He’d tied his still-too-long hair up into something that barely passed as functional, though the bangs refused to cooperate and hung annoyingly in his eyes. Until Pansy recovered enough to wield scissors again, he was stuck like this—and frankly, he wasn’t sure he could even look her in the eyes after last night.

They’d claimed the best seats by the fire—Harry half-draped across the couch they were sharing, head heavy in Draco’s lap, groaning like he’d just survived a war.

He reached blindly for Draco’s hand, found it, and promptly threaded Draco’s fingers into his own hair, forcing them to settle there with the clear expectation of being petted.

Draco rolled his eyes but obliged, carding his fingers through the messy black curls like it was second nature.

Hermione settled into the armchair across from them, looking far too composed.

“Where’s Ron?” she asked eventually, glancing toward the dorm stairs. “I figured he’d be up by now. He got the most sleep out of all of us.”

Draco blinked at her. “What are you talking about? Ron didn’t get back until after Harry and I. He still wasn’t in the dorm when we’d both showered and gone to bed.”

Hermione frowned. “What? I thought he left before us—I didn’t see him when I was, er… leaving.”

“You weren’t looking hard enough,” Harry mumbled into Draco’s stomach, voice muffled and sleepy.

Draco immediately went tense. His cheeks flushed, hand stuttering in Harry’s hair.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

Draco stared into his tea like it might offer a portal to another dimension where he didn’t see Ronald Weasley’s freckled pecker in the hands of his oldest friend. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

Harry snorted into his lap. “Draco walked in on him and Pansy last night. He’s traumatized.”

Hermione blinked. “Oh.”

Draco groaned. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you knew that was going to happen.”

“I didn’t know,” she said calmly. “I just… strongly suspected.”

Draco made a wounded noise and sank further into the cushions.

There was a pause. Then, Hermione asked, “So are they… dating?”

“Doubt it,” Draco muttered, sipping his tea. “Pretty sure it was just—stress management. Via genitals.

Harry wheezed into his stomach.

Hermione winced. “That’s a horrible way to phrase that.”

Draco took another sip of tea. “Not as horrible as seeing it.”

Harry glanced up at Hermione, head still pillowed comfortably in Draco’s lap. “Are you… upset?”

Hermione paused, brows furrowing in honest thought. Then she shrugged. “Hard to be upset when I was maybe… possibly flirting with the twins while drunk.”

Draco choked on his tea. “Hermione, no.”

She gave him a serene look over the rim of her cup. “What? They were charming.”

“They’re too old for you,” Draco said, scandalized, gesturing wildly.

Hermione gave him a look—serene, smug, borderline dangerous. “Draco, I’m older than both of you. I turned sixteen in September. They don’t turn eighteen until April”

Draco opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“And excuse you,” she added, “you dated Adrian Pucey.”

Draco looked deeply offended. “I only did it to distract myself from how much I liked Harry! And then I kept doing it because it made Harry jealous!”

Harry’s head shot up from his lap. “Oi! I knew you did that on purpose!”

Hermione let out a snort, exasperated. “Oh, Harry, of course he was doing it on purpose. Gods, you’re hopelessly blind.”

Harry gaped at her, clearly betrayed. “You could’ve told me!”

Hermione arched a brow. “And deprive us all of getting to watch you both figure it out? Not a chance! Honestly, Draco, I wish you could’ve seen it—Harry researching Adrian like he was prepping for a bloody Auror on a mission.”

Harry groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “‘Mione—”

“No, I’m telling him,” she said cheerfully, ignoring him. “He asked everyone about Adrian. Full background check. Practically stalked him.”

“I was just making sure he wasn’t awful!”

“You made us follow them on their date under the cloak, Harry.” Hermione sipped her tea with the air of someone who had seen too much. “He was convinced he was just ‘worried’ about you dating a known player. As if that wasn’t jealousy all over his face.”

Harry huffed. “Every single person I talked to said Adrian was a player!”

“You lost it when Draco kissed him,” Hermione said, grinning now. “Absolutely short-circuited. And the best part? You didn’t even realize you were jealous—because you were still insisting you were into Cho Chang.”

Harry groaned and buried his face in Draco’s thigh, his ears and neck flaming red. “I know. Shut up. Shut up.”

Draco stroked his hair, practically glowing with smug delight. “This is the best day of my life.”

Hermione shrugged, still smug. “Anyway, point still stands that the twins aren’t too old for me. Honestly, I’ve dated older.”

Harry. “Ugh. Krum. That was so weird in hindsight…”

“Right?” Draco said, gesturing with his teacup like it made his point more valid. “He was, what, eighteen? Nineteen? Basically ancient.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Alright, that’s enough. I barely kissed the guy, no need to jump down my throat.” She took a long sip of tea.

Harry raised an eyebrow from Draco’s lap. “I thought you liked Ron?”

“I did!” Hermione groaned, then backpedaled. “Okay—I still do, a little. Maybe. Ugh.” She flopped back into her chair with a dramatic sigh. “But we fight all the time, and he’s so frustrating, and sometimes he acts like he doesn’t even like me back!”

Draco sipped his tea, unimpressed. “Ah, yes. The classic strategy—if the boy you like is emotionally unavailable, why not try two of his older brothers. Ingenious.”

Hermione flushed, her fingers tightening around her mug. “They’re… attentive,” she said, eyes fixed on the tea. “Funny. Smart. And they actually pay attention when I speak. It’s… refreshing.”

Draco arched a brow. “So you mean they treat you like a person.”

“I mean,” she said, a little too sharply, “maybe I’m done waiting for Ron to catch up. He acts like I’m a sibling one minute and a threat the next.”

Draco finished off his tea and gave a solemn nod. “Fair.”

He placed the empty cup down with a delicate clink, then nudged Harry off his lap with one hand. “Alright, enough emotional processing. I need to find Pansy.”

Harry made a wounded sound as he slid off Draco’s lap, flopping dramatically onto the cushions. “Why?”

Draco turned, already moving toward the stairs. “Because one: I need her to explain what the hell last night was with Weasley, and two: she’s the only one who can help me escape this hair before I strangle myself with it in my sleep.”

Harry propped himself up on his elbows, lips curling into a soft pout. “Don’t cut it. I like it.”

Draco paused, glanced over his shoulder, and smirked. “I’ll consider it. But only because you look like a kicked puppy.”

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

It took Draco longer than he liked to track Pansy down—long enough for him to seriously regret not asking Harry to borrow the map.

By the time he found her, she was curled up in a secluded corner of the library, half-buried in a stack of books, looking far too innocent for someone who’d wrecked his brain and his social stability in under 24 hours.

“You!” Draco snapped, pointing a dramatic, accusing finger in her direction. “I cannot believe you!”

Pansy looked up, startled. “What?! What did I do?!”

“You and Weasley!”

Her eyes went comically wide. “What?! He told you?!”

Draco scoffed, scandalized. “No! I had the absolute misfortune of walking in on it myself—thank you very much. Of course, you were both far too busy to even notice.”

Pansy blinked. Then blinked again. And then—

She grinned.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, delighted. “You actually saw?”

Draco groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “Unfortunately, yes. There are images burned into my brain, Pans. Freckled images.”

Pansy looked like she might cry from joy. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all week.”

“It’s not funny! It’s traumatic!” Draco hissed, lowering his voice and glancing around like Madam Pince might appear and hex them both for public obscenity. “Please. Tell me you’re not dating him.”

“Oh, of course not,” Pansy scoffed, waving a hand like the idea was ridiculous. “There’s nothing wrong with a bit of fooling around, Draco.”

Draco groaned. “You can’t just casually hook up with Ron Weasley like it’s a normal Saturday.”

“Why not? He’s surprisingly good with his hands.”

“Pansy!”

She grinned. “What? You asked.”

“No, I did not! I don’t tell you things like that about Harry!”

“Please,” she drawled, leaning back in her chair. “That’s only because you and Harry have barely done anything worth talking about.”

Draco flinched before he could stop it. That one landed—because it was true. And the worst part? He knew it wasn’t Harry’s fault. Harry was more than willing.

Pansy blinked, her expression softening the tiniest bit. “Oh, honey,” she said quickly, sitting up straighter. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant… if there was something to tell, you’d have told me. And you haven’t, so I figured—”

“You figured right,” Draco muttered, looking away.

Pansy sighed, the drama dropping from her tone as she leaned forward on her elbows. “Okay. So… why not?”

Draco exhaled slowly, fingers curling around the edge of the table. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I do. Merlin, I do. But every time we get close, I freeze up. And I know Harry would never push me. I know that. But I see the way he looks at me and I—”

“You feel like you’re supposed to be ready,” Pansy finished gently.

He nodded. “Like I’m supposed to be something. Confident. In control. Worth wanting.”

“Oh, Draco.” Her voice was soft now, heartbreakingly kind. “You are all of those things. Especially the last one.”

He gave her a look, dry and sharp-edged. “You saw me nearly have a full-body crisis over a bodysuit.”

“And you wore it anyway,” Pansy shot back. “You showed up, wings and all, and sat in Harry Potter’s lap like you owned the bloody room. That’s confidence, darling. That’s bravery.”

He didn’t answer for a moment. Just tapped a finger against the table. “I’m scared I’ll mess it up.”

“You won’t.”

“I could.”

“You won’t.”

He finally glanced over at her. “You’re very annoying.”

Pansy smiled, bright and proud. “I know. But I’m also right. You’re allowed to be nervous, Draco. You’re allowed to go slow. You’re allowed to need time. And when you’re ready—really ready—you won’t have to ask if you are.”

Draco stared at her, something unspoken softening in his chest.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

Pansy waved a hand, already rolling her eyes. “Ugh, don’t get soft on me now. Sentimental Draco is so jarring.”

He huffed a laugh.

“Anyway,” she continued, sitting up straighter with a glint in her eye, “let’s not pretend you didn’t come here for the good stuff. I’ve been dying to tell someone.”

Draco raised a brow. “Should I be scared?”

“Yes,” Pansy said brightly. “But also intrigued.”

He sighed, already regretting everything. “Fine. Get on with it.”

Pansy clapped her hands once, far too delighted for someone about to launch into a tale involving Ron Weasley of all people.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Draco hadn’t let Pansy cut his hair—yet. The length was still on trial. He wasn’t fully committed to keeping it forever, but… he couldn’t deny he liked the way Harry looked at him when it spilled down to his hips. The way he touched it like it was something precious.

So, for now, it stayed.

That said, with Quidditch season kicking off, it was quickly becoming a practical nightmare. After nearly flying blind in practice, he finally broke down and asked one of the girls to show him a charm to keep it out of his face. Dignity be damned.

Meanwhile, the valiant effort Harry was making not to snap and curse the toad became even harder when Hagrid returned. Umbridge, predictably, had it out for him. She was clearly set on getting him sacked, and there wasn’t much they could do except loudly and enthusiastically enjoy all of Hagrid’s lessons in the hope she couldn’t find an excuse.

Ron, somehow, was thriving. Quidditch was going well for him, nerves and all. It probably didn’t hurt that Pansy was "fooling around" with him—her words, not Draco’s. Apparently, hooking up with one of the hottest girls in their year was doing wonders for Ron’s confidence. Draco would’ve found it irritating if it wasn’t so obvious the poor bloke needed the win.

To everyone’s surprise, the new confidence made him significantly more tolerable—especially to Hermione. Pansy, for her part, had taken it upon herself to personally bully Ron into behaving like a halfway decent human being whenever the three of them were in the same room. Which was often.

And then, somehow, they won their first Quidditch match.

The high didn’t last.

Harry was fraying at the edges—snappish, restless, dark circles blooming under his eyes like bruises. One night, curled up in the quiet of the common room well past midnight, he’d admitted to Draco in a low, miserable whisper that he felt like he was unraveling.

December only made it worse.

The snow came early and thick, and with it, an avalanche of fifth-year coursework. The castle transformed into a drafty maze of frost-covered windows, loud halls, and frantic students buried under essays. Draco and Hermione’s prefect duties doubled: supervising the holiday decorations (which, shockingly, did not charm themselves), monitoring the stir-crazy first and second years during icy break times, and worst of all—patrolling the corridors in shifts with Argus Filch, who seemed convinced the "holiday spirit" would manifest as a string of illegal duels.

Draco barely had time to breathe, let alone keep Harry grounded. But he tried. Merlin, he tried.

The last D.A. meeting before the holidays was mercifully uneventful—no dramatic spell mishaps, no surprise inspections. Just tired students running through defensive spells with half their usual enthusiasm. Everyone was exhausted. Everyone needed a break.

Cho, however, seemed to have missed the memo. She’d been particularly irritating, hovering too close to Harry, trying to lure him beneath enchanted mistletoe like it was subtle. It wasn’t. At least now, Harry had run clean out of patience and wasn’t afraid to shut her down—curt, cold, and wonderfully uninterested.

Draco had never loved him more.

Still, the tension in Harry’s shoulders didn’t fade. His jaw was tight the entire walk back, every step wound with frustration he hadn’t voiced. They were all stretched thin, but Harry was unraveling faster than the rest.

They needed a break. Something—anything—to take the edge off before it all came crashing down.

When they made it back to the dorm, neither of them spoke. They pulled off their robes and changed into pajamas in heavy silence, the kind that clung to the walls and settled in their bones. Draco started toward his own bed, out of habit more than anything—but Harry caught his wrist.

No words. Just a tug.

Draco hesitated only a second before climbing into Harry’s bed instead. He preferred the warmth of him anyway—the steady heartbeat, the way Harry curled around him like a shield even when he was the one who needed protecting. It was safer there. Quieter.

He let himself be pulled in close, face tucked under Harry’s chin, and exhaled for the first time all day.

Draco’s dreams were always strange—half-lucid wanderings stitched together by old memories and fear and flashes of things he didn’t remember but weren’t important enough to report to his Godfather about.

He was standing in the Forbidden Forest.

Not the real one—this version was soft around the edges, as if someone had cast a gentle blur over everything. The trees pulsed with dim silver light, the air was thick with magic and moths—pale green, like his costume, wings shimmering as they flitted around him in a slow, dreamlike spiral.

And Harry was there.

Except Harry wasn’t just Harry. He was glowing faintly, skin kissed with moonlight, his eyes gold like firelight, and his smile—calm. Peaceful. Like everything in the world had finally quieted.

Draco reached out for him.

Their fingers brushed—and the moment they touched, the moths burst into a swirl of light, like stars scattering into the sky.

The silver air twisted.

The trees began to blacken at the edges, their glow flickering out like dying embers. The soft moss under Draco’s feet burned away, curling into ash with every step. The moths—so delicate, so radiant—shuddered mid-flight and dropped like stones, their wings folding in on themselves as if snuffed out.

Draco blinked, heart starting to pound. “Harry?”

But Harry wasn’t there.

The glow was gone. The warmth. The stillness.

He turned—and the forest had vanished. It wasn’t the Forbidden Forest anymore. It was stone. Familiar, cursed stone.

The Room of Requirement.

But not as it had been. This was twisted, wrong.

It was the version he remembered from that night.

The fire. The smoke. The crushing heat pressing in from every side.

He stumbled backward, coughing, choking on memory and ash. Flames licked up the walls, devouring books, wood, spell-dampened furniture that had no business burning as fast as it did. Screaming—his own? Someone else’s? He couldn’t tell. His ears were ringing too loud.

“Harry!”

No answer.

He spun in place, smoke burning his eyes, lungs on fire, panic surging in his chest.

And then—

Draco jolted awake to the sound of Harry screaming.

For one disoriented second, he thought he was still dreaming—until Harry thrashed hard enough to knock him halfway off the bed.

“Harry—!” Draco scrambled upright, catching himself on the edge of the mattress.

Next to them, Ron was already out of bed, stumbling toward them with wide, panicked eyes. “What’s happening—?”

Harry kicked out again, caught in the grip of something vicious and invisible. His face was twisted in pain, breath ragged, fists clenched in the blankets like he was fighting something off in his sleep.

“Harry, wake up,” Draco said, urgent now, reaching out—

But Harry flailed again, narrowly missing Draco’s face.

“Bloody hell,” Ron hissed, stumbling around the foot of the bed, wide-eyed and pale in the moonlight pouring through the windows.

Draco ignored him, his focus entirely on Harry—on the way he was thrashing in the bed, tangled in sheets, drenched in sweat. He looked like he was drowning in something only he could see.

“Harry!” Draco shouted, all thoughts of keeping quiet for the other boys long gone. Seamus was already sitting up in bed, and Neville looked half-asleep and terrified.

Harry’s eyes snapped open—but it wasn’t relief that followed. It was panic. Disorientation. He clutched his head like it was splitting in two, eyes wide and unseeing as he glanced around at all of them.

And then he rolled over and vomited off the side of the bed.

Draco was at his side in seconds, rubbing his back, murmuring nonsense just to fill the silence.

“Do you want to go to Pomfrey?” he asked quietly, trying to keep his voice steady even though his heart was pounding like mad.

But Harry wasn’t listening. He was somewhere else entirely—eyes wild, breathing ragged, like he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs.

“Harry—look at me—Harry, it’s okay, it was just a dream—”

Harry sat up suddenly, like the air had forced him upright. He was shaking. Completely soaked in sweat. And when he finally managed to speak, his voice came out hoarse, cracking around the words.

“Your dad,” he panted, grabbing at Ron’s sleeve like it anchored him. “Ron. Your dad’s… he’s been attacked.”

Ron blinked, blank and pale. “What?”

“He’s been bitten,” Harry panted, eyes wild. “It’s bad—serious. There was blood everywhere—”

“I’m going for help,” Neville said quickly, already bolting from the room.

“Harry, mate,” Ron said shakily, “you… you were just dreaming—”

“No!” Harry snapped, fury cutting through the panic in his voice. “It wasn’t a dream. I was there—I saw it—”

“Harry, you’re not well,” Ron said, uncertain but trying to keep calm.

Draco rounded on him. “Don’t brush him off.”

Ron flinched at the venom in Draco’s voice.

“If Harry says it happened, it happened,” Draco said, pulling Harry close and guiding him down against his chest. “Let’s just wait for McGonagall, alright?”

Harry was still trembling in his arms, fingers pressed hard against his scar. Draco threaded his fingers through his boyfriend’s damp curls, grounding him, whispering quiet things that didn’t matter—just to fill the space.

Whether it was one minute or ten, Draco didn’t know. He didn’t care. He sat there, holding Harry close, feeling every ragged breath, every flinch.

Then hurried footsteps thundered up the stairs, and Neville’s voice rang out. “Over here, Professor—”

Professor McGonagall swept into the dormitory, tartan robe billowing behind her, glasses slightly askew. “What is it, Potter? Where does it hurt?”

Harry sat up, still pale and shaking, and began explaining. Not a dream. Not a hallucination. He told her everything. Again.

Draco watched McGonagall’s mouth tighten in that way she did when she didn’t want to believe something, but couldn’t argue with it either.

It was only after his insistence—sharp and unrelenting—that McGonagall finally nodded.

“Very well. Come with me. Quickly.”

Draco refused to let go of Harry the entire walk to Dumbledore’s office, and Harry didn’t ask him to. They followed McGonagall through dim corridors and cold stairwells, until the familiar phoenix-knocker appeared.

Dumbledore was already alert, waiting, and far more inclined to believe Harry’s story than McGonagall had been.

Without hesitation, he sent word to raise the alarm and make sure Mr. Weasley was found. Then he dispatched McGonagall to summon the rest of the Weasleys and made arrangements to have all of them sent to Grimmauld Place at once.

Draco sat there quietly, still gripping Harry’s hand.

He didn’t let go until they were at Number Twelve, and Sirius was pulling Harry into a hug—arms strong, voice quiet, petting his godson’s hair like he didn’t know what else to do with all the worry written on Harry’s face.

Harry told the story again. The same story he’d told McGonagall. Dumbledore. Ron.

Sirius and Remus exchanged a glance—quiet, tired, familiar in that way people were when they’d been through too many nights like this.

“Alright, Harry,” Sirius said gently, one hand still curled around the back of Harry’s neck. “That’s enough for tonight. You need rest.”

“I’m fine,” Harry started to argue, but his voice was hoarse. Thin. He didn’t sound fine at all.

Remus gave him a look that brokered no room for debate. “Bed. That’s not a suggestion.”

Harry exhaled like the air had finally run out. He nodded.

Draco didn’t wait for an invitation.

“I’ll take him,” Draco said simply.

Neither man argued.

“Thank you, Draco,” Sirius said, his voice low but sincere. “We’ve got the Weasleys.”

Draco nodded. He didn’t envy them that task—Ginny pale and trembling, the twins shock-still and uncharacteristically silent. And Ron...

Ron looked like someone had vanished the floor out from under him.

Draco didn’t linger. He steered Harry gently down the hall and up the stairs toward the guest room, ignoring the churning in his own gut.

He could fall apart later.

Right now, Harry needed sleep.

And he’d be damned if he left his side.

It wasn’t until they were curled up together—Harry pressed tightly to his chest, head tucked under Draco’s chin—that some of the tension started to bleed out of the air.

Draco carded his fingers through Harry’s hair, slow and gentle, like maybe if he was soft enough, the fear wouldn’t stick.

“Do you think I’m being possessed?” Harry whispered suddenly, voice raw and small.

Draco froze for only a second. Then, just as softly, “No, love. I don’t.”

Harry didn’t relax. If anything, he seemed to curl tighter, like something inside him was pulling in too many directions at once.

“But I—I’m so angry all the time,” he said, voice shaking. “I feel like I’m going to explode and I don’t even know why I’m so angry, I just am. It’s like—it’s like there’s something inside me.”

Draco’s breath caught. But he didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away.

He just kept his hand moving, slow circles pressed into the small of Harry’s back, grounding him with touch as much as words.

“Whatever this is,” he murmured, voice low, steady, “it’s not possession.”

Harry was silent, but listening. Draco could feel it in the way he held his breath, just slightly.

“You can ask Pansy,” Draco went on. “She told me once there were times she’d black out—wake up hours later with no idea where she’d been. That’s what real possession looks like.”

He paused, then added quietly, “Unless you’ve been keeping a very dramatic secret from me, I don’t think that’s happening here.”

Harry let out the faintest, shaky laugh. “No secrets.”

“Then we’ll figure it out,” Draco said, firm now. “Together.”

Harry didn’t speak. But he buried his face in Draco’s shirt and held on tighter.

That was answer enough.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

They woke late, wrapped around each other in Harry’s bed, the morning sun filtered through the curtains. Harry was still quiet, but his breathing was easier, the tension in his jaw softer. Draco didn’t rush him. They moved slow, dressing and dragging themselves down to the kitchen where the smell of toast and tea guided them like a beacon.

Mrs. Weasley was already there, bustling around the table, her eyes red but her posture solid. As soon as she saw Harry, her face crumpled, and she crossed the room in three quick steps to pull him into a crushing hug.

“Oh, Harry, dear,” she said, voice thick. “Thank you. I don’t know how you knew—but thank you.”

Harry stood stiff for a second, clearly unsure how to receive it, but then he sighed and let her hold him, nodding against her shoulder.

She eventually let go, wiping her eyes. “Arthur’s stable now. St. Mungo’s is keeping him for a bit, but he’s awake. He remembers it. He said it was quick—he barely had time to panic.”

Harry gave her a faint smile, and Draco could feel the relief roll off him in waves.

“You’re welcome to come see him,” Mrs. Weasley added gently. “He’d like to thank you himself.”

Harry hesitated—then shook his head. “Maybe later. I’m… I’m glad he’s okay, but I think I need a bit more time before hospitals.”

She nodded, like she understood completely. “Of course, dear.”

Draco, who’d hung back to give them space, stepped up and brushed his hand against Harry’s. He was surprised when Harry laced their fingers together and kissed him right there in front of everyone.

And… he did seem better.

His shoulders weren’t so tight. His face less pale. His eyes—though tired—weren’t haunted the way they’d been the night before.

Maybe a little rest. A little reassurance. Maybe that had helped more than either of them expected.

Mrs. Weasley herded them all toward the fireplace an hour later, gently but firmly pushing coats into arms. They were going to St. Mungo’s for a few hours before they’d return to Grimmauld.

“Christmas with all of us under one roof,” she said brightly, pressing kisses to every forehead in reach. “Merlin help us all.”

As the Weasleys disappeared one by one into the green flames, Sirius wandered into the drawing room, tugging on a scarf and looking far too smug for someone who had just been told they were hosting a full household for the Holiday.

“Remus and I are going to grab more supplies,” he said, ruffling Harry’s hair as he passed. “More food, more firewhisky, more chocolate. Obviously the essentials.”

As the front door slammed behind them, Harry turned to look at Draco. “Looks like we’re stuck here.”

Draco let himself melt into the couch, stretching luxuriously across Harry’s lap with a low, theatrical sigh. “Whatever will we do?” he said, back of his hand to his forehead like a tragic heroine. “Trapped. Alone. Unspeakably bored.”

Harry gave him a look. “You are the worst.”

“And yet,” Draco purred, tilting his head to look up at him, “you’re still here.”

Harry didn’t respond. He just shifted, hand sliding over Draco’s waist—warm and steady—and leaned down until their foreheads bumped gently together. The contact was light. Easy. Familiar.

Draco’s heart gave a traitorous thump.

“You do feel better today,” he said softly, fingertips brushing Harry’s cheek. “You look more like you.”

Harry hummed. “I think sleeping on you helped.”

Draco arched a brow. “Oh? Should I market that?”

Harry kissed him, quiet and slow and warm.

Draco sighed into it, letting the moment pull him under, letting his fingers curl in the hem of Harry’s jumper. The kiss deepened—unhurried, but hungry, like Harry was catching up on something he’d been missing.

And maybe he had been.

When Harry’s hand drifted under Draco’s shirt, feather-light and reverent, Draco didn’t stop him. He didn’t want to. Not today. Not after last night. Not when the last month had been miserable and too busy for fooling around.

“Upstairs?” Harry asked, voice low, barely more than breath.

Draco nodded, throat suddenly dry.

They didn’t speak on the way to Harry’s room. Didn’t have to.

The door shut behind them with a soft click, the lock sliding into place like a final decision.

Draco had had enough of waiting.

They’d been edging toward this for months. Too many nights spent with Harry’s hands under his shirt, stopping just short. Too many kisses that ended with both of them breathless and cumming in their pants from endless frotting.

Draco pushed Harry back onto the bed, straddling him in one smooth motion. His hair spilled forward like a curtain of pale silk, some of it brushing against Harry’s chest, some sliding over Draco’s bare arms as he reached for the hem of his shirt.

His hands were shaking, but he yanked it off anyway—exposing pale skin, a racing heart, and the line of his hair that fell like water down his back.

Harry looked wrecked already. Eyes wide. Lips parted.

Good.

Draco tossed his shirt to the side, hair cascading forward like silver silk. It fell around their faces as he leaned down, the strands brushing Harry’s skin, cocooning them in a veil of pale shimmer and heat.

His bare chest grazed Harry’s shirt and the contact made him hiss, breath catching sharp in his throat. It was too much stimulation—and not nearly enough.

He pushed up on his knees, just enough to grab the hem of Harry’s shirt and yank it over his head. Harry lifted his without question, eyes never leaving Draco’s.

Once the shirt was gone, Draco let his hands trail down—palms flat, reverent—over Harry’s chest. Warm skin, smooth muscle. His fingers trembled as they slid lower. His voice was barely audible.

“I want to try something,” he said. “Can I take these off?”

Harry’s breath hitched. His mouth twitched like he was trying to play it cool, but it broke into something soft and wrecked.

“Please,” he said—half groan, half smile.

Draco swallowed hard. His fingers found the button of Harry’s jeans, and it took him a few seconds to undo it because his hands were shaking like mad.

He’d felt Harry through denim before—grinding, gasping, desperate in the dark—but now, pulling down the jeans, inch by inch…

He realized he’d underestimated.

The bulge in Harry’s boxers made Draco go still.

Oh.

He stared, brain momentarily short-circuiting.

That was… more than expected. Bigger. Definitely real and very, very not hypothetical anymore.

His fingers curled into the waistband of Harry’s boxers, and slowly—carefully—he pulled them down. The fabric caught briefly on the curve of Harry’s hips, then slipped lower, and Draco watched as he was finally exposed.

And… yeah. He’d had an idea before. Thought he knew what to expect.

He hadn’t.

Harry made a soft, embarrassed sound—like maybe he thought Draco was staring too long.

His breath caught, sharp and unsteady. “Okay,” he said, voice hoarse. “Wow.”

His cheeks flushed hot. His thighs clenched. His hands twitched where they hovered, unsure if they were allowed to go further.

Then Harry’s voice broke through the thick silence, flustered and breathy.

“I don’t know what to think with you staring at me like that.”

Draco blinked. His eyes flicked up from where they’d been very intently not looking away. Harry’s face was flushed a deep pink, his hair a mess, his hands fisting the sheets like he didn’t know what to do with them.

Draco’s ears went hot.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, voice cracking. He looked away for a second—then back again, because how could he not? “You’re just… really big.”

Harry let out a breath that sounded like it was trying to be a laugh and a panic attack at the same time. “That’s not helping.”

“Shut up before I lose my nerve, damn it,” Draco snapped—more panicked than angry.

He moved before he could think too much, hand hovering for just a moment, then diving in. His thumb brushed over the leaking tip—slick and warm—and Harry exhaled hard, whole body twitching beneath him.

Draco’s eyes flicked lower, watching the way Harry reacted as he traced his finger down the thick, pulsing vein that ran the length of him.

He swallowed. His voice dropped, rough and unsure. “T-Tell me what to do.”

Not because he didn’t want to. But because he didn’t know what Harry wanted—and gods, he needed to get it right.

Harry groaned, low and already breathless. “Whatever you do will be—fuck, Draco—”

His words broke off in a moan as Draco wrapped his hand around him and started stroking—slow at first, testing the rhythm.

Harry arched into it almost instantly, hips pushing up, chasing the pressure.

“Harder,” he gasped.

Draco’s breath hitched.

Oh. Oh shit.

Draco’s heart nearly stopped. Or maybe it was racing so fast it just blurred into one long, deafening thud in his ears.

He tightened his grip slightly and picked up the pace, watching the way Harry’s chest rose sharply, the way his fingers twisted tighter in the sheets like he was holding on for dear life.

“Fuck,” Harry breathed, voice ragged, hips jerking up again into Draco’s fist. “You’re so—fuck, that’s good.”

Draco felt like he was vibrating. Power buzzed through him—not magic, but something just as potent. The heat between his legs was nearly unbearable now, and the way Harry sounded, the way he moved, the way he needed—it was overwhelming.

“Like that?” he asked, voice rough and barely there.

Harry nodded, eyes squeezed shut. “Yes—don’t stop.”

Draco didn’t.

He changed the angle, twisted his wrist slightly on the upstroke like he’d read about in one of those Sirius had gotten him, and the result was immediate. Harry swore, loud and cracked, his entire body arching like he’d been struck by lightning.

Draco smirked—just a little. He couldn’t help it.

Harry’s cock was flushed red, slick with precome, heavy in Draco’s hand—and gods, it was beautiful. Thick and flushed and leaking, twitching with every shaky breath Harry took.

Draco had never done this before. Not with anyone.

I want that in my mouth, his brain supplied, unhelpfully.

He probably should’ve waited. They’d barely just crossed into handjob territory. But Harry was trembling beneath him, knuckles white in the sheets, his abs jumping with every stroke, and Draco couldn’t think straight.

And—and—he was already there. Already between Harry’s thighs. Already bent low, his hair brushing against bare skin, his lips just inches away.

He could just… lean in.

So he did.

Without warning, he stopped stroking and wrapped one hand firmly around the base, holding him steady.

Harry choked out a confused sound, half-protest, half-plea—but before he could ask why, Draco leaned in and flattened his tongue at the base, dragging a slow, deliberate lick all the way up the underside.

Harry shattered.

“Oh—Bunny—” his voice cracked on the nickname, legs trembling, chest heaving like he couldn’t breathe.

Draco’s eyes flicked up, lips slick, pupils blown wide.

And Merlin help him—he wanted more.

Harry was warm and smooth and tasted like salt and skin and something deeper, something musky and dark. Draco was already addicted.

He wrapped his lips around the head again, tongue curling under it, then sank down further—too fast. He gagged, eyes watering immediately, but Harry let out a broken groan that shot straight through Draco’s spine.

He pulled off, breath shaking, spit connecting his lips to the tip in a shining thread. Then tried again.

Gagged again.

This time, Harry’s hand found his hair—tangled in the silk strands, grounding him, trembling fingers threading through as Draco took him deeper.

He lapped and sucked, desperate and messy, not sure what he was doing but loving the way Harry sounded—completely unhinged, panting like he was about to lose control.

“You’re doing… so good,” Harry gasped, voice thick, low, wrecked.

Draco moaned around him at the praise, pulling him into the back of his throat again, over and over. He was gagging himself, choking on it, spit running down his chin and dripping onto Harry. His eyes were soaked with tears. The noises his throat was making were obscene.

He didn’t stop.

He didn’t want to stop.

Harry cried out again, hips twitching up. “Holy fuck—”

Draco gurgled around him, practically drooling like a broken faucet, and still couldn’t get enough.

Gods, he thought faintly, deliriously, I’m such a cockslut.

Draco could barely think anymore. His jaw ached, his throat was raw, and he was leaking into his own pants, unbearably hard from nothing but this—Harry’s voice, Harry’s body, the sound of his name falling apart in Harry’s mouth.

Draco moaned again, deep in his chest, vibrating around Harry as he took him all the way in, nose pressed to dark curls, lashes fluttering wet and desperate.

“Fuck—Draco—I’m gonna—” Harry’s voice cracked hard, high and panicked.

But Draco didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

If anything, he hollowed his cheeks and sucked harder.

Harry’s whole body arched, hands fisting in Draco’s hair like he didn’t know whether to pull him off or hold him there forever.

“I—shit—I can’t—Draco—”

And then it hit.

Harry gasped, full-body shaking, and came with a strangled, wrecked sound that Draco knew would haunt him in the best possible way for the rest of his life.

Draco tried to take it—messy, frantic, choking a little as Harry spilled down his throat. Some of it slipped past his lips, hot and bitter and so much, and he didn’t even flinch. Just swallowed what he could, still sucking gently through it, like he needed to wring every last drop out of him.

Harry collapsed back against the bed, boneless, blinking up at the ceiling like he’d been hit by a freight train.

Draco finally pulled off with a wet pop, mouth red and swollen, chin shiny with spit. He wiped the back of his hand across his lips, dazed and trembling, his long hair tangled around his shoulders and stuck to his chest.

He looked completely wrecked. He felt wrecked.

And Harry? Harry looked like he was trying to remember how to speak English.

“…holy shit,” Harry rasped.

Draco sat back on his heels, licking his lips, still catching his breath. “Was that… good?” he asked, like he hadn’t just tried sucked the soul out of his boyfriend through his dick.

Harry blinked slowly. “You cannot ask that like you didn’t just do the most insane thing I’ve ever felt in my life.”

Draco’s grin was shaky and flushed, somewhere between cocky and falling apart. His cheeks were burning, lips swollen, voice wrecked. “Good.”

Then, quieter—more frantic, more real: “Also… I’m dying. My jaw’s broken. My dignity’s gone. I want to come so bad it hurts. Please help.”

He sounded breathless. Pitiful. Like he was seconds from vibrating out of his own skin.

Harry huffed a laugh—wrecked and warm and still slightly in shock. He reached for Draco without hesitation, dragging him up by the waist like he needed to touch him.

“Come here, Bunny,” he murmured, eyes dark and still blown wide. “Your turn.”

Draco felt like he was going to combust.

Harry sat up just enough to kiss him—open-mouthed and sloppy, tasting himself on Draco’s tongue. Draco moaned into it, long hair falling around them like a curtain, trapping the heat between their bodies.

Harry’s hands slid over his bare back, down, gripping his clothed ass tightly and pulling him flush—Draco’s cock grinding against Harry’s stomach with maddening friction.

“Fuck,” Draco gasped, hips jerking. “Please—please—I can’t—”

Harry moved fast after that.

One fluid motion and Draco was on his back, the room spinning as Harry hovered above him, hungry and clumsy and beautiful. He kissed down Draco’s throat, biting just hard enough to bruise above his collarbone, while his fingers fumbled with Draco’s trousers, yanking at buttons like they personally offended him.

Draco arched up to help, breath stuttering hard as the fabric finally slid low enough, baring him completely.

His cock slapped up against his stomach—red, leaking, aching.

Draco’s breath caught in his throat.

He felt exposed. Ruined. Ready.

But Harry was just staring—wide-eyed, mouth slightly open, gaze locked on Draco’s cock like he couldn’t believe it was real.

Draco’s thighs trembled where they were spread open, his whole body tight with tension. Heat flushed up his neck, across his chest. He couldn’t take it.

“Do something,” he gasped, voice cracking. “Please—I’m losing my mind—”

Harry moved then, finally, wrapping one hand around him—hot, steady, just tight enough to make Draco’s breath collapse in his chest.

He sobbed out a moan, hips jolting into the touch like he couldn’t help it.

Harry's hand stroked once—firm, slow—and Draco nearly came on the spot.

His back arched off the bed, hair spilling over the pillows like pale silk, thighs twitching. His mouth dropped open, a broken sound catching at the back of his throat.

“Oh—fuck—Harry—”

He barely knew what he was saying. His whole body was pulsing with heat, every nerve singing. It was too much and not enough all at once. He was half out of his mind, desperate, dizzy, cock wet and twitching in Harry’s grip.

Harry’s mouth was on him again—kissing his jaw, his throat, biting at his collarbone while his hand worked him in steady, devastating strokes.

“You’re so fucking hot like this,” Harry whispered, voice rough, breath ghosting over his skin. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

Draco whimpered. Actually whimpered. His hands clutched at Harry’s shoulders, nails digging in, trying to anchor himself to something—anything—before he floated right out of his body.

“Please—don’t stop—don’t stop—”

“You love this, don’t you?” he murmured, lips brushing Draco’s ear. “Being spread out under me, all flushed and dripping. So fucking pretty like this.”

Draco gasped, hips jerking helplessly into Harry’s hand. The words burned through him, sharp and hot, like he could feel them in his bloodstream.

“I bet you’d take me so well,” Harry whispered, voice low and dangerous, fingers tightening just slightly on Draco’s cock. “You think about it, don’t you? Me inside you. Deep.”

And Draco—poor, unraveling Draco—let out a noise that didn’t sound human. A strangled moan, chest heaving, cock twitching in Harry’s grip like it was trying to answer for him.

Because suddenly, fuck, he had thought about it. Or he was thinking about it now, vividly, Harry’s voice painting the picture in real time.

Harry’s mouth was on his throat, licking, biting. “Bet you’d be so tight. So desperate for it. I’d go slow at first—just to hear you beg.”

Draco was shaking now, full-body, uncontrollable. His long hair clung to his sweat-damp skin, his lips parted, breath ragged, eyes blown wide and glassy like he wasn’t even in the room anymore.

Harry kissed him, deep and messy and rough—and Draco kissed back like it hurt, like he needed the pain just to anchor himself. Tongue and teeth and desperation. It still wasn’t enough.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Harry growled against his mouth. “Me fucking you open. Making you feel every inch of it.”

Draco’s mind blanked.

There was no thought. No hesitation. Just white-hot need, blazing through him like a spell gone wild. His body was strung tight, every nerve on fire—twitching, aching, pleading—and before he could stop himself, he gasped out a desperate, unfiltered, “Yes.”

And Harry smiled.

Not soft. Not sweet.

It was feral—all teeth, all heat, all hunger.

Then he moved.

Draco barely had time to blink before Harry was sliding down his body, kissing his way past flushed skin, past the frantic thrum of his ribs, until he was between Draco’s legs—and without a single word, without any warning, he wrapped his lips around Draco’s cock and took him in.

Draco’s back arched off the bed, a ragged moan tearing from his throat, fingers flying to Harry’s hair as pleasure slammed into him, dizzying and immediate.

Harry’s mouth was everything—hot, wet, obscene in the best way. Warm lips wrapped around him like they belonged there, like Harry wanted to ruin him from the inside out.

And Merlin, Draco wanted to be ruined.

Draco was not going to last very long.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Draco’s thighs shook, spread wide, useless now. His long hair was sticking to his face, chest heaving, moans slipping out unchecked. He wasn’t even trying to hold them back.

“Oh—fuck, Harry—please—”

He didn’t know what he was begging for. More. Less. To survive this. To never have it end.

Draco looked down through a mess of hair and wet lashes and that’s what did it—Harry, between his legs, eyes dark and locked on him like he liked watching Draco fall apart.

Like he wanted to memorize it.

Draco’s hand clenched in Harry’s hair, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself as his body threatened to go completely weightless.

He was so close again, the pressure building fast, cruel, perfect—his cock throbbing in Harry’s mouth, slick and flushed and barely under control.

“Harry—if you keep—fuck, I’m gonna—”

But Harry didn’t stop.

Didn’t even slow.

Draco’s mouth dropped open in a silent gasp as his orgasm tore through him—blinding, dizzying, total. He swore he could feel it, feel himself spill deep into Harry’s throat, could feel Harry take it, like he wanted it, like it belonged to him.

Draco cried out, his body arching, hips jerking helplessly. His vision blurred. His pulse roared in his ears.

He was gone.

He collapsed back against the bed, chest heaving, limbs loose and trembling. His hand slipped from Harry’s hair, falling uselessly to the mattress. Every inch of him felt wrung out, hypersensitive, boneless. Ruined.

He tried to speak—something clever, something sharp—but all that came out was a broken breath and a helpless little whimper.

Harry was staring at him again—openly this time, no teasing, no games. Just awe. Like Draco was something holy.

Draco swallowed hard.

“That was…” He trailed off, voice hoarse, throat tight.

Harry crawled back up over him slowly, hands warm against Draco’s sides, body settling against his without hesitation.

“The hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” Harry said, then kissed him—soft, slow, like they weren’t both wrecked.

Draco blinked at him, dazed and a little ruined. His voice came out thinner than intended. “You have such a filthy mouth.”

Harry grinned, eyes glinting. “You like my filthy mouth.”

Draco scoffed, cheeks still flushed. “Unfortunately.”

“Lucky me,” Harry whispered, and kissed him again.

Harry’s fingers traced slow, idle patterns along his ribs, like he couldn’t stand not touching him.

“I’m never going to recover from that,” he murmured, voice flat but too hoarse to carry any real bite.

Harry smiled against his skin. “You’ll survive.”

Draco huffed. “I have actual bruises forming from how hard I came. If I die, it’s on you.”

“I’ll write a beautiful eulogy,” Harry said. “Full of poetic filth.”

Draco snorted before he could stop it, then immediately groaned. “Don’t make me laugh. I’m fragile.”

Harry shifted just enough to look at him properly, and Draco loved how soft his expression had gone—like Draco was something worth holding gently.

“You okay?” Harry asked, quieter now.

Draco hesitated.

The honest answer wasn’t simple. Physically? He felt like molten pudding. Emotionally? He was halfway to a meltdown.

He’d escalated. Fast. One minute they were kissing, and the next—well, that had happened. He’d skipped right past the handjob step like a madman, dove into something he hadn’t really planned on, and it had been incredible—but then Harry had said those things. About fucking him. About wanting to be in him.

And Draco had said yes.

Not because it was a lie. It wasn’t. He had thought about it. Late at night. In that vague, burning, curious way. But thinking about it and agreeing out loud in the middle of a hormonal spiral were two very different things.

And now what? Was that the next move? Was there a clock ticking down to when Harry would expect that?

Because Draco—desperate, smug, ridiculous Draco—had taken months to get to this point. Months of kissing, grinding, cumming with their clothes on. He couldn’t just—go there yet.

“I…” he started, then faltered, eyes flicking down. “I’m okay. Just—thinking.”

Harry didn’t pull away. He just nodded, brushing his knuckles lightly down Draco’s arm.

“What’re you thinking about?” he asked, soft.

Draco hesitated, biting his lip. “I—just. We hadn’t really talked about… you know. Going all the way.”

Harry’s expression didn’t flicker, didn’t tense. He just kept looking at him, calm and sure.

“You don’t have to rush anything,” he said, reading him like it was easy. “We go at your pace. Always.”

Draco let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His chest loosened, the panic curling at the edges of his thoughts starting to fade.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “Okay.”

Harry leaned in, resting his forehead against Draco’s for a moment, breathing him in like he couldn’t get close enough.

“You’re allowed to want things slowly,” he murmured. “Or messy. Or not at all. I just want you.”

Draco’s throat tightened.

It was so simple. And somehow, it undid him more than anything else that had happened tonight.

He nodded, just once, and let his eyes fall shut. His long hair was tangled, still sticking to both their skin, and he probably looked like a complete disaster—but Harry didn’t seem to care. He hadn’t looked away from him once.

“I do want it,” Draco whispered. “Eventually. Just… not yet.”

Harry smiled, brushing his fingers through Draco’s hair, smoothing it back behind his ear. “Then that’s what we do. Eventually.”

Draco let out a soft, shaky laugh. “You’re alarmingly good at this.”

“I’m faking it,” Harry said, grinning. “I’ve just been in love with you for ages, so I’m very motivated to get it right.”

Draco stared at him, lips parting, chest warm.

Then he reached up, fingers tangling in Harry’s messy hair, pulling him close until their foreheads touched.

“I love you too,” he whispered.

Chapter Text

Christmas at Grimmauld Place was packed. Manageable, maybe—until Draco refused to go home, and naturally, his mother and Godfather followed. It had been surprisingly pleasant.

The holiday would’ve passed without incident if not for one thing: on the very last day, something happened that made Draco positively dread returning to school.

It started with a game of Clue in Harry’s room.

The board was spread out across the bed.

Ron was elbow-deep in a bag of crisps, Hermione was cross-referencing the rules like her life depended on it, and Ginny looked five seconds from flipping the board and declaring herself the winner out of sheer rage.

Draco sat cross-legged against the headboard, more than a little frustrated with Harry trying to peak at his cards.

“You can’t guess if you’re not in the room, Ron,” Hermione snapped for what had to be the third time.

Ron shrugged, not looking remotely sorry. “The real mystery here is why we’re still playing.”

“Because I’m winning,” Ginny said sweetly, clearly two minutes from homicide.

Harry nudged Draco’s foot again. “Go on, Bunny. Show us how it’s done.”

Draco gave him a long, withering look, just about to launch into a rant about being cute and distracting—

—when Sirius popped his head into the room.

"Harry, Draco," he said casually. "Severus and I were hoping to have a word?”

They followed Sirius down the stairs, the wood creaking under their feet, Draco tugging his sleeves straight out of pure nerves.

Not that he was worried.

Severus was his godfather. If anything was wrong, Snape would have warned him already—or at least glared significantly until Draco figured it out.

And Sirius? He might be a reckless menace, but even

wasn’t acting like something was wrong. He looked... almost relaxed.

By the time they reached the kitchen, Draco felt mostly steady again.

Remus and Severus were already seated at the long table, mugs of tea steaming between them.

Remus offered a small, reassuring smile. Severus didn't smile—he never did—but he gave Draco a slight incline of the head.

Draco felt his shoulders loosen.

Sirius slouched into the seat beside Remus, waving them toward the chairs across from him.

"Sit," he said, still casual. "You’re not in trouble."

Draco dropped into a chair without comment, Harry sliding into the seat beside him. Their knees bumped lightly under the table, but Draco barely noticed, too busy watching the adults with narrowed eyes.

Severus set his mug down with a soft clink, folding his hands neatly in front of him. His expression was as unreadable as ever.

"The headmaster has sent me to inform you, Potter," Snape said, voice smooth and deliberate, "that it is his wish for you to begin studying Occlumency this term."

Harry blinked at Snape, looking as dense as ever. "Study what?"

"Occlumency," Snape repeated, slower, as if Harry were particularly dim. "The art of protecting one’s mind against external intrusion."

Harry’s face twisted up, confused. "Intrusion like... like mind reading?"

Draco snorted into his tea.

"It’s more like a mental shield," Sirius said, before Snape could verbally flay Harry alive. "You’ll need it. Especially now."

Harry shifted, rubbing his palms over his jeans, not looking reassured in the slightest.

"But why do I have to study Occlu-thing?"

"Because the headmaster deems it necessary," Snape said smoothly, his tone gliding somewhere between patient and deeply condescending.

Draco's stomach twisted unpleasantly, but he forced himself to sit straighter.

"We'll restart our private lessons upon returning to Hogwarts," Snape said. "Twice weekly. Non-negotiable."

Before Draco even realized what he was doing, he leaned forward, mouth opening to argue—to demand he get to attend, as he already knew Occlumency and could help—

Without looking up, Snape cut him off.

"Yes, Draco. You may attend as well."

Draco’s jaw snapped shut so fast he bit his tongue.

Across the table, Sirius smirked like Christmas had come early.

Harry was already glancing at him, barely suppressing a grin.

Draco shot him a murderous glare and crossed his arms, feeling his cheeks heat.

Remus, ever the diplomat, spoke next. "You’ll need focus. Occlumency isn’t easy to learn. It requires discipline."

"Especially if you’re stubborn," Sirius added brightly, gesturing at Harry with obvious delight.

Harry groaned under his breath.

"Or thick," Draco muttered, not even bothering to hide it.

Harry kicked him lightly under the table. Draco kicked him back, harder.

Sirius looked moments away from placing bets on who would throw the first punch.

"Enough," Snape drawled, voice low and dangerous. "If the two of you are quite finished with your display, there are other matters we must discuss."

Draco immediately straightened, instincts snapping to attention.

Snape’s black eyes flicked toward him, unreadable. "Draco will be receiving private lessons as well."

He barely kept his expression composed, but he could feel Harry’s head turn toward him in surprise.

Snape’s mouth thinned into something very close to a frown.

"The headmaster believes," Snape continued, voice clipped, "that your memories—no matter how disjointed might be... useful."

Draco’s stomach dropped, cold and fast, like the floor had vanished beneath him.

He gripped the edge of the table a little tighter. "He wants to pick through my head?"

"Yes and no," Snape’s mouth twisted, like he didn’t approve either. "It will not be as invasive as Legilimency."

He didn’t want anyone sifting through the wreckage in his head—didn’t want the dark, horrifying images he barely survived reliving alone being shown to Dumbledore. He already saw enough of them on repeat without permission—every time he closed his eyes.

He didn’t need help remembering.

He needed help forgetting.

Draco forced himself to look up at his godfather, even though his chest felt tight and traitorous, and his voice wavered in a way that made him want to punch a wall.

"And if I don’t want to?"

Severus studied him for a long, heavy moment. His expression didn’t soften, but something behind his eyes shifted—something tired, almost... regretful.

"You have a choice," Snape said quietly. "No one will force you."

He had a choice.

But did he, really?

Because if he did this—if he agreed to let them pull his memories apart and piece them back together—they might actually be useful.

They hadn't been last year.

Last year, his nightmares had been just that—nightmares. Half-formed. Too late. Too broken to help anyone.

But this time... if they weren’t just waiting around for him to wake up shaking at three in the morning to remember something critical—

If they could see it properly—

He might actually do something worthwhile.

Something that mattered.

His fists clenched under the table, hidden by the edge of the wood.

"Can I go with him?" Harry’s voice cut into his thoughts, quick and earnest.

Draco blinked, startled, glancing sideways.

Harry looked determined. Like he hadn’t even thought twice about it.

Across the table, Severus arched an eyebrow.

"Only if Draco says you can," he said pointedly, cutting a deliberate look at Draco that said this wasn’t a decision to be made lightly.

Draco felt everyone’s eyes on him then—Snape’s, Remus’s, Sirius’s—and Harry’s most of all.

Waiting.

He swallowed hard, throat thick.

Going through his memories would be bad enough.

Doing it alone would be worse.

And if there was anyone he trusted—really trusted—it was Harry.

But then the doubts crept in.

He thought about what Harry might see.

About the bloodied, broken mess of Harry’s face, kneeling helplessly in front of him at the Manor.

About Hagrid carrying Harry’s limp body, cradling him like something sacred and ruined.

About himself—Draco Malfoy—standing at the top of the astronomy tower with his wand pointed at a helpless Dumbledore.

Would Harry still want him after seeing all of it?

After seeing who Draco had been?

Draco didn’t always feel like he deserved this—this second life where he could be friends with Harry, safe.

Sometimes it felt like he was living on borrowed time.

Like he was just waiting for the other shoe to drop—for someone to realize he didn’t belong here at all.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself back to the present, forcing the spiral down.

Harry was still looking at him. Still steady. Still here.

Draco’s throat worked around words he didn’t want to say. He shifted, hands clenching uselessly in his lap.

“I—I don’t know, Harry,” he said finally, voice rough and thin. “They’re really bad.”

It was a pitiful thing to say, but it was honest.

The memories were vicious. Shameful.

They were the kind of things that could make someone look at you differently.

That could make someone stop loving you.

Harry didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. He just leaned in closer, voice low and sure.

"You shouldn’t have to go through it alone," Harry said. "We do this together. Remember?"

As if it were that simple.

Draco squeezed his eyes shut for half a second, forcing back the sick knot of fear clawing at his chest.

It didn’t vanish. But it dulled enough that he could breathe again.

"Okay." He forced the word out, raw and hoarse.

Harry’s hand found his under the table, fingers curling around his tightly.

Draco stared at their joined hands for a long moment, something hot burning behind his eyes, his throat tight and aching.

He squeezed back, once and felt Harry’s thumb brush lightly over his knuckles in return.

Somewhere across the table, Sirius cleared his throat loudly, pushing back his chair with a scrape of wood against stone.

"Alright, then everything’s settled," Sirius said, trying for his usual casual drawl but sounding a little too tired around the edges. "It’s off to bed for you lot."

Remus rose too, casually placing a steadying hand at Sirius’s lower back as they moved toward the door.

Draco just huffed quietly under his breath and stood, Harry tugging at his hand to pull him toward the door.

"Come on, Bunny," Harry said, his voice lighter now, teasing at the edges. "Big day tomorrow."

Draco groaned theatrically but didn’t fight him, feeling exhaustion creep in now that the adrenaline was starting to bleed off.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

But right now, with Harry’s hand warm around his own, he didn’t have to think about it yet.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

The next morning, the house smelled like toast, cinnamon, and enough coffee to resurrect the dead.

Breakfast was chaotic and loud, in that overwhelming Weasley way.

Mr. Weasley had returned late the night before—still pale but upright and smiling—which Mrs. Weasley took as a personal excuse to celebrate like he’d won a bloody Quidditch Cup.

She was in the kitchen before dawn, charming pans and plates into a frenzy, determined to feed everyone within a twenty-mile radius whether they wanted it or not.

Draco, against his better judgment, had gotten roped into helping.

Mostly because Harry had given him a look—that horrible, soft-eyed one that Draco had no defenses against—and Draco, like a complete idiot, had agreed.

Now he stood at the stove, scrambling enough eggs to feed a small army, sleeves rolled up, hair messily tied back with the first elastic he could find.

Harry, of course, was being irritatingly competent about the whole thing—chopping vegetables, flipping pancakes, darting around the kitchen like he was born for it.

"You’re enjoying this way too much," Draco muttered, poking viciously at the eggs.

Harry grinned at him over his shoulder. "What, Bunny? Scared I’ll show you up?"

"You already have," Draco grumbled. "I’m one disaster away from setting the kitchen on fire."

"You’re doing great," Harry said cheerfully, dropping a kiss on the side of Draco’s head in passing, completely unbothered by the chaos.

Draco scowled but didn’t move away.

At the kitchen table, Mr. Weasley was chatting animatedly with Ginny and Ron, looking healthier by the minute.

Sirius was hunched in one of the bigger chairs, nursing a mug of tea and looking unusually content, as he watched the room with a lazy half-smile.

Remus sat beside him, nudging a plate of plain toast closer without comment.

It all felt... weirdly normal.

Too normal.

Draco scraped the last of the eggs onto the massive platter, the twisting knot of nerves in his gut tightening as he carried it carefully to the table.

He set it down with a clatter, muttering, "Eat before I start charging for labor," and slid into a seat between Harry and Ginny.

Sirius leaned forward like he was about to grab some—but barely made it halfway before his face went pale.

"Excuse me," he said sharply, almost knocking over his chair as he stood.

Draco blinked, startled, as Sirius bolted from the room, one hand pressed to his mouth, disappearing down the corridor toward the loo.

Everyone stared after him for a beat.

"Merlin," Ron said, wrinkling his nose. "What’s his problem?"

Remus sighed, taking a calm sip of his tea like nothing unusual had happened. "The smell of eggs," he said mildly. "Turns his stomach these days."

Harry glanced at Remus, but said nothing. After a second, he shrugged and reached casually for the pancakes like nothing had happened.

Draco frowned but didn't press.

Sirius was weird.

That wasn't exactly breaking news.

"I wish I could be learning Occlumency," Hermione said wistfully, picking at a piece of toast.

Ron looked horrified. "Not me! Not if it means extra lessons with Snape! I'd rather have Harry’s bloody nightmares."

"Ronald," Hermione, who’d just arrived that morning, said sharply, shooting him a look. "Professor Snape’s not so bad these days. He’s even made up with Sirius."

"Yeah, and that whole situation is properly weird," Ginny added.

That made Remus laugh—low and easy—and the rest of the table chuckled along, the tension finally breaking.

Draco forced himself to eat a few more bites, chewing mechanically.

After breakfast, they gathered their things, tugging on jackets and scarves against the sharp chill of the grey January morning.

The air outside was heavy and damp, threatening more snow, and the whole world felt muted, like it was holding its breath.

Sirius lingered by the front door, pulling Harry into a long hug, his hand patting Harry’s back a little too many times to be casual.

Then he hugged Remus, Mrs. Weasley, even Narcissa—each a little tighter than necessary, but no one said anything.

Draco got his own round of awkward hugs, his mother being first of course.

Narcissa cupped his face gently between her palms, smoothing a loose strand of hair back behind his ear with a look so fond it almost knocked the air out of him.

"I have a gift for you," she said softly, pulling a small box from behind her back with a smile that made her look younger, lighter.

Draco arched an eyebrow but took the box carefully. "What, the twenty something presents I got for Christmas weren’t enough?"

Narcissa gave him a look—a little amused, a little exasperated—but said nothing.

Draco cracked the lid open and froze.

Inside was a delicate silver hairpin—simple, elegant, unmistakably expensive—shaped like a Luna moth, its wings arched as if caught mid-flight.

His ears went pink immediately.

He could feel Harry peeking over his shoulder, could hear Ginny’s barely-stifled snicker from somewhere behind him.

A Luna moth.

He prayed his mother didn’t know about the scandalous outfit.

He told himself—desperately—that this had to be a coincidence.

"You’ve been keeping your hair long," Narcissa said, her thumb brushing lightly over a strand at his temple. "I thought you might want something better than those elastic bands."

Draco swallowed, still feeling vaguely like he might combust on the spot.

"I—" he coughed, glancing at the hairpin again. "I don’t know how much longer I’ll keep it this way, honestly."

Narcissa smiled, that quiet, secret sort of smile she only showed to him. "However long you choose," she said simply. "You look very handsome."

Draco flushed even harder, ducking his head and slipping the pin carefully into his jacket pocket like it was made of glass.

Behind him, Harry bumped his shoulder lightly, grinning wide enough that Draco seriously considered hexing him.

"Thanks, Mother,"

Narcissa kissed his forehead with a tenderness that made something twist painfully in his chest.

Before he could dwell on it, Tonks clapped her hands together with forced brightness.

"Come on, the quicker we get on the bus the better," she said, casting a sharp, nervous glance around the square.

Lupin stepped forward and flung out his right arm.

BANG.

The Knight Bus materialized out of nowhere with a deafening crack, a violently purple blur that skidded to a halt inches from the curb, narrowly missing a lamppost—which leapt backward with a squeal of metal to get out of the way.

A thin, pimply, jug-eared youth in a purple uniform bounded down the steps, grinning.

"Welcome to the—"

"Yes, yes, we know, thank you," Tonks said swiftly, cutting him off with a brisk wave. "On, on, get on—" She herded Harry forward with a not-so-subtle shove, past the conductor, who nearly dropped his clipboard when he caught sight of him.

"’Ere—it’s ’Arry—!"

"If you shout his name," Tonks muttered darkly, pushing Ginny and Hermione ahead of her, "I will curse you into oblivion."

Draco couldn’t help the small laugh that slipped out.

He jogged up the steps two at a time, excitement sparking despite himself.

"I've always wanted to go on this thing," Draco said happily, climbing to the top deck and spinning around to take it all in.

He dropped into a seat beside Harry, Hermione settling on his other side with Ron slumped across from them, already grumbling about the way the bus moved.

Hermione turned toward Draco with a bright, conspiratorial look, her eyes practically gleaming.

"Can I see the hairpin?" she asked, her eyes gleaming with excitement.

Draco flushed slightly but dug into his jacket pocket, fingers brushing over the small velvet box.

He flicked it open and tilted it toward her.

The delicate silver Luna moth gleamed softly even in the dim, flickering light of the bus, its wings arched mid-flight, impossibly fine.

Hermione let out a quiet, delighted gasp, reaching out carefully but not touching it yet, as if it were something sacred.

"Do you think she knows?" she whispered, her tone conspiratorial.

Draco swallowed. His ears were burning now.

"Gods, I hope not," he muttered under his breath, snapping the box closed a little too quickly.

Hermione smiled, her voice softening. "It’s beautiful either way," she said sincerely. "Really. She has excellent taste."

Draco ducked his head, pretending to fuss with the cuff of his jacket.

Hermione nudged him lightly with her shoulder. "Here—lean forward. I'll help you pin it properly."

Draco hesitated for a second—he could feel Harry watching him, curious—but then he sighed and leaned forward slightly, surrendering to the inevitable.

He blinked. "What—?"

Hermione’s fingers were quick and sure as she gathered his hair back with gentle fingers.

Draco sat stiffly as she pinned up the loose strands, twisting them expertly and pinning it, letting the moth sit proudly against the pale silk of his hair.

"There," she said, sitting back and admiring her handiwork with a pleased smile. "It suits you."

Across from them, Ron snorted into his sleeve.

Harry leaned back over the seat, grinning.

"You look like a prince," he said, voice low and warm.

Draco rolled his eyes, cheeks burning hotter by the second, but he couldn’t hide the tiny, involuntary smile tugging at his mouth.

A prince.

What a ridiculous thing to say.

And yet—

He ducked his head, fiddling with the cuff of his jacket again to hide how flustered he was.

The bus rattled and swayed dangerously around another sharp bend, and a few minutes later it screeched to a jarring halt just outside the tall iron gates of Hogwarts.

Tonks helped them off the bus with their luggage and then got off to say good-bye. “You’ll be safe once you’re in the grounds,” said Tonks, casting a careful eye around at the deserted road. “Have a good term, okay?”

The seven of them struggled up the slippery drive toward the castle dragging their trunks.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

"Now, Occlumency," Snape said, his voice cutting crisply through the stillness of the room. "As I told you back in your dear godfather’s kitchen, this branch of magic seals the mind against magical intrusion and influence."

He began pacing slowly in front of them, robes billowing slightly with each measured step.

"The Dark Lord is highly skilled at Legilimency—"

"What’s that, sir?" Harry interrupted, his voice steady but tight.

Snape arched an eyebrow, pausing just long enough to let the silence stretch before answering.

"It is the ability to extract feelings and memories from another person’s mind," he said coolly. "Often without consent. And often without the target even realizing it has happened."

Harry swallowed hard.

Across the room, Draco sat perched on one of the battered old desks, hands loose in his lap, watching the lesson unfold with careful detachment.

He'd done what he could to prepare Harry over the past few day—between classes—coaching him through clearing his mind, and walking him through the theory.

Not that Harry had ever really been good with theory.

Snape’s voice sliced back into the silence.

"Clear your mind," he ordered, sharp and precise.

Draco grimaced slightly.

It was easier said than done.

Way easier.

He remembered his first attempts at Occlumency when he was a kid. His mind wasn’t meant to be blank.

Draco bit the inside of his cheek hard, forcing himself to stay still, his expression neutral.

He didn’t relish the idea of Severus poking around inside Harry’s head and stumbling over things he had absolutely no business seeing—

things Draco hadn't exactly planned to share with his godfather.

Things like the reckless, desperate way they’d fumbled through their first blowjobs over the holiday, all clumsy hands and bitten-off moans and heat so intense it made Draco’s knees weak just remembering it.

Merlin.

Draco shifted stiffly where he sat, trying to look casual, like he wasn’t seconds away from having an aneurysm.

Clear your mind, he thought at Harry, trying to will the message across the room through sheer force of panic. Clear your mind, for the love of Merlin—

Because if Snape saw even a flicker of what had happened between them over the holidays—

the frantic way Draco had shoved Harry onto the bed, his own hands trembling with nerves but still greedy,

the way he’d gotten to his knees without thinking, taking Harry into his mouth like he’d been waiting forever for it,

the way he’d swallowed everything Harry gave him like some shameless, desperate thing—

Draco would simply die.

Right there.

On the floor.

Instant death.

He didn’t think there were spells strong enough to Obliviate Severus Snape if that memory slipped out.

Across the room, Harry looked tense, his shoulders locked up to his ears, his jaw tight.

He was trying. Draco could see that.

But Harry’s emotions were like fireworks even on a good day—wild, bright, impossible to cage—and Draco’s stomach dropped as he realized Snape was already raising his wand again.

"Legilimens," Snape said sharply, and Draco instinctively braced.

Harry jerked back a step, his body stiffening under the weight of the spell.

His eyelids fluttered—and then his whole face twisted into an unmistakable grimace.

Merlin, no.

Draco felt himself stop breathing.

For a split second, he imagined it: Snape’s sharp mind slamming into Harry’s, shoving past memories of the DA, shoving past classes and Quidditch and arguments—

falling straight into Harry’s desperate hands pulling Draco’s hair, the wet heat of mouths, the frantic gasping noises that Draco had prayed no one had overheard.

Draco gripped the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles turned white.

Harry made a small noise—a grunt of effort—and Draco’s heart stopped entirely.

Snape stepped back a second later, lowering his wand with a narrow-eyed look.

Draco didn’t know what Snape had seen.

But whatever it was, Snape’s mouth tightened into a sharp, thin line.

Draco practically melted into the desk, trying to make himself invisible.

Draco kept his gaze locked on a very interesting crack in the floorboards and refused to meet his godfather’s eyes.

For a long, awful second, the only sound in the room was Harry’s rough breathing.

Then Snape said, in a voice far too dry to be natural, "We will... clearly need to work on focus."

Draco barely resisted the urge to laugh hysterically out of pure nerves.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Draco’s own lesson came the night after Harry’s.

"It will function similarly to a Pensieve," he continued, gesturing toward the silver basin, "but with certain modifications.”

Severus turned toward them fully now, his gaze sharp and unwavering.

"The intention," he said, slower this time, "is to start with a memory you can recall well. Something intact. Something strong. We will anchor to it—then use that anchor to pry deeper into the recesses of your mind, to retrieve what remains hidden."

Pry.

Harry took his hand.

Draco hated how much he needed that.

Hated how easily Harry saw through him.

Severus looked between them, something unreadable flickering in his expression, but he didn’t comment.

Instead, he gestured to the basin again.

"Choose a memory," he said, "and tell me when you’re ready."

Draco licked his lips, heart thudding painfully against his ribs.

Choose a memory.

His mind immediately, stupidly, went to Harry.

It always did.

He had dozens of memories of Harry—current ones and past-life ones blurred together in his head—but he couldn’t risk choosing anything too upsetting.

So he grasped for something safer.

He forced himself to remember that first moment—their very first real meeting on the train. The day Harry had looked at him—really looked—and decided he wasn’t worth it.

The day Draco had stretched out his hand, desperate and smug all at once, and Harry had turned away without a second thought.

It was stupid. Embarrassing but not as bad as Harry’s death.

Draco nodded once, sharp and fast, signaling he was ready before he could second-guess himself.

Severus murmured a spell under his breath, the tip of his wand glowing faintly.

The air around the basin shimmered, thick with magic.

Together, they leaned forward, faces tilting over the swirling silver surface.

The world blurred—and then snapped into focus with dizzying clarity.

—

It was surreal—standing there, side by side with his godfather and Harry, watching his younger self make a complete ass of himself in front of the boy he now loved so stupidly, so deeply it hurt.

There he was: smaller, hair slicked back too severely, brittle in the way only a boy trying too hard to be important could be.

"Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle," his younger self said lazily, glancing at where Harry had been looking. His voice was careless, coated in a kind of casual cruelty that he’d learned early, perfected too young. "And my name's Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."

There was a small cough—Ron, scrawny and scruffy even then, poorly disguising his snicker behind his hand.

Draco remembered the sting of it instantly—sharp, hot, like a slap across the face.

In the memory, he turned, voice sharpening, pitched a little too high as he scrambled to reassert control.

"Think my name’s funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford."

He spat it without thinking, trying to wound first, trying to protect himself the only way he knew how.

Then—

He turned back to Harry.

Harry, who he had been desperate to impress.

Harry, who had seemed—already—like the center of something Draco didn’t know how to explain, only that he wanted to be near it.

"You’ll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter," he said, voice smug, taunting—perfectly rehearsed. "You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."

He extended his hand.

Harry didn’t take it.

"I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks," Harry said, voice cool and cutting.

Draco, even standing outside the memory, even knowing how it would go, flinched.

The pink that bloomed across his younger self’s cheeks was immediate and scalding.

He could still feel it—the thick, ugly throb of rejection pounding behind his ribs, the way he’d snapped his hand back like it didn’t matter, like it hadn’t mattered at all.

Next to him, the real Harry glanced over, raising an eyebrow in mild, fond amusement.

Snape, arms crossed over his chest, muttered dryly, "I rather miss this version of you."

Draco spluttered, mortified. "Oh, shut up," he muttered, heat creeping up his neck. "You hated me. Everyone did."

"No," Severus said blandly. "I was merely waiting for you to grow out of it."

Harry, unhelpfully, was biting back a smile.

In the memory, young Draco spun on his heel and stalked away from Harry’s compartment, pink-faced and furious, practically vibrating with humiliation.

Draco groaned under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

He might actually die of secondhand embarrassment before this session ended.

Harry tilted his head, squinting into the memory as a sudden flurry of white light sparked just beyond the corridor where younger Draco had stormed off.

"What's that?" Harry asked, pointing toward the shimmering edge of the memory.

Another thread, unraveling out from the moment—bright, pulsing.

"Another memory," Severus said, sounding faintly pleased by Draco’s visible dread. "It's connected to this one. Shall we?"

Draco, still smoldering with embarrassment, nodded reluctantly.

Beside him, Harry gave a quick squeeze to Draco’s wrist—just for a second.

It helped. A little.

Still, Draco flinched as the world around them blurred and pulled him under again.

This time, he was older. Thirteen, maybe. Still sharp-edged, but now looking bitter. His posture stiff, his mouth curled into a sneer. At least his hair wasn’t slicked back anymore but it was still cut proper in a way his father would have approved.

He didn't recognize the memory, so it must have been buried quite deep.

He saw himself walking a few arrogant paces ahead of Ron, Harry, Hermione, and Hagrid as they climbed the stone steps back to the castle.

In the memory, young Draco slowed just enough to throw a look over his shoulder and laugh—a low, derisive sound dripping with contempt.

Memory-Draco slipped inside the castle doors where Crabbe and Goyle were waiting, lurking like bodyguards, pressing themselves against the shadows to listen in.

"S’no good, Ron," Hagrid said, voice thick with tears. "That Committee’s in Lucius Malfoy’s pocket. I’m jus’ gonna make sure the rest o’ Beaky’s time is the happiest he’s ever had. I owe him that. . . ."

Inside the doors, young Draco straightened, sneering down the hall toward Hagrid’s retreating figure.

"Look at him blubber!" he crowed, loud enough for them to hear, face bright with cruel satisfaction. "Have you ever seen anything quite as pathetic?"

He glanced sideways at Crabbe and Goyle, grinning like he was proud of himself. "And he’s supposed to be our teacher!"

Present-Draco cringed so hard it felt like his body might implode.

What the hell was wrong with me?

Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s younger selves spun around in fury—but it was Hermione who moved first.

Without hesitation, she marched up to Draco’s younger self—and smacked him across the face with a sound that echoed off the stone walls.

Harry, Ron, Crabbe, and Goyle all stood frozen, wide-eyed.

And Hermione—fierce, unstoppable—reared back like she meant to hit him again.

"Don’t you dare call Hagrid pathetic, you foul—you evil—!"

"Hermione!" Ron said weakly, trying to grab her flailing arm.

"Get off, Ron!" she snapped, still glaring daggers at Draco.

Watching it now, Draco could barely breathe.

His younger self stood there, flushed and rattled, struggling to find words, struggling to recover his mask of superiority—and failing.

Watching it now, Draco could barely breathe.

His younger self stood there, flushed and rattled, struggling to find words, struggling to recover his mask of superiority.

He wanted to yell at the boy he used to be, to shake him by the shoulders and scream What were you thinking? How could you have been so cruel?

"Well," Harry said under his breath, nudging Draco slightly. "I guess you had that one coming."

Draco covered his face with his hands and groaned.

"I know," he muttered into his palms. "Merlin, I know."

The memory shimmered again—another bright light bleeding at the edges of the corridor, another thread waiting to be pulled.

Severus turned toward him. "Shall we continue?"

Draco, mortified beyond belief, just mumbled, "Might as well. It can’t get any worse."

(He would, very shortly, be proven wrong.)

There he was again.

He couldn’t quite place what year this was supposed to be—until he caught sight of the Quidditch pitch, Umbridge in her horrible pink nightmare of a coat perched stiffly in the stands.

So it was this year?

But Draco looked so different.

Smaller somehow. Less confident maybe.

“—but you like the Weasleys, don’t you, Potter?” sneered his past self, voice carrying over the roaring crowd. "Spend holidays there and everything, don’t you? Can’t see how you stand the stink, but I suppose when you’ve been dragged up by Muggles, even the Weasleys’ hovel smells okay—"

Draco felt his stomach pitch violently.

Beside him, present-Harry stiffened, muscles locking tight.

Draco didn’t dare look at him.

In the memory, he watched helplessly as Draco laughed openly, his face twisted with ugly, childish glee.

Harry was holding George back by the arm; it took the combined efforts of three Gryffindor girls to restrain Fred.

And Draco—stupid, stupid Draco—kept going.

"Or perhaps," drawled younger Draco as he backed away, smirking, "you can remember what your mother’s house stank like, Potter, and Weasley’s pigsty reminds you of it—"

Memory-Harry let go of George like a snapped leash.

Both of them lunged at him at once—pure rage, fists clenched, faces thunderous.

There wasn’t even time to draw wands.

Harry—small, furious, burning with grief Draco hadn't understood back then—drew his arm back and punched Draco squarely in the stomach, so hard that Draco staggered and doubled over with a yell.

Present-Draco winced hard, instinctively folding his arms over his own stomach like he could feel the blow even now.

Gods, he thought miserably. Letting Harry come to these sessions was such a bad idea.

He could feel the way Harry was watching him—stiff, silent, practically vibrating where he stood just a foot away.

Not moving.

Not speaking.

Draco didn’t dare turn his head.

Didn’t dare meet Harry’s eyes.

He knew what he would see if he did:

Pity.

Disgust.

Or worse—disappointment so sharp it would tear him open.

The memory raged on without them—Madam Hooch’s whistle shrieking in the background, students screaming and jeering, Fred and George trying to break free, Crabbe and Goyle looking stupid and frozen—but Draco barely noticed.

He wanted to be anywhere but here, trapped inside this moment.

He couldn’t stop staring at the hatred etched onto memory-Harry’s face—raw, burning, blinding.

Draco had forgotten just how much Harry had hated him once.

All my fault, he thought, throat closing painfully.

Harry hated him so much that—

The memory warped suddenly, snapping like a thread stretched too tight.

The Quidditch pitch vanished.

Now he was standing in the girls' bathroom on the second floor, and he immediately knew what was coming.

He knew this memory.

He had dreamed about this memory a hundred different ways, waking up gasping and cold.

Draco watched, heart in his throat, as his memory self gripped the cracked, grimy sink basin, knuckles white, head bowed. His reflection in the mirror was a wreck—hair a mess, dark purple circles smudged under hollow eyes, tear tracks shining on too-pale cheeks.

He looked thin.

Sick.

Broken in a way Draco could feel in his bones even now.

His pale fingers clutched the sink like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“Don’t," crooned Moaning Myrtle from somewhere behind a cracked cubicle door, her voice soft and eerie. "Don’t... tell me what’s wrong... I can help you..."

This was worse.

So much worse.

Draco wanted out.

Wanted to tear himself and Harry especially out of this memory and run—but he couldn’t.

He knew what was coming.

He knew every awful second.

"Sev—" Draco started, his voice cracking. "I don’t think—"

But Severus wasn’t listening.

The memory rolled forward mercilessly.

"No one can help me," Draco whispered, voice shaking violently. "I can’t do it... I can’t... it won’t work... and unless I do it soon... he says he’ll kill me..."

Draco watched himself gulping air like a drowning boy, sobbing into the basin, trembling so hard he looked like he might collapse. Then, with a great, shuddering breath, Draco looked up—and locked eyes with Harry’s reflection standing behind him.

Draco whirled, wand snapping up.

Instinctively, Harry pulled his own.

Everything exploded at once—hexes flying wild, curses rebounding off the walls.

A lamp shattered beside Harry’s head.

A garbage bin blew apart behind Draco’s feet.

“NO! NO! STOP IT!” wailed Myrtle, her shrieks ricocheting off the tiles, water pouring from a broken cistern across the floor.

Draco shouted, face contorted in panic and fury, raising his wand "Cruci—!"

"SECTUMSEMPRA!" Harry bellowed from the floor, his wand slashing through the air.

Blood exploded from Draco’s chest, from his face, slashing through his robes as though cut by invisible swords. He fell backward into the spreading pool of water, his wand slipping from limp fingers.

Draco gasped. He had never seen this memory in third person before but the pain was so vivid he thought he could feel it.

In the memory, Harry froze, looking horrified, stumbling forward through the blood-soaked water. Draco writhed, scarlet staining his hands, his face, his chest.

Myrtle screamed "MURDER! MURDER IN THE BATHROOM!"

The door slammed open.

Severus stormed inside, face livid with something fierce and unnameable.

He shoved Harry aside without ceremony and dropped to his knees at Draco’s side, wand flashing, voice singing a strange incantation that made Draco’s ribs ache just hearing it.

The bleeding slowed.

Severus wiped the blood from Draco’s face with quick, shaking hands and repeated the spell again, and again, until the wounds began to knit painfully shut.

Draco stood frozen, watching himself bleed out on the floor, Harry kneeling helplessly beside him, Severus frantically working to keep him alive.

He couldn't breathe.

Couldn't think.

Beside him in the present, Harry made a broken sound—half gasp, half stifled noise of pure horror—and Draco squeezed his eyes shut so tightly his head ached.

He didn’t want Harry to see this.

Didn’t want Harry to see him.

Not like this.

I should’ve told him not to come, Draco thought viciously, self-loathing clawing up the back of his throat like bile.

I should’ve protected him from this—protected him from seeing what I really was.

The memory began to fade, But Draco’s shame stayed.

Heavy. Crushing.

Alive inside his skin.

I don’t deserve him.

Even here—even in this new timeline where none of it had technically happened, where he had been spared the Dark Mark, where his hands weren’t permanently stained—

How could Harry—sweet, stubborn, maddeningly noble Harry—still want him after seeing this?

After watching him sneer and lash out and fall apart and bleed like a coward?

Draco’s hands trembled at his sides.

He curled them into fists, nails biting into his palms until the sting cut through the rising tide of panic.

The room around them solidified again—bare stone walls, flickering candlelight, the heavy silence of the Pensieve room.

Draco didn’t move.

He sat there, staring at the floor like it might open up and swallow him whole if he stayed very, very still.

Don’t look at him.

Don’t make it worse.

He’s going to leave.

He’s going to look at me and finally realize—he can’t possibly be with someone who was capable of such cruelty.

The thought gutted him.

Before he could stop himself, he surged to his feet.

Harry said something—his voice sharp with worry—but Draco didn’t hear it.

Didn’t want to.

He shoved open the door with too much force, and bolted down the dark corridor.

His footsteps echoed off the stone walls, sharp and frantic.

He didn’t stop to look back.

The castle blurred around him—tapestries, portraits, shifting staircases—and still he kept running, faster, like if he could just move quickly enough he could outrun the sick, scraping feeling clawing up his throat.

Somehow, blindly, he made it all the way back to Gryffindor Tower.

The Fat Lady barely had time to squeak in protest as he barked the password and shoved through the portrait hole.

The common room was empty, thank Merlin.

Draco didn’t pause.

He sprinted up the boys’ staircase two steps at a time, heart hammering painfully in his chest, and slammed into the dormitory.

His bed—safe, familiar, his—was the only thing he could see.

He spelled the curtains closed with shaking hands, yanked the pillows down into a messy barricade around himself, and collapsed into the center of the bed.

Small.

Tight.

Silent.

He curled inward, fists gripping the blanket so hard his knuckles ached, forehead pressed to his knees, trying to disappear.

The heavy velvet curtains blocked out the world—the light, the noise, the shame—but not the way his chest hurt, aching sharp and hollow, like something had cracked open inside him.

He's going to leave.

Draco squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe.

Tried to pretend he didn’t care.

Tried to pretend he hadn’t already lost everything before Harry even had the chance to say the words.

Chapter Text

Draco woke up to the heavy stillness of drawn curtains and stale air. His throat felt like sandpaper, his eyes sticky and swollen from crying until the pressure in his skull won out over sleep.

The blanket was still wrapped tight around him like a cocoon, twisted from where he must’ve curled in on himself sometime during the night. He blinked slowly at the inside of the canopy, chest aching with that heavy, dull kind of sadness that didn't feel like it would ever loosen its grip.

He didn’t move.

Not when he heard Ron’s voice drifting faintly up the staircase.

Not when someone crossed the dorm, paused just beside his bed, then turned and left again.

He hoped it hadn’t been Harry.

He hoped it had.

He didn’t know what he wanted.

Eventually, his body gave him no choice. He unspelled the curtains and stumbled to the bathroom, limbs aching with disuse, mind fogged over and aching. He splashed cold water on his face until his skin stung and the worst of the numbness receded.

His reflection looked like shit—eyes bruised-looking, hair matted, cheeks pale.

He grabbed Harry’s abandoned hoodie off the back of a chair. He didn’t think. He just pulled it on, the fabric soft and worn and too-big in that way that made him feel smaller inside it. The scent hit him immediately—clean and sun-warm and familiar, stupidly comforting.

He yanked the hood up over his head, like it could hide him from his own thoughts, and ghosted back to bed. The curtains closed again with a flick of his wand.

He didn’t go to breakfast. Didn’t go to class.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t cry.

It was hard to say how long passed before the dormitory door creaked open again.

Draco didn’t lift his head. Just tensed, breath locking in his chest, as footsteps padded softly across the room.

Then—a knock, short and awkward, landed against the bedpost.

“…Hey,” came a voice.

Draco blinked.

Weasley.

“Brought you something,” Ron said, quieter now. “Toast. Tea. Dunno if you’ll eat it.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. There was a quiet clink as something was set down on his bedside table.

Then silence.

Draco expected him to leave.

He didn’t.

Instead, Ron exhaled like it cost him something and lowered himself to the floor beside the bed, the mattress shifting faintly under the weight of his back against the frame.

He heard Ron scratch at something—his head maybe, or his stubble. Then—

“I don’t know what to say,” Ron admitted. His voice was low, hesitant. “You know I’m shite at this stuff.”

Draco said nothing. He wasn't sure if he could form words without unraveling completely.

“I just thought…” Ron cleared his throat. “If it were me, I wouldn’t want anyone around. But I’d also hate being alone.”

The silence settled again, this time softer. Then, from just beyond the curtains, Ron added, voice low and a bit rough around the edges:

“Harry’s freaking out. In case you were wondering.”

Draco swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse.

“…He thinks you hate him now,” Ron said after a while.

Draco froze.

He felt the words sink into his chest like a stone. His stomach turned with something tight and sharp. He curled in tighter, arms around his knees, breath caught halfway between guilt and panic.

Of course Harry was upset. After everything Draco had shown him—every cruel, ugly version of himself laid bare in sick, vivid detail—how could he not be?

He braced for what was coming next. The anger. The hurt. The disappointment. Of course he thinks I’m a monster, Draco thought. Of course he’s mad.

But then Ron spoke again. And what he said made Draco blink, stunned.

“…He thinks you hate him now.”

Draco’s mind blanked. For a second, he thought he’d misheard.

He sat up slowly, heart knocking into his ribs. “Wait—what?”

Ron paused, like he wasn’t sure if Draco was talking to him or the air. “He thinks you’re mad at him.”

Draco stared blankly at the closed curtain, the weight of those words not quite making sense.

He thinks I’m mad at him?

He felt dizzy.

“He’s not… mad at me?” Draco said aloud, barely above a whisper.

Ron huffed a breath—amused or exasperated, Draco couldn’t tell. “No. He’s mad at himself and won’t tell us what happened.”

Draco’s mouth opened. Then shut. Then opened again.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

Harry wasn’t angry. Wasn’t disgusted. Wasn’t even disappointed. He was worried.

Because of course he was.

Because he was Harry bloody Potter.

Draco pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. His breath stuttered out in a quiet, shaky laugh that cracked halfway into something closer to a sob.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he said finally.

Ron didn’t move, but his voice was calmer now. “Just talk to him.”

Draco swallowed. “I don’t know if I can.”

There was a pause. Then, dry as parchment, Ron said, “After all that pining?”

Draco blinked.

Ron snorted softly. “Seriously, mate. You practically bled longing for him since third year. I had to watch you eye-fuck him during class and pretend I didn’t notice.”

Draco made a strangled noise. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

There was the sound of Ron shifting, like he was leaning back farther against the frame. “You finally have him,” Ron said, quieter now. “And you’d what? Let it end?”

Draco clenched his jaw. “It’s not that simple.”

“It never is,” Ron agreed. “But it’s also not that complicated.”

A beat.

“I’m scared,” Draco admitted, barely audible. “What if he looks at me different now? What if he saw it—all of it—and decides I’m not worth it?”

The silence that followed was short.

“Do you remember in fourth year when I was being a bit of a dick?” Ron said.

Draco snorted, sharp and bitter. “A bit? You told me my personality was garbage. You punched me in the face, Ron. My face. And you were being the worst friend to Harry while you were at it.”

“Yeah,” Ron said, not even trying to defend it. “I know. I was a complete tosser.”

Draco blinked, thrown for a second by how easily Ron agreed.

“I was jealous,” Ron said. His voice was quieter now—not small, but honest in a way Draco hadn’t expected. “Of Harry. Of you. Of—just, everything. And I didn’t know what to do with it, so I took it out on everyone. But especially you.”

Draco didn’t say anything. Not yet. He wasn’t sure what to do with this version of Ron.

There was a pause, like Ron was trying to find the right words, like maybe he’d never said any of this out loud before.

“It always felt like you couldn’t do anything wrong, you know?” Ron continued, voice low. “Harry would get so angry sometimes—frustrated, lost, just bloody impossible to talk to—and he’d take it out on me, or Hermione, or both of us. And then we’d end up coming to you to talk some sense into him.”

He let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “And the worst part? It worked.”

Draco turned his head toward the edge of the bed curtain, the space where Ron sat just out of sight.

“When we called him out,” Ron went on, “he’d sulk, or snap, or shut down completely. But when it was you—when it was you calling him out on his shit—he didn’t get mad. Not really. He’d get quiet. Like he was actually thinking about what you said. He’d actually listen.”

Draco exhaled slowly, something brittle pressing against his ribs.

“He trusts you,” Ron said. “In a way that’s… different. Like he knows you’ve seen the worst parts of him and you don’t flinch. And I hated that. I hated how easy it was for you.”

A beat.

“I thought I was supposed to be the one who knew him best,” Ron admitted. “But you—you just get him. Even when he doesn’t make sense. Especially when he doesn’t make sense.”

Draco stared at the curve of his knees under the blanket.

“And now you’re sitting here,” Ron added, voice gentler, “afraid he’s gonna look at you different? Like he hasn’t already seen all of it?”

Ron let out a dry little laugh. “Mate, the boy lights up when you walk into a room. It’s pathetic, honestly. He’s completely gone for you.”

Draco let that sink in.

Ron shifted again, like he was standing now, dusting off his hands. “Just thought you should know,” he said, already turning for the door. “You’re scared he doesn’t want you anymore? You’ve got it backwards. He’s scared you’ll change your mind about him.”

There was a long stretch of silence—Draco drew open the curtains with a soft shiff.

Ron gave him a grin. A stupid, wide, self-satisfied grin that looked entirely too proud of itself.

Draco narrowed his eyes. “What the hell is that face?”

Ron only smiled wider. “Just… proud of myself. That was pretty good, yeah? I think I nailed it.”

Draco stared. “Are you having a stroke?”

“Nope.” Ron gave a theatrical shrug. “Hermione says I’m maturing.”

Draco was unimpressed. “Right. Who are you and what have you done with the real Weasley?”

“Tragic accident. He grew up.” Ron scratched the back of his head.

Draco couldn’t help it—he huffed a short laugh. He quickly buried it, but it was too late. Ron saw it, and looked far too pleased with himself.

“Don’t push it,” Draco warned flatly.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Ron turned, clearly intending to leave now that his speech had been delivered. He paused in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder. “He’s downstairs, by the way. Hasn’t moved from the couch all morning.” he said, a little softer now. “He looks like shit.”

Before Draco could think of a halfway decent insult to throw, Ron was already gone, disappearing down the stairs.

Ron gave him a look. “You’ll fit right in.”

Draco would have thrown something at him but with that, Ron disappeared down the stairs.

Draco stared after him, jaw tight, pulse loud in his ears.

And then—he started moving.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Draco didn’t go down right away.

He showered first, scrubbed the tear-stiffness from his cheeks, brushed out the knots in his hair, and changed into something clean. When he finally descended the stairs, the common room was mostly empty, everyone else was at dinner.

Harry was there.

Curled up in the best chair by the hearth. His gaze was fixed on the flames, distant and unfocused. There was something raw about the slump of his shoulders—something that made Draco’s chest pull tight.

He looked lost.

And all at once, Draco felt a little stupid.

Draco stood there for a beat longer than necessary, his hand clenched on the banister.

Then he made himself move.

One step at a time, until Draco was close enough that Harry should have noticed him—but he didn’t.

Draco stopped just short of the rug, the fire casting flickers of orange and gold across Harry’s face. His eyes were glassy with reflection, not tears, but close—like he’d been doing a lot of thinking and none of it was helping.

Draco hovered for a beat.

Then—without asking, without speaking—he crossed the final few steps and climbed right into Harry’s lap.

Harry startled slightly, blinking like he’d only just realized he wasn’t alone. His arms lifted instinctively to catch Draco, hands settling at his waist.

Draco curled in without explanation, folding himself into the space like he belonged there because he did.

Harry’s breath hitched—a tiny, barely audible sound—but his arms tightened around Draco, pulling him close. He buried his nose in Draco’s shoulder like it was the first real breath he’d taken all day.

They stayed like that for a long while

The only sound was the fire crackling beside them, and the quiet, steady rhythm of two hearts trying to sync up again.

Harry was the first to speak, his voice a little rough, like it hadn’t been used in hours.

“You’re here.”

Draco hummed. “Where else would I be?”

A beat. Then a breath—half laugh, half tremble.

“I thought maybe… you wouldn’t want to be.”

Draco leaned back just enough to meet his eyes. “I was being stupid. I’m sorry.”

Harry shook his head quickly. “No—don’t. Don’t say that. You weren’t.”

Draco raised a brow. “I kind of was.”

Harry looked at him then, really looked, and there was something open in his expression—tender, wrecked, too full for Draco to handle all at once.

Draco leaned in again, brushing their noses together before pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Harry’s mouth. Then another, slower, against the other side. “I hate how much I missed you,” he whispered.

Harry’s grip around his waist tightened like he couldn’t bear to let go. “You were gone for, like, seven hours.”

Draco smirked against his skin. “Exactly.”

Harry’s laugh was quiet but real, his forehead resting against Draco’s. “I love you.”

Draco kissed him properly this time—slow, certain, a promise layered beneath softness. “I love you too.”

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Time was slipping through Draco’s fingers faster than he liked.

His meetings with Snape were doing nothing but making him relive his past life. Most of the memories felt irrelevant or useless. Still, Dumbledore clearly thought otherwise, because Snape continued to meet with him just as often as with Harry.

Harry, of course, was faring better. Not because he enjoyed Occlumency—he hated it—but because the thought of Snape stumbling across anything personal, anything intimate, anything involving Draco, filled him with enough sheer horror to actually apply himself.

It was the only reason Draco hadn't outright teased him about the improvement.

Still, the days had blurred into a mess of quills, curses, bruised tempers, and late nights. And now, without warning, it was February 13th, and their plans for a Hogsmeade date were about to be hijacked.

Again.

“I’m not meeting you in Hogsmeade,” Harry snapped, jabbing his spoon into his porridge like it had personally offended him. “For the hundredth time, Hermione, no.”

Hermione looked offended in return, arms folded, expression tight. “Harry, it’s important.”

“You keep saying that,” Harry said, exasperated, “but you’ve yet to explain what’s actually so important.”

Draco, sitting beside Harry and pretending not to listen while very much listening, sipped his tea without comment.

Hermione exhaled in frustration. “It’s a meeting.”

“Which means nothing to me.”

“I can’t tell you what it’s about unless you come.”

“With an undisclosed person, at an undisclosed time, about an undisclosed topic.” Harry snapped.

Hermione groaned, clearly nearing the end of her rope.

“Harry,” Hermione said, exasperated. “It’s Valentine’s Day, not the end of the world. It’s one meeting.”

Harry gave her a look. “It’s our first Valentine’s Day together.”

Hermione blinked, apparently unmoved.

“Which you’ve mentioned four times already,” she replied. “I’m not trying to ruin it—I just need you for an hour, maybe two. After that, you can go do whatever it is you two get up to when you’re alone.”

Harry flushed immediately, color rising to his cheeks. “Subtle, Hermione,” he muttered, clearly gearing up to protest.

But before he could get the words out, Hermione leaned in, lowering her voice until it was barely audible.

“I was thinking… you could give an interview.”

Harry’s expression flattened. “Hermione—”

“No—hear me out,” she cut in, leaning forward. Throwing up a silencing charm.. “No one believes you, Harry. You know that. The Prophet keeps publishing whatever the Minister tells them to, and people are lapping it up. But what if we could get your side of the story out? The truth. In your words.”

Draco set down his fork, suddenly paying much closer attention. “With what reporter, exactly?”

Hermione hesitated just long enough to confirm his suspicion.

Draco scoffed, sitting back in his chair. “You want to use Skeeter.”

“She owes me,” Hermione said, eyes sharp. “And she wouldn’t dare twist your words. Not if she wants me to keep her little bug problem quiet.”

“She’s still slime,” Draco said coolly.

“I know,” Hermione admitted. “But she’s slime with a readership. We don’t need her to be decent, we just need her to be useful.”

Harry had gone quiet, his jaw tight, the muscles ticking. He didn’t look at either of them—just stared at his half-eaten breakfast like it might offer a better plan.

Draco didn’t blame him.

“No one’s going to publish it,” Harry muttered eventually. “Not properly. Fudge has the Prophet by the throat. He’ll bury it.”

“I wasn’t thinking of the Prophet,” Hermione said. “I was thinking… the Quibbler.”

Draco turned, incredulous. “The Quibbler? Are you serious?”

Hermione nodded. “Yes.”

“You can’t be,” Draco said, aghast. “It’s filled with conspiracy nonsense. Skeeter would have more credibility printing your interview on a napkin.”

“I’m not saying it’s perfect,” Hermione shot back. “But people do read it. And maybe some of them will actually listen.”

Draco frowned, arms crossing tightly over his chest. “And what? Hope enough people read the story between the Crumple-Horned whatever and moon-owl mating rituals?”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “Some people will see the truth in it. Especially if they hear it from him.”

At that, both of them turned to look at Harry.

He looked tired. Still irritated, still conflicted—but not outright refusing.

Draco watched him carefully, then said, quieter this time, “It’s your call. But if you do this… there’s no taking it back.”

Harry dragged a hand through his hair, visibly weighing it all. “I’m assuming you’ve already asked Skeeter to meet with us tomorrow?”

Hermione had the good sense to look sheepish. “She’s meeting us at the Three Broomsticks. Noon.”

Harry let out a long breath, eyes closing like he could maybe will the conversation out of existence. “Of course she is.”

Draco sighed and shifted closer, the edge of his knee bumping against Harry’s under the table. “We can still have the rest of the day,” he murmured. “We’ll get through the bloody interview, and then I’m dragging you somewhere nice. You promised me sugar quills.”

That got Harry to crack the tiniest smile. “Did I?”

“Yes,” Draco said flatly. “And I’ll hold you to it.”

Across the table, Hermione was trying very hard not to look too pleased with herself, which only made Draco more annoyed.

“Don’t look so smug,” he snapped at her. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Hermione just arched an eyebrow.

Harry leaned back, shaking his head. “Fine. I’ll do the interview. But only because it’s you asking—and because you’ve clearly already roped me in.”

Hermione smiled—genuinely, this time. “Thank you.”

Draco leaned in closer to Harry, voice lower now. “I’ll make sure tomorrow isn’t a disaster.”

Harry glanced at him, something fond flickering behind his eyes. “You usually do.”

Draco huffed. “You’re just saying that because you’re in love with me.”

“I am,” Harry said flatly, without missing a beat.

Hermione let out a soft, wistful sigh, fiddling with her spoon as she watched them. There was something almost bittersweet in her expression.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “What about you, ‘mione? You have a date?”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed immediately. She ducked her head, her voice a bit too casual. “No. I… no one asked. So, I suppose it’s just me and a thrilling afternoon of Arithmancy.”

Before either of them could respond, Ron finally slumped into the seat across from them, hair a mess, scarf barely hanging onto his neck, and looking like he’d fought off a troll on his way down.

“Circe’s tits,” Draco said, eyeing him over his teacup. “Where have you been?”

Ron shot him a flat look, cheeks already turning red. “I was with Pansy.”

Draco raised a brow, resisting the urge to recoil at the mental image. “Charming. What are you doing tomorrow, Weasley?”

Ron grabbed a piece of toast and shrugged. “Dunno. Probably tagging along with Dean and Seamus to Honeydukes. Why?”

Draco gave him a pointed look. “Not taking Pansy out?”

Ron paused mid-chew, looking faintly betrayed by the question. “I asked. She said—and I quote—‘I only like you for your dick, not your conversation.’ So. That.”

“Ew, Ronald,” Hermione said, pinching the bridge of her nose like she could physically block out the words.

Draco grimaced. “Tell me you haven’t actually slept with my friend, Weasley.”

Ron turned scarlet. “What? No! I—I didn’t say that!”

“You didn’t not say it,” Draco pointed out, squinting at him like he was trying to solve a particularly unfortunate riddle.

Ron pulled a face and glanced away, clearly not ready to incriminate himself further.

Harry gaped at him. “Wait—you lost your virginity before me? That’s such bullshit, you’re not even dating!”

“Oh my gods, shhh—” Ron hissed, looking around like Pansy might materialize out of thin air. “She’ll hex my teeth out if she thinks I’m bragging about it! I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Hermione looked scandalized. “You think I wanted to know that you’ve been—been entangled with Pansy?”

Ron scowled. “Entangled? What is this, a courtroom drama? And you already knew!”

Harry buried his face in his hands. “I genuinely hate this.”

“Good,” Draco muttered, eyes narrowed at Ron. “That’s my friend you’re talking about. I’ll have you know she has excellent taste.”

Hermione made a strangled sound. “In men? She just called him a walking sex toy and dipped.”

“Honestly,” Draco said with a shrug, “it’s probably the most functional relationship she’s ever had.”

Ron muttered, “Thanks?”

Harry peeked between his fingers, looking faintly haunted. “I feel like we all need a group therapy session.”

Ron looked between them, then raised an eyebrow at Harry. “So wait. You and Draco haven’t…?”

Harry choked on his juice.

Draco seriously considered flipping the table and vanishing into the floor. It would be dramatic. Deserved. Maybe even cleansing.

Instead, he stared at Ron like the idiot had just asked if they were planning to duel naked in the Great Hall.

“I just assumed,” Ron went on, waving a hand vaguely. “You never tell me anything good. And Pansy’s basically a vault.”

Hermione looked far too pleased with herself. “Ha! Harry tells me all his dirty little secrets.”

Ron whipped around, scandalized. “You tell Hermione but not me?”

“Not everything,” Harry clarified quickly, ears bright red. “You gag when we kiss! I figured you didn’t want to know!”

Ron looked personally betrayed. “Unbelievable. I thought we were best mates.”

“We are,” Harry groaned. “Just—why does this have to be happening now?”

“Because I told you I slept with Pansy!” Ron hissed, jabbing a finger at his own chest. “I deserve some goddamn reciprocity!”

“Reciprocity?” Draco echoed, deadpan.

“I’m just saying, if I have to suffer the knowledge of you two being… whatever the hell you are, the least you could do is share a few—y’know—highlights.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake. Stop being weird and just tell him something.”

Harry gaped at her.

“If you won’t tell him,” Hermione said breezily, “maybe I should.”

“Hermione! No! You can’t just—there are boundaries!”

Ron leaned in, eyes lighting up. “Oh, this just got good. Go on then, Mione—”

Harry cut in fast, eyes narrowed. “Ron.”

Draco watched it all unfold with a mix of dread and dark amusement. It really was something, the way Harry could go from whispering things in Draco’s ear that should’ve been illegal, to turning into a flustered, red-faced mess the second the act was over.

Draco found it completely unfair how endearing that was.

“This conversation,” Draco said, voice suddenly clipped and far too proper, “has derailed into utter degeneracy.”

Ron grinned. “Degeneracy.”

Draco's jaw tensed. “Ronald. I’m quite certain Harry would be delighted to revisit this topic—privately.”

Harry made a strangled noise, somewhere between a laugh and a death rattle.

Draco stood abruptly, brushing invisible lint off his sleeve with great precision. “Now, unless you’re planning to interrogate us further in front of the entire student body, I suggest we depart. We’re going to be late to class.”

Hermione snorted into her sleeve. Ron looked like he wanted to ask one more question just for the fun of watching Draco implode.

Harry just stood up, quietly grateful, and muttered, “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Draco said primly, adjusting his bag. “Just walk. With purpose.”

Ron leaned toward Hermione as they followed them out. “He gets so posh when he’s embarrassed.”

“I think it’s adorable,” she whispered back.

Draco didn’t turn around, but snapped. “Shut it, you absolute cretin,”

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

“How come your hair always looks so nice?” Harry asked, clearly suspicious. “And why is it… flowing? It’s not even windy today.”

Draco gave him a sidelong look, amused. “Because I have taste, Harry. And a wand.”

Harry squinted at the neat ponytail swaying behind Draco’s back. “You charmed it?”

“Obviously,” Draco said.

“You charmed your hair to look good on a walk through a village?”

Draco arched a brow. “It’s Valentine’s Day. Try to keep up. You should feel flattered.”

Harry blinked. “I… do. I think.”

“Good.” Draco smirked. “Because I dressed for you.”

Harry looked him over, brow raised. “You told me to dress casual. And then you show up looking like you walked out of a fashion magazine.”

Draco shrugged, unbothered. “This is casual. For me.”

Harry made a face. “You’re wearing heeled boots.”

“And they’re staring,” Draco said, gesturing vaguely at a group of passing students, “because I’m hot, not because I’m overdressed.”

Harry rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, which Draco noted with no small amount of satisfaction. He might play it off with sarcasm, but the way his gaze lingered made butterflies bloom in his stomach.

Draco let his eyes slide over Harry in return—casual, sure, but criminally effective. The red hoodie was soft and a little oversized, layered under a jacket that clung just right across his shoulders. And the jeans—Merlin, those jeans—were black, fitted, and entirely unfair.

Draco let out a slow breath through his nose, half a step behind so he could keep looking without being too obvious about it.

He had plans for later. Not that Harry knew it yet.

But Draco knew exactly what he was doing—every brushed arm, every loaded glance, every step closer. He wanted Harry off balance. A little flustered. Maybe halfway to begging by the time dessert was over.

Harry noticed his gaze, and leaned in.

“You’re the one who said to keep it low-key,” Harry murmured, a touch defensive now.

Draco smiled, syrup-sweet and maddeningly patient. “Oh, I like what you wore.”

He let his eyes drop deliberately.

“Especially those jeans.”

Harry flushed instantly. “Draco—”

Draco just kept walking, pleased. “Come along, Potter. I have an itinerary.”

And if Harry was already tugging at his collar like he was suddenly too warm?

Perfect.

“We’re just grabbing coffee and scones,” Draco said lightly, steering them toward Madam Puddifoot’s with the ease of someone who’d planned this three weeks in advance. “I promise we won’t linger.”

Harry eyed the front of the café like it had personally wronged him. “This place reminds me of Umbridge’s office.”

Draco didn’t disagree. “Yes, well. It’s aggressively pink. But I want the experience.”

They stepped inside, bell chiming overhead, and were immediately hit by a wave of perfumed steam and heart-shaped confetti drifting through the air like pollen.

Draco didn’t flinch. “Charming.”

Harry looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here.

The only open table was tucked into a steamy corner by the window, lace curtains clinging to the glass. Draco sat down without hesitation. “There. Intimate. Romantic. Slightly terrifying.”

Harry took the seat across from him like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or bolt. “Definitely terrifying.”

Draco leaned forward slightly, his tone softer now. “Would you rather we go somewhere else? I want you to actually enjoy today.”

Harry looked at him for a beat, something warm creeping into his expression. Then he smiled—genuine, a little crooked. “I will. If I’m with you, it’s already better than fine. Even if this place is cheesy.”

Draco felt something flutter behind his ribs. He covered it by flagging down Mrs. Puddifoot with a graceful tilt of his fingers, then ordered their coffee and scones with cream and jam.

The moment the server drifted off, Draco leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out under the table to hook around Harry’s ankle—deliberate, slow, and just shy of innocent.

“Now,” Draco said, tone all velvet and trouble, “if you behave through this absurdly pink nightmare of a date…”

He trailed off, letting the words hang just long enough for Harry to swallow hard.

“…I might give you a reward.”

Harry stared at him, caught between intrigue and suspicion. “Define ‘reward.’”

Draco’s smile turned wicked. “Depends how good you are.”

The truth was, it didn’t matter how Harry behaved—Draco had already decided he was getting the reward. The real date didn’t end in Hogsmeade. This was just the warm-up.

Draco had spent the past two weeks quietly testing the Room of Requirement’s limits, which were basically none-existent, and bribing house-elves to prepare a private dinner.

He was playing the long game. And Harry didn’t have a clue.

While they waited for their coffee and scones, they settled into the café's over-saturated chaos, and started people-watching.

There were couples everywhere—some predictable, some less so.

Draco leaned forward slightly, nodding toward a pair sat at the other end of the shop. “Is that… Roger Davies and Chang?”

Harry turned. Sure enough, Roger was leaning across a tiny table, hands in Cho’s hair, and the two of them were halfway to climbing into each other’s laps.

“Looks like she finally got the hint,” Draco muttered, raising an eyebrow.

“Seems that way,” Harry said, deadpan, as Roger went in for what was definitely not their first kiss of the afternoon.

Draco made a face. “At least if she’s busy snogging him, she won’t be fluttering her lashes at you. Roger Davies is quite the catch.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Wait—you think he’s hot?”

Draco scoffed, sipping his coffee with exaggerated poise. “Please. Everyone thinks he’s hot.”

Harry jutted his bottom lip out in an overly dramatic pout. “So you do think he’s hot.”

Draco tilted his head, amused. “Calm down, darling. My tastes these days are far more… Boy Who Lived-specific.”

Harry tried not to smile—and failed.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

When they were finally free of the Three Broomsticks, Draco wasted no time. He tugged Harry up the castle stairs with purpose, excitement simmering beneath the surface like an electric current.

“Where are we going?” Harry asked, half breathless from keeping up. “We’ve done lunch. I thought we were done.”

Draco shot him a look over his shoulder. “That was the public portion, now I want you all to myself.”

Harry flushed, just a little, but grinned. “Well, when you put it like that…”

Draco didn’t answer—just kept walking, faster now, dragging Harry past curious portraits and confused first-years until they reached the familiar, empty stretch of wall on the seventh floor.

Harry slowed, brow furrowed. “The Room of Requirement?”

Draco didn’t respond. He paced in front of the blank wall with precision—three steps forward, turn, three steps back—thinking of exactly what he wanted.

The door shimmered into being.

He glanced over at Harry, smug. “After you.”

Harry stepped through—and stopped short.

The room was circular and softly lit, the stone floor warm beneath their feet. The walls replaced with tall glass windows that framed a view of a snow-laced forest, the centerpiece of which was a wide, steaming hot spring nestled between mossy rocks. Light snowfall drifted lazily beyond the glass, but the room was comfortably warm, the air scented faintly with cedar and something sweet.

In the center, a small round table was set for two with empty plates and crystal glasses, though the house-elves wouldn’t be bringing food for hours. Near the far window, a low sofa piled with plush cushions faced the enchanted view, and beside it, a fire crackled in a marble hearth, flickering soft gold.

Harry’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Draco…”

Draco stepped up behind him, arms looping around his waist. “Don’t get used to me being this thoughtful. It’s Valentine’s Day. I’m allowed one annual display of grand romance.”

Harry turned in his arms, still stunned. “You did all this?”

Draco smirked. “The room did the work. But the vision? Entirely mine.”

Harry looked around again, wonder still written across his face. “It’s… perfect.”

Draco tilted his head. “Then kiss me like I earned it.”

Harry didn’t need to be told twice.

They stood there for a long, quiet moment, wrapped around each other like the rest of the world had faded away. Eventually, though, Draco pulled back with a glint in his eyes.

“I went to ridiculous lengths to get this just right,” he said, already undoing the buttons on his shirt. “So I’m going in.”

Harry’s breath caught as Draco stripped with deliberate ease, letting each piece fall behind him without ceremony—shirt, boots, trousers, socks. By the time he reached the glass doors, he was bare and utterly unapologetic, the cold air rushing in to bite at his skin.

He didn’t look back, but he could feel Harry watching.

Draco waded into the water, letting it rise up over his ankles, then his knees, then higher. Steam curled around him, the golden light from the room catching in his hair and the delicate curve of his shoulders as he sank into the warmth with a soft sigh.

He leaned back against a smooth rock, lips curling. “Are you coming or what?”

Harry blinked, dazed. “Right. Yeah. Coming.”

Draco bit back a laugh as Harry fumbled with the hem of his hoodie, yanking it over his head in one uneven pull. He didn’t even try to hide the way his eyes swept over the rest—shirt, socks, jeans—each piece shed with increasing desperation and zero coordination.

“Need help?” Draco offered, voice all soft mockery.

Harry shot him a look. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

By the time Harry got down to nothing, he was pink-cheeked and flushed, whether from the heat or from standing fully naked under Draco’s gaze, Draco couldn’t say. Probably both. Either way, it made something tug low and hot in his stomach.

Harry hesitated only a second before stepping outside, bare feet crunching lightly over the snow-dusted stones. He hissed at the cold air biting his skin and made a dash for the water, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “Bloody hell, Bunny—”

Draco watched him, eyes hungry but quiet. Harry wasn’t hiding it—he was hard, and clearly had been for a while. Just from watching Draco strip. That knowledge sent a thrill down Draco’s spine, his nerves humming.

This was the first time they’d really… seen each other. Fully. Without shadows or blankets or hurried darkness. Since the holidays, they’d grown braver—But this was different. This was bare and close and new.

And still, Draco’s heart pounded. He was confident, sure—but also exposed.

Harry slipped into the spring with a shaky breath, his whole body seeming to melt as the heat wrapped around him. His eyes met Draco’s through the rising steam—soft, green, and so full of want it made Draco’s stomach flip.

“Still cold?” Draco asked, voice low.

Harry shook his head, throat bobbing as he swallowed. “Not even a little.”

Draco smiled—slow and dangerous—and reached out, fingers curling around Harry’s wrist to tug him closer. Skin met skin, and Harry shivered, just barely, like the touch short-circuited something in him.

Draco tilted his head, amused. “Then why are you all red?”

Harry’s gaze flicked down, lingering for half a second too long before snapping back up. His face darkened noticeably. “I’m not.”

“You are,” Draco said, pleased. He wound his arms loosely around Harry’s neck, pulling them flush together. The contact made them both exhale—soft, shaky, wrecked. “Blushing. Cherry-fucking-red.”

Harry laughed, embarrassed but helpless against it. “I just… you’re being... different.”

“Different,” Draco repeated, amused. “That a complaint?”

“No. Shit—no.” Harry cleared his throat, hands settling awkwardly at Draco’s hips. “In a good way. You’re just… confident. Kind of terrifying, actually.”

Draco smirked, leaning in until their noses brushed. “Really?”

Harry’s hands tightened slightly, like he needed something to hold onto. “You’re naked and smug and gorgeous. What the hell do you want from me?”

Draco’s voice was a whisper against his lips. “Everything.”

And then he kissed him—slow, deep, a tease that pulled and unraveled. Harry tasted sweet, like sugar quills and heat and something sharper underneath. Draco slipped his tongue into his mouth and felt Harry melt, lips parting with a soft, broken sound.

His hand found Harry’s cock, hot and hard between them. He wrapped his fingers around it, slow, sliding from base to tip and back again, and felt Harry’s breath catch like he’d been hit.

“Fuck,” Harry muttered, already trembling.

Draco suddenly felt very powerful. Harry wanted him—was undone by him—and Draco was the one pulling the strings. He dragged his thumb across the tip, smearing the slick and watching Harry twitch.

“Do you want to try…” He hesitated. The words felt big, even though he’d rehearsed them more than once in his head. “Well, I—I’ve been practicing. And I think I want you to…” He swallowed. “Use your fingers.”

Harry blinked, still catching up. “Wha—?”

“In me,” Draco said, voice steadier now. He met Harry’s eyes, face flushed but gaze clear.

“You sure?”

Draco nodded, leaning in, breath ghosting against Harry’s jaw. “Yeah. I want you.”

The reaction was immediate—Harry kissed him again, deep and messy, before pulling back just enough to look at him properly. “Okay.”

Draco turned, reaching for the small floating tray near the edge of the spring. A bottle of oil waited there—he handed it over without a word.

Draco pushed Harry to sit on a rock, setting into Harry’s lap. Water lapping as his ribs as Harry poured oil over his fingers rubbing them together to warm it.

Draco braced himself, heart thudding hard behind his ribs as Harry’s hand slipped beneath the water.

The first touch was featherlight, just a slick circle over sensitive skin, and Draco inhaled sharply, hips tilting without meaning to.

“Okay?” Harry asked, voice low.

Draco nodded.

The first finger slipped in with careful pressure, and Draco had to bite back a moan, jaw tight as he adjusted. It wasn’t like when he did it himself—it was fuller, deeper, more intimate. His muscles tensed and then slowly gave, his body yielding to Harry’s hand.

“Oh, holy—fuck,” he gasped, breath shuddering.

Harry’s voice was a murmur, all warmth and hunger. “Look how pretty you are.”

Draco flushed from chest to ears, heat blooming under his skin, his abs tightening involuntarily. Then Harry leaned forward, pressing open-mouthed kisses across Draco’s chest before dragging his tongue across one nipple and sucking it into his mouth.

That drew a real sound from Draco—a loud, unfiltered moan as his head dropped back. His thighs trembled. Harry’s free hand slid under the water, gripping his arse tightly, keeping him open, steady.

“I’m going to add a finger now,” Harry murmured, lips brushing against wet skin. “Okay?”

Draco nodded again, barely getting the word out. “Yeah. Do it.”

Harry didn’t rush. He added the second finger slowly, carefully, letting Draco feel every inch as it pushed in beside the first. The stretch was sharper now, a sting that made his breath hitch and his spine arch, but gods, it was good—better than he’d expected.

Draco’s hands gripped Harry’s shoulders, nails biting into skin, trying to ground himself as his body opened wider, learned the shape of this new rhythm.

“Fuck,” Draco panted, voice barely coherent. “You—fuck, Harry—”

Harry pressed his mouth to Draco’s sternum, kissing him through it, then dragged his tongue higher, nipping lightly at his collarbone. “You’re doing so fucking well,” he murmured, voice thick. “Taking it so beautifully.”

Harry’s fingers filled him, stroked him from the inside out.

And then Harry curled them just right—just right—and Draco made a noise he didn’t recognize, broken and guttural, hips grinding down without thinking.

“There?” Harry breathed.

Draco nodded frantically, eyes wide and dazed. “Again—fuck, do that again—”

Harry obeyed, curling again and again, building a rhythm that had Draco seeing stars behind his eyelids. His cock was pressed between their stomachs, impossibly hard, leaking into the hot water. Every time Harry hit that spot, Draco’s vision wavered, like the edges of the world were going soft.

“I can’t—” Draco gasped. “I’m gonna—fuck, Harry—”

Harry didn’t stop. He pulled Draco closer, chest to chest now, mouths colliding in a messy, wet kiss as Draco started to fall apart. One more stroke, one more grind of Harry’s fingers inside him, and Draco shattered—spasming in Harry’s lap, cock twitching as he came between them with a helpless cry.

He clung to Harry through it, nails digging into slick shoulders, panting like he couldn’t catch his breath.

Harry held him, didn’t rush, didn’t pull away. Just kissed his jaw, his neck, his temple, while Draco trembled in his arms, completely wrecked.

“Draco,” Harry whispered, voice reverent. “You’re fucking unbelievable.”

Draco laughed weakly, burying his face in Harry’s neck. “You haven’t even came yet.”

Harry chuckled, still stroking slow, soothing circles along Draco’s back. “You want to keep going?”

Draco lifted his head, eyes half-lidded and still glassy with the aftershocks. “Bed, Harry. Now.”

Harry grinned. “Right. Bed.”

Draco climbed off his lap with a groan, already missing the warmth of Harry’s body as the cool winter air kissed his damp skin. He stepped out of the spring, water sheeting off him in rivulets, and glanced over his shoulder with a look that dared Harry not to follow.

Harry didn’t even hesitate.

Chapter Text

The cold bit into Draco's skin the moment he stepped out of the water, but he welcomed it. It cleared the fuzz from his head, sharp and bracing after the sweet, slow unraveling of moments before.

Behind him, Harry scrambled after, far less composed, splashing through the water with less grace but every bit of urgency.

Draco could feel his gaze as he reached for the folded towels the Room had kindly provided. He didn’t rush. He toweled himself off with deliberate care, knowing full well Harry was watching the water slide down his back, the way the light kissed his skin.

Harry’s sharp inhale was deeply satisfying.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Harry muttered, voice wrecked.

Draco smirked, glancing back over his shoulder. “Not if I die first.”

He tossed a towel to Harry, then turned for the adjoining room without another word, confident Harry would follow. The Room had done its work beautifully—a spacious bed dominated the center, draped in plush, deep green throws and cream-coloured sheets, bathed in the amber glow of floating candles.

Draco crawled onto the bed, slow and predatory, deliberately taking up space. He stretched out, bare and unapologetic, propping himself up on his elbows as he watched Harry approach, towel slung low on his hips, eyes dark and so full of want it was staggering.

Harry was on him in seconds.

Their mouths crashed together, nothing careful now, all teeth and tongue and desperate, dragging need. Harry’s hands were everywhere—palming Draco’s thighs, kneading his hips, fingers splaying over every inch of skin like he was trying to memorize the shape of him.

Draco gasped against his lips as Harry’s cock slid against his, the friction dizzying. His legs fell open easily, inviting, and Harry slotted between them, grinding down, swallowing every sound Draco made with his mouth.

“Fuck, Draco,” Harry groaned. “You’re—bloody hell, you’re perfect.”

Draco’s laugh was breathless, shaky. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

Harry pulled back just enough to look at him, brushing damp hair from Draco’s forehead. His thumb lingered at the curve of Draco’s cheek, soft where his touch had been frantic.

“I want you,” Harry said simply, earnestly.

The words struck Draco harder than he expected.

“Then take me,” he whispered, voice rough. “I’m yours.”

The oil from the spring appeared on the bedside table, summoned by the Room’s omniscient understanding of want. Harry reached for it with purpose—but Draco noticed.

The tremble.

His hands weren’t steady.

His breath hitched, shallow and uneven. The determined set of his jaw was too tight, like he was holding something together by sheer will.

Draco’s heart knocked hard in his chest.

“Harry.” His voice cut through the thick air, softer now.

Draco sat up slowly, his hand finding Harry’s wrist, stopping him gently. Their eyes met. Harry’s bravado cracked.

“I’m fine,” Harry said quickly, but it sounded brittle.

Draco’s thumb swept over the back of his hand, slow and grounding. “You’re shaking.”

Harry flinched, as though only now realizing it himself.

“Do you… not want to?” Draco asked quietly.

“I—I do. Merlin, I do. But—fuck, I…” Harry broke off, voice cracking as he stared anywhere but at Draco. “I’m not ready. I thought I was. I wanted to be. Really.”

The admission hung heavy between them.

Draco’s fingers tightened slightly around Harry’s. He tugged, coaxing Harry closer until they were nose to nose, breath mingling.

“That’s okay,” Draco said softly, voice steady despite the ache in his chest. “You don’t have to be ready tonight.”

Harry’s eyes flickered back to him, wide and vulnerable. “But I was the one who pushed for this. I wanted it. I just… Ron’s already done it and I thought—”

Draco cut him off with an exaggerated groan, dropping his head against Harry’s shoulder. “I thought we agreed—ages ago—that we’re going at our pace. Not Ron Weasley’s.”

“I wasn’t trying to—” Harry started, but Draco silenced him with a finger pressed lightly to his lips.

“Stop. Just stop.” Draco’s voice softened, but his gaze was unrelenting. “This is us. You and me. No one else.”

He pulled back just enough to arch a brow. “And frankly, thank you for utterly destroying my mood by reminding me of Ron doing anything remotely sexual with my friend. That’s an image I’ll now have to drown in the Black Lake to forget.”

A startled laugh bubbled out of Harry despite himself, easing the tight line of his shoulders.

“I just—” Harry huffed, frustrated. “It’s not you. You’re perfect. I just… don’t know what I’m doing. And I’m scared. What if I get it wrong? What if I hurt you? Or make it awful and you decide—”

“Harry,” Draco interrupted, thumbing under his jaw, forcing him to meet his gaze. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry swallowed hard. “Still. You’d think I’d be less of a disaster at this point.”

Draco tilted his head, considering. “Tell me, Potter.” His voice turned faux-casual, dangerously curious. “Have you ever, you know… fingered yourself?”

Harry’s face went crimson instantly. “Draco—”

“I’m being serious.” Draco smirked, unbothered. “Because, frankly, it’s quite informative. Gives you a certain… appreciation for what’s involved. Perspective, if you will.”

Harry gawked at him, mouth opening and closing. “That’s—not—that’s completely different!”

“Is it?” Draco teased, chin propped on his knuckles now, watching Harry squirm with no small amount of satisfaction. “Because if you’d like a demonstration, I happen to be an excellent instructor.”

Harry made a strangled sound, somewhere between a groan and a gasp. “Merlin, I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” Draco’s grin was razor-sharp, but when he reached up to gently brush Harry’s fringe from his eyes, there was something softer beneath the tease. “But really. Maybe you wouldn’t be so jumpy if you had a better sense of how it feels.”

“I—I mean…” Harry confessed, his flush spreading down his neck like spilled ink. “I tried. Ages ago. I don’t even know if I… liked it.”

Draco’s brain had politely vacated the premises. For a single, stretched heartbeat, he was nothing but want.

And then—tilting his head, lips curving with slow, almost fond satisfaction—he exhaled. “Once?” His voice dropped to a purr. “Potter, you absolute amateur.”

Harry groaned, dragging a hand down his face, and Draco’s brain short-circuited again. Every inch of him wanted to move. To take Harry’s wrist, press kisses into his palm, remind him that they were both new to this.

“You know I have the same bloody books as you,” Harry muttered, exasperated. “I read them, alright? Sirius made sure of it—thanks to you, by the way. You don’t have to be so smug about it.”

Draco’s brow arched, though his heart was no longer in the teasing. He knew this defense mechanism too well. The self-deprecation.

“Harry, me being smug is not breaking news.”

Harry scowled. “I tried, okay? Once. It was awkward. What if it’s just… not my thing?”

That was when Draco’s heart did something awful and tender in his chest.

He let out a slow, deliberate hum—not mocking, but thoughtful. His throat felt tight.

“That’s possible,” he admitted, voice lower now, quieter. He shifted, closing the small distance between them, like the gravity between their bodies was inevitable. “But have you considered,” Draco murmured, softer, “that you just didn’t like doing it to yourself?”

Harry’s brows knit together, confusion warring with embarrassment. And Draco couldn’t help it. His fingers found Harry’s wrist—not possessive, not urgent, just warm—thumb brushing slow circles into his pulse point.

“Some things feel better when it’s someone else doing it,” Draco said, gaze intent but open.

Harry’s breath caught.

“And if it’s not your thing,” Draco added, lips twitching into something barely there, “No pressure. But we could try it… if you wanted.”

Draco felt Harry’s pulse thrumming under his fingertips. The Room had grown quiet, save for the distant crackle of firewood. Their world had narrowed to this: two hands, loosely clasped, and an unspoken yes trembling in the space between them.

Draco leaned in, slow enough for Harry to stop him if he wanted.

“Do you want to try?” Draco asked, voice softer now. Not a dare. Not a challenge. Just… a question. “Not all of it. Just… this. My fingers. Nothing more.”

Harry's throat bobbed as he swallowed. His lashes flickered, cheeks still burning. But he didn’t look away. “O-okay,” he stuttered.

Draco’s heart slammed against his ribs. His blood was molten. His brain was sludge. But his hands—Merlin bless him—his hands stayed steady.

“Good.” Draco smiled. Small. Reassuring. Like his entire body wasn’t a coil of restrained want. “We’ll go slow.”

He kissed Harry then. A kiss that whispered, I want you to want this, not because you think you should, but because it’s ours to want together.

Harry melted into it. His hands found Draco’s waist, tentative at first, but growing bolder when Draco didn’t pull away.

“Lie on your stomach for me, Harry.” Draco’s voice was a murmur, sinful in its patience.

Harry obeyed, his blush still searing down his throat.

He moved slow, awkwardly earnest, settling onto his front and shoving his face into a pillow like it might swallow his nerves.

Draco's heart squeezed.

Gods, he was wrecked for this boy.

For a long moment, he just… looked. Let himself breathe through the inferno of hormones screaming at him to do something. Harry was sprawled out, all tense shoulders and clenched fists, bravado stripped away. Vulnerable. Trusting. It was so different to how Harry usually was when they did stuff.

Draco let his fingers ghost down Harry’s spine, featherlight, savoring the ripple of shivers that followed his touch. The way Harry’s muscles tensed, then loosened beneath his hand—it was intoxicating.

“Relax, Harry,” he murmured, soft but sure.

Harry made a muffled noise into the pillow—half groan, half whimper—that had Draco’s cock twitching with painful interest. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the nape of Harry’s neck, lips lingering longer than necessary.

“Ass up, love,” Draco purred, shifting to kneel beside him, tone honey-sweet but leaving no room for argument.

Harry exhaled a shaky breath, his fingers knotting into the pillow like it was holding him together. But he moved. Merlin, he moved. He shifted onto his knees, awkward and reluctant and so fucking perfect Draco could’ve wept. Carefully, Draco slid a pillow beneath Harry’s hips, angling him up with gentle hands, relishing the way Harry flushed deeper, his back arching in offering.

“Are you ready?” Draco asked, because as feral as he felt, as much as he wanted, Harry’s comfort would always come first. “Really ready?”

He heard the click of Harry’s throat as he swallowed, saw the small, telling nod into the pillow. Shy. Beautiful. So stupidly brave.

“Good,” Draco whispered, voice lower now, thick with something possessive and fond. “If you want me to stop, say so. Anything, and I’ll stop.”

Harry nodded again, but his body—tense, trembling—was still here. Still saying yes.

Draco’s hands found their home on Harry’s cheeks, warm and steady. Slowly, reverently, he spread him open. The sight was almost enough to knock the breath from his lungs.

Holy fuck.

He wanted to tell Harry how beautiful he was like this. Spread out, vulnerable, trusting Draco with something so raw. But he didn’t want to scare him off.

Still, the words sang behind his teeth.

And then—on a whim, reckless and brilliant—Draco leaned in. He flattened his tongue and dragged it in one long, deliberate stripe over Harry’s hole.

Harry bucked, gasping into the pillow. “Jesus Christ!”

Draco smiled. Slow and sharp. “Is this okay?”

The answer was instant. A frantic nod, Harry’s knuckles white now, but no words came. That was fine. Words were overrated.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Draco murmured, already leaning back in.

He licked again, slow and unhurried, tasting salt and heat and Harry. The way Harry writhed beneath him, squirming helplessly, was art. His hips twitched, trying to rock back against Draco’s mouth, but Draco’s hands kept him steady—held him open.

“Sensitive, are we?” Draco said, voice smug but soft.

Harry made a noise. Embarrassed. Overwhelmed. Glorious.

Draco felt drunk on it. The taste of Harry. The way his body twitched under every careful swipe of his tongue. The soft, obscene slick of it as the tight, puckered ring softened, yielding beneath Draco’s mouth.

It was fucking perfect.

He smiled against Harry’s skin, utterly gone.

Draco reached for the bottle of oil, slicking his fingers and warming it between his palms, his heart hammering hard against his ribs. He exhaled slow through his nose, trying—failing—not to think about how sweetly Harry had opened for his tongue.

“I’m going to add a finger now,” Draco said, voice rasped but gentle. He pressed a kiss to the small of Harry’s back as he spoke. “Alright, love?”

The answering groan was muffled by the pillow, but it came with a breathless, hoarse, “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Draco’s throat was dry.

Slowly, carefully, he pressed a slick finger to Harry’s entrance, circling once more before applying steady pressure. The muscle gave and Draco eased inside.

Shit.

Harry was so tight. Hot and tense around him, clinging to his finger in a way that sent a white-hot bolt of want straight to Draco’s cock. He forced himself to stay still, to breathe, to not imagine what it would feel like to be buried inside him properly.

Bad idea. Bad, dangerous idea.

But gods, the thought alone was enough to make Draco see stars.

Beneath him, Harry adjusted, hips giving a subtle, uncertain wiggle. Draco’s heart stuttered. Harry wasn’t pulling away. He was… learning. Testing his own limits.

“Good,” Draco murmured, utterly helpless in his admiration. “You’re doing so well.”

He leaned down, tongue sweeping around Harry’s rim again, filthy and reverent all at once. The contrast of his mouth and his finger was devastating—Draco could feel the way Harry’s muscles fluttered, feel how his body was starting to relax around the intrusion.

Draco hummed low in his throat as he explored, curling his finger slightly, mapping out every twitch, every gasp.

With every careful thrust of his finger, he worked Harry open a little more, patient and thorough. His free hand smoothed down Harry’s back as Draco let his tongue work in tandem with his finger—stroking, teasing, coaxing.

“Fuck, Draco—” Harry groaned, voice cracking like the last thread of his composure had snapped.

Draco’s lips curled into a slow, feral smile. That sound. That wrecked, desperate sound. He wanted to bottle it. To brand it into his skin.

“That’s it, Harry,” Draco murmured, voice barely above a whisper, but so sharp it could cut. His thumb brushed soothingly over Harry’s hip. “Still good?”

Harry’s answering moan wasn’t exactly articulate, but it was enough.

Draco’s chest swelled.

“You taste so good,” Draco said, letting his tongue drag another deliberate, filthy swipe over Harry’s rim. He couldn’t help himself. Every noise Harry made was a reward, a crack in the armor, and Draco was nothing if not thorough in exploiting that weakness.

He slicked his fingers again and eased in a second, stretching Harry open with patient, deliberate pressure.

“Oh—shit,” Harry gasped, hips jerking, and Draco’s grin sharpened.

Because now Harry was moving. Thrusting back, rolling his hips, riding Draco’s fingers like it was instinct. His hole was warm, wet, soft around him—Draco was going to lose his mind.

“Yesss,” Harry hissed, so sweetly overwhelmed that Draco’s cock throbbed painfully against the bed. He was so close to coming untouched it was humiliating.

Later. Focus.

Draco shifted his angle, curling his fingers as he searched—and when he found it, when he pressed into that spongy spot deep inside, Harry arched.

The sound that tore from his throat was fucking divine.

“Ah—fuck! What the hell was that?” Harry’s head finally lifted from the pillow, turning just enough to glance back at Draco.

His cheeks were flushed crimson, lips bitten, his hair a wild mess of sweat-dampened curls. Wide-eyed. Beautifully undone.

Draco’s smirk was nothing short of obscene. “I thought you said you read those books, Potter.”

Harry’s only answer was a breathless, wrecked sound as Draco curled his fingers again, slow and devastating, stroking that same spot with pinpoint precision. “It’s your prostate, love. You’re welcome.”

And then Draco ruined him.

He set a rhythm—fucking his fingers into that spot with a deliberate, unhurried pace. His other hand gripped Harry’s hip, steadying him, grounding him as he leaned down to lap at Harry’s rim once more. Lazy, thorough strokes of his tongue. Filthy and reverent.

Every time his tongue circled, Harry moaned. Every press of Draco’s fingers made it louder. More desperate. The noises were constant now, falling from Harry’s lips in a litany of whimpers and gasps that Draco was sure would haunt his dreams for months.

“Good boy,” Draco whispered against his skin. “Making such pretty sounds for me.”

Harry shuddered violently.

“B-Bunny—” Harry’s voice cracked, breathless, ruined.

Draco felt him shift, hips rocking forward. One hand shot between his own body and the bed, awkward but determined. Draco couldn’t see it, but he knew what Harry was doing.

He was stroking himself.

And fuck, Draco was going to lose his mind.

“That’s it,” Draco crooned, fingers unrelenting, tongue working in tandem with every thrust. “Touch yourself.”

Harry keened—a high, wrecked sound Draco wanted to hear again and again.

His thighs trembled violently now, muscles quaking with the effort to keep himself upright. His hole was so wet, slick with Draco’s spit and oil, sucking greedily around Draco’s fingers every time he pulled back.

He was close. Draco could feel it. The way Harry’s breath stuttered. The frantic pace of his hand. The tension singing through his body like a bowstring pulled taut.

“Cum for me, Harry,” Draco whispered, voice gone low and dark and almost tender.

One more stroke over his prostate, one more obscene lick, and Harry broke.

He cried out, loud and unashamed, body arching as his orgasm ripped through him. His hips jerked helplessly, thighs trembling, his release spilling hot onto the sheets as he gasped Draco’s name. Draco didn’t stop—not immediately—he eased him through it, gentle now, fingers slowing as Harry’s body shuddered with the aftershocks.

Only when Harry finally collapsed, boneless and wrecked, did Draco slip his fingers free with the same care he’d used putting them there. He pressed a soft kiss to the small of Harry’s back, savoring the heat of his skin, the way his body still twitched with afterglow.

Draco’s own restraint, however, was in tatters.

His cock ached. Heavy, flushed, leaking. The taste of Harry still lingered on his tongue, sweet and addictive. He sat back on his heels, breath ragged, and wrapped his slick fingers around his own length, hissing at the contact. His hips rocked up into his fist with a desperation that would’ve been embarrassing if it weren’t so inevitable.

“So… fucking hot, Harry,” Draco panted, eyes locked on the picture Harry made—sprawled out, flushed, fucked-out and more beautiful than any fantasy Draco had ever conjured.

His fist worked his cock with frantic, practiced efficiency, but there was nothing graceful about it. He was well past that. Every thought in his head had narrowed down to need. The taste of Harry still lingered on his tongue, the memory of those desperate, broken moans playing on loop in his ears.

“Fuck, Harry—gods—” Draco’s whole body locked up as his orgasm crashed through him. His hips jerked helplessly, his release spilling hot over his fingers—and, to his mortification, splattering across Harry’s lower back and ass.

It hadn’t been intentional. But in the moment, he couldn’t control it.

His breath came in harsh, stuttering gasps as he sagged back on his heels, chest heaving. For a moment, all he could do was sit there, trembling, the world tilting as the aftershocks rattled through him.

When his heartbeat wasn’t trying to rupture his skull, he dared to look up.

Harry had turned slightly, and their eyes met.

And Draco felt his stomach plummet.

He hadn’t meant to—Merlin, obviously—but there it was, his spend marking Harry’s flushed skin, gleaming in the soft candlelight.

“Fuck,” Draco croaked, swiping a hand over his face. “I—shit—I didn’t mean to—”

Harry blinked at him, disheveled and pink-cheeked, and then—the absolute menace—he smirked.

“Oh no,” Harry said, voice hoarse, but dripping with mock gravity. “You’ve desecrated me, Bunny. How ever will I recover.”

Draco stared at him. Blinking. Processing.

And then—“You little shit,” he groaned, flopping forward onto the bed beside Harry, hiding his face in the pillows to muffle the strangled sound of relief. His cheeks were burning.

Harry’s laugh was warm, rough-edged from exertion, but gentle.

“I’m serious,” Harry said, a smile in his voice. “The nerve. To just—paint me...”

Draco made a sound of pure indignation. “I will hex you.”

“Sure you will,” Harry teased.

Draco peeked out from the pillow, narrowing his eyes, still pink-cheeked and suspicious. “You’re… not mad?”

Harry huffed an incredulous breath, rolling his eyes. “Draco. You literally made me come so hard I forgot my own name. Honestly, if I wasn’t already wrecked, watching you lose it like that—coming on me—probably would’ve finished me off all over again.”

Draco’s brain short-circuited. His ears burned. His very soul buzzed with that image.

“I hate you,” Draco muttered weakly.

“I love you too,” Harry shot back, utterly unbothered, giving a lazy flick of his wrist. The charm washed over them leaving the sheets and their skin spotless. Then Harry flopped face-first into the pillow with a long, dramatic groan. “I need a nap before dinner.”

Draco watched him for a moment, something fond curling in his chest.

“A nap sounds good to me,” he said quietly, pulling the blanket up over Harry’s still-warm body.

Without hesitation Draco curled in close. Harry wrapped an arm around him, pulling him flush against his chest. His chin found its place atop Draco’s head, his fingers absently stroking along Draco’s side in soft, languid patterns.

His eyes fluttered shut.

Harry’s heartbeat was steady beneath his ear. The room was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the fire and the slow, even breaths they began to share.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

They didn’t wake for dinner.

In fact, they slept straight through the night—curled up in the Room’s impossibly soft bed, cocooned in warmth and quiet, wrapped around each other like a pair of idiots.

Draco should’ve been mortified. Or at least mildly annoyed. He’d gone to the trouble of bribing the house-elves for a private dinner, after all. Carefully planned, perfectly executed—right up until they’d both passed out like overindulged Kneazles.

But Merlin, Harry’s body heat and the faint scent of cedar lingering in the sheets had worked a special kind of magic on him.

So when morning crept in—soft light filtering through enchanted windows—Draco was dead to the world.

Or he had been.

Until someone started pressing kisses to his face.

Wet, insistent, entirely too cheerful kisses.

First his cheek. Then his temple. His jaw. The maddening brush of lips at the corner of his mouth.

“Harry,” Draco growled, his voice rough with sleep. His eyes remained stubbornly closed. “It is obscenely early. Go away.”

But Harry, predictably, did not go away.

Another kiss, lingering this time, right on his mouth.

“I let you sleep in,” Harry murmured, his voice far too fond, far too close. “It’s nearly lunchtime, you grumpy sod.”

Draco cracked one bleary eye open, leveling Harry with what was supposed to be a withering glare.

It failed.

Miserably.

Because Harry was smiling at him. That infuriating, soft smile, all dimples and sleep-creased cheeks and hair sticking up in ten different directions.

Draco hated him.

“I bribed the elves, you know,” Draco muttered, burrowing deeper into Harry’s chest. “For you. And you—you traitor—let me sleep through my own grand gesture.”

Harry huffed a laugh, completely unrepentant. “Your grand gesture ended with me covered in your come, Bunny. I think you had a good time.”

Draco’s scowl deepened. “I’m not speaking to you.”

“Fair.” Harry’s lips brushed the tip of his nose. “But you’re still clinging to me like a koala, so I’ll take the win.”

“I am not clinging,” Draco sniffed, even as he remained firmly attached. “And I don’t even know what a ko-a-la is.”

Harry grinned, utterly delighted. “Small. Fuzzy. Clingy. Bites if you disturb it. Sound familiar?”

Draco’s glare was positively lethal.

Harry kissed his forehead. “You’re always this grumpy in the morning. It’s endearing, really. Part of your charm.”

“Merlin help me,” Draco muttered, squeezing his eyes shut.

There was a beat of silence. And then Harry’s stomach gave a dramatic, very loud growl.

Draco cracked one eye open. “Did your stomach just issue a formal complaint?”

Harry groaned, throwing his head back against the pillow. “I’m starving. Draco, please. For the love of all things holy, get up. I’m wasting away. This is the end for me.”

“Tragic.”

“I mean it. I’ll wither right here! You’ll have to tell everyone you let Harry Potter die of starvation!”

Draco huffed a laugh despite himself. “You’re the worst.”

Harry flopped on top of him dramatically. “Please, Draco. I’m begging. I’ll owe you. Anything. I’m so hungry I’d eat a bloody Hippogriff.”

Draco pretended to consider. “Anything, you say?”

Harry peeked at him, immediately suspicious. “Within reason.”

“Define reason,” Draco smirked.

Harry groaned into his shoulder, voice muffled but drenched in pathetic. “I need food, Bunny. Food. Immediately. Please.”

Draco sighed, long and theatrical, as if Harry had asked him to scale a mountain rather than get out of bed. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he grumbled, stretching like a cat, all slow, deliberate, before rolling himself upright.

Harry watched him with far too much amusement.

“I can feel you smirking, Harry.”

“I’m just admiring the view. Can’t help it.”

Draco shot him a withering look over his shoulder as he reached for his clothes. “Control yourself, or we’ll miss lunch.”

Harry didn’t look even remotely apologetic. He was already tugging his trainers on with the elegance of a troll, grinning as Draco buttoned his shirt with precision.

By the time Draco had smoothed out his sleeves, Harry was practically vibrating with the need to eat. The Room of Requirement, sensing its job was well and truly done, sighed open to reveal the seventh-floor corridor. Draco could’ve sworn the room itself sounded relieved to be rid of them.

They were halfway down the Hall when Luna Lovegood drifted toward them, dreamlike as always.

“Lovely morning,” Luna said serenely, drifting into their path as if they hadn’t just emerged thoroughly ravished. As if Draco’s throat wasn’t still marked from Harry’s bloody teeth.

She blinked at them owlishly, completely unfazed. “Oh, by the way, I’m not sure when Rita’s interview will appear in the Quibbler. Daddy’s quite excited about a new article on recent Crumple-Horned Snorkack sightings. Very important, obviously. So Harry’s might have to wait.”

Draco fought the urge to physically collapse in the hallway.

The bloody interview.

Harry paled slightly too.

Before either of them could formulate a response, Luna smiled—a soft, knowing thing—and floated away toward Ravenclaw’s table, humming.

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “Merlin’s left sock, I forgot about that.”

Harry snorted. “Priorities, Bunny. First food, then panic.”

Draco shot him a sideways glare. “You’re far too calm about this.”

“I slept great, I’m about to eat, and you’re cute. This is my ideal morning.”

Draco refused to dignify that with a response.

As they reached the Gryffindor table, the low hum of gossip simmered. Heads turned. Whispers bloomed. Draco didn’t look, but he felt them.

He ignored it.

Mostly.

Harry just waved at Dean like they’d returned from a lovely stroll and not an illicit night of… well. Draco’s ears were still pink.

By the time they sat down, Ron was grinning like the cat that caught the Niffler.

“Well, well,” Ron said, drawing out the words, leaning across the table with all the subtlety of a Blast-Ended Skrewt. “Have a good night, did you?”

Draco fixed him with a look so flat it could’ve ironed a shirt.

“Your powers of observation are truly staggering, Weasel.”

Harry, ever the picture of unbothered delight, just grinned as he reached for a plate and began piling it high without a care in the world.

“Sooo,” Ron drawled, leaning in eyes gleaming with zero shame, “did you guys have sex then?”

Draco’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. He gave Ron a withering look. “I thought we agreed these conversations were not to be had in public, Ronald.”

Ron waved a hand as if that was a minor inconvenience. With a flick of his wand, he cast a silencing charm over the table—sloppy, obvious, and utterly useless. As if lip-readers didn’t exist. As if Pansy wasn’t a marvelous lip reader herself and sitting just across the hall.

Not that he wouldn’t tell her himself later.

“I just want to hear it from you first,” Ron said, grinning. “Before Hermione. You know she’ll be gutted if I get the scoop first. And reciprocity ferret-face since I told you about Pans and me as I said before.”

Draco’s eye twitched.

Harry, the traitor, kept eating. Though his cheeks had turned a telling shade of pink.

“I hate you,” Draco said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ron said, waving him off, “but did you do it?”

And then—Harry, casual as anything, said between bites, “I chickened out.”

That made Ron freeze mid-lean.

“What?” he blurted.

Harry shrugged, casually spearing a piece of roast potato. “Thought I was ready. Turns out, I wasn’t.”

Ron’s face scrunched up. “But you—both of you—look like you—”

“We had a lovely night,” Draco said smoothly, cutting across Ron’s flailing sentence.

Harry snorted into his juice.

Ron blinked, then narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “Wait. So you didn’t shag, but you still—?” He made a vague, circular gesture with his fork. “You know. Did stuff. So… what stuff?”

Harry’s ears immediately went red. “That’s really none of your business, mate.”

“Which means it’s excellent gossip,” Ron said, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“That’s quite enough, Ron,” Draco said, tone clipped. “If you’d like a detailed itinerary of our activities, you can book an appointment with my publicist.”

Ron grinned, thoroughly unbothered. “Already penciled it in, thanks.”

Harry just shook his head, biting back a smile as he reached for his pumpkin juice.

At that moment, Hermione appeared, sliding into her seat with a polite but curious smile. She eyed the silencing charm Ron had so dramatically expanded to include her, raising an eyebrow as she settled her books beside her plate.

“How was your date last night?” she asked brightly, too brightly. “I noticed you weren’t at dinner. Or breakfast…”

Both Draco and Harry flushed in unison.

Ron leaned in, cupping his hand around his mouth. “They didn’t have sex,” he faux-whispered, stage-loud, “but they did stuff.”

Draco made a strangled noise. “I will hex you.”

“And this is precisely why Harry doesn’t tell you anything scandalous. You have the discretion of a drunken Hippogriff.”

Ron looked personally offended. “I’ll have you know, I was the first to know! You were harassing Harry just yesterday!”

Across the table, Harry groaned, forehead meeting the wood with a soft thud.

“Merlin, save me,” he muttered.

Draco smirked, patting his shoulder with all the sympathy in the world.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Draco woke to the sharp jolt of movement beside him.

It wasn’t unusual by now—Harry thrashing in his sleep, breath coming in shallow, broken bursts—but it still sent Draco’s heart racing every time.

Draco blinked blearily, the Gryffindor dorm shrouded in dim, enchanted moonlight, casting long silver lines across the bed curtains. His eyes adjusted quickly enough to see the shape of Harry—tense, curled in on himself, sweat-slick hair plastered to his brow.

“Harry,” Draco murmured, voice raw with sleep.

No answer. Just a faint, choked sound. Harry’s brow was furrowed, mouth parted, and his fingers twitched where they’d knotted themselves into the blanket, curling tight, like he was reaching for something.

“No,” Harry breathed. “Almost there… just—”

Draco’s stomach twisted. He didn’t need Legilimency to know exactly what Harry was seeing. That bloody, cursed corridor. The same as always.

Carefully—because Harry startled so easily now—Draco slid closer, warm fingers wrapping gently around Harry’s wrist. His thumb pressed slow, deliberate circles against the racing pulse there.

“Harry,” he said again, lower now.

For a moment, Draco wasn’t sure it had worked. Then—

Harry’s eyes snapped open.

Wild. Distant. His chest heaved with shallow breaths, like he'd run from somewhere far away.

“Breathe, darling.” Draco’s hand left Harry’s wrist to brush his damp hair back. His thumb lingered on Harry’s temple. “You’re alright.”

Harry’s breath hitched, shallow and ragged, his fingers curling into Draco’s sleeve like he was still chasing something just out of reach.

“I was right there,” Harry rasped, voice raw. “The door—it was open this time. Just a crack. I could see—” His throat bobbed, the words failing as his grip tightened.

Draco kept tracing slow, firm circles against Harry’s temple. “I know. I know, love.”

“It’s not supposed to be happening anymore,” Harry muttered, jaw clenched. “I’m better at Occlumency. You’ve seen it. Snape even said I was—what was it? ‘Marginally less incompetent.’”

“High praise. Practically a sonnet,” Draco said dryly, though the twist in his chest didn’t ease.

Harry huffed a breath that might have been a laugh, but the tension was still coiled tight in his shoulders. “Doesn’t matter. The dreams are getting worse. They happen almost every bloody night now.”

Draco’s fingers found Harry’s arm, squeezing gently. “We’ll tell Sev in the morning, alright?”

Harry grimaced. “You know how he’ll be.”

“Overbearing? Obviously.” Draco’s mouth quirked, but the usual sharpness didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But he’ll be far worse if you keep this from him. You know that.”

Harry sighed, long and bone-deep, sinking back against the pillows as if the weight of it all was too much. His fingers still curled loosely in Draco’s sleeve, reluctant to let go. Draco didn’t mind.

“I know,” Harry muttered. “Doesn’t mean I’m looking forward to it.”

Draco tilted his head, considering him with a soft intensity. Gently, Draco leaned in, brushing his lips against the corner of Harry’s mouth.

“Are you tired, darling?” he murmured. “Do you want to sleep again? I’ll be right here.”

Harry’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smile flickering across his face. “Can I convince you to distract me first?”

Draco sighed, long-suffering, as if Harry had asked him to scale a mountain rather than kiss him senseless.

“It’s nearly three in the morning,” he drawled, arching a brow. “And you want to snog.”

Harry, to his credit, didn’t even flinch. He merely tilted his chin up, green eyes soft but glinting beneath the fatigue. “Yes. Exactly that. Snog me until I feel better, then I can sleep like a baby.”

Merlin help him.

Draco was many things. Petty. Vain. Occasionally vindictive. But heartless? No. Not when it came to Harry.

“Your logic is appalling,” Draco said, shifting until he was properly looming over him. “But fine. You want to be snogged breathless at this hour, who am I to stand in the way of your poor life choices?”

Harry’s answering smile was small, victorious, and utterly infuriating.

The bastard.

By the next morning, however, discussing Harry’s cursed dreams with Severus had completely fallen off the priority list.

They strolled into the Great Hall for breakfast—just as the post owls swooped overhead—It wasn’t unusual for Hermione to eagerly await her Daily Prophet, of course. Nor was it surprising that half the Hall was eagerly for news of the escaped Death Eaters, who were, quite predictably, still at large.

What was surprising was the owl that landed squarely in front of Harry.

Odd.

Sirius and Remus never used owl post anymore. Instant messaging via the Atlas was far more efficient (and much less interceptable).

Draco’s frown deepened as Harry reached for the letter.

Before his fingers even brushed it, three more owls dive-bombed the table, scattering feathers and thoroughly ruining a perfectly good butter dish.

Then another. And another.

“What in Merlin’s name—” Draco started.

“What’s going on?” Ron asked, eyes wide as more owls crammed themselves onto the Gryffindor table, jostling each other, wings flapping, salt cellars toppling in their wake.

The noise was overwhelming.

Harry looked equally bewildered, hand halfway to the closest owl, when Hermione elbowed her way through the feathery chaos. Her hands plunged into the mess with terrifying efficiency, extracting a screech owl bearing a long, cylindrical package.

“I think I know what this is,” she said breathlessly. “Open this one first!”

Harry tore at the brown paper. A rolled-up magazine slid free, thudding onto the table.

The Quibbler.

Draco’s stomach sank.

Oh.

Right.

That didn’t take long.

Harry unfurled the magazine, and there it was—his gorgeous face, front and center, looking sheepish and windswept beneath an obnoxiously large headline:

HARRY POTTER SPEAKS OUT AT LAST:THE TRUTH ABOUT HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED AND THE NIGHT I SAW HIM RETURN

Draco stared at it for a long moment, then slowly, deliberately, turned his head to look at Harry.

“I swear to every ancestral Malfoy portrait, if you faint now, Potter, I’ll never let you live it down.”

Harry blinked at him. “Faint? Why would I—?”

But then Luna Lovegood materialized, seemingly from nowhere, and wedged herself between Fred and Ron.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” she said serenely. “Daddy sent you a free copy. I expect all these,” she gestured vaguely at the avalanche of owls, “are letters from readers. Some of them might be nice.”

“Some of them might be cursed,” Draco muttered darkly.

“That’s what I thought too,” Hermione said, already rifling through the pile. “Harry, do you mind if we—?”

“Help yourself,” Harry said, dazed.

Draco folded his arms, watching owls continue to dive-bomb the table, determined to ruin his breakfast.

“We should’ve hired a publicist,” Draco announced, voice clipped. “A proper one. I’m not fielding hate mail for free.”

Harry’s lips quirked into a grin. “I thought that was part of the boyfriend package.”

Draco glared at him. “It’s not. You should have read the fine print.”

Still, with a long-suffering sigh, Draco reached for a letter. Carefully. Unlike Ron, who was already tearing into envelopes like a Kneazle on a sugar high.

“This one’s from a bloke who thinks you’re completely mental,” Ron reported, glancing at the scrawled handwriting before tossing the letter aside.

Hermione huffed. “This woman thinks you should check yourself into St. Mungo’s for a regimen of Shock Spells,” she said, crumpling up a second letter with more force than strictly necessary. “Really disappointing.”

Harry blinked, scanning his own letter. “This one’s from a witch in Paisley. She says she believes me.” His voice was quiet, almost disbelieving. “She believes me.”

“This bloke’s torn,” Fred chimed in. He waved a letter overhead. “Says you sound sane enough, but can’t decide if he’s ready to believe Voldemort’s back. Very dramatic. Thinks his personal denial is more important than, y’know, reality. Lovely waste of parchment.”

“Here!” Hermione said, practically vibrating with excitement as she waved another letter. “This one’s convinced. She says the Prophet’s been disgraceful and that, little though she wants to believe You-Know-Who’s return, your words forced her to reconsider.”

Draco smirked. “That’s two. Your fan club grows.”

Ron snorted, pelting another balled-up letter over his shoulder. “Still plenty who think you’re barking. But—hey—this one’s switched sides.” He held up a photo. “Claims you’re a hero now. Sent you her picture, too. Wants to buy you a drink if she ever runs into you.”

Harry flushed immediately. “Oh. Brilliant.”

Draco, already plucking the photo from Ron’s hand with a delicate, disdainful pinch, eyed it with a cool expression. “Charming,” he said flatly. “But no.”

“Jealousy, Blondie?” Fred grinned.

“Protecting the public from Potter’s complete inability to handle being flirted with,” Draco corrected primly. He slid the photo across to Hermione with pointed disinterest. “File it under delusional admirers.”

Hermione sighed. “Honestly, the two of you are exhausting.”

Harry just smiled—small, crooked, but real. “But she said I was a hero,” he said softly.

And something in Draco—some stupid, illogical, utterly possessive part—twisted sharply.

“Oh, well,” Draco said airily, flicking imaginary lint from his sleeve, “maybe you should let her buy you that drink, then. Could be the start of a truly riveting romance. Very scandalous. The Hero of the Wizarding World, swept off his feet by a gushing fangirl.”

Draco knew he was being unreasonable. He knew it even as the words left his mouth, laced with that signature indifference that wasn't fooling anyone at the table. Certainly not Harry, who was now looking at him with that a maddeningly soft expression that made Draco's ribs feel too tight.

“You do realize you’re my boyfriend, right?” Harry said, voice pitched low. “No gushing fangirl is going to change that.”

Draco’s mouth twitched, traitorous. “Good,” he said, chin tilting up. “Because I’d hate to have to curse someone into next week over something as pedestrian as a fan letter.”

Fred let out a low whistle. “Romantic, Blondie. Threats of bodily harm. You’re a real catch.”

“I never claimed to be otherwise.”

“What did your letter say, Draco?” Hermione asked, deftly changing the subject as she slid another opened envelope toward the growing ‘not insane’ pile.

Draco sighed, glancing down at the forgotten letter still crumpled in his hand. He scanned it with a flicker of disdain, lips curling as he read.

“Well,” he said, tone flat with carefully curated boredom, “this particularly enlightened individual suggests that Harry is doing all of this for attention. And—naturally—blames me for encouraging his ‘histrionics’.”

Harry made a noise somewhere between a snort and a groan. “Of course they do.”

“But seriously,” Hermione said, glancing up from another letter, eyes bright, “this is working, Harry. Look how many people are actually believing you.”

Harry ducked his head, pretending to fuss with an envelope, but Draco could see the way his lips tugged up at the corners.

Of course the happiness was short lived.

“What is going on here?” came a falsely sweet, cloying voice.

Professor Umbridge stood behind Fred and Luna, her bulging toad’s eyes sweeping over the table of letters and owl feathers. Behind her, half the Great Hall was watching with barely disguised interest.

“Why have you got all these letters, Mr. Potter?” she asked, voice syrupy and slow.

Fred, never one to miss an opening, grinned. “Is that a crime now? Getting mail?”

“Be careful, Mr. Weasley,” Umbridge said, smile tightening. “Or I shall have to put you in detention.”

“Well, Mr. Potter?” she purred, rounding back on Harry.

Harry hesitated. For a heartbeat, Draco thought he might deflect. But no.

“People have written to me because I gave an interview,” Harry said evenly. “About what happened to me last June.”

“An interview?” Umbridge’s tone sharpened, her voice pitching into something thin and brittle. “What do you mean by interview?”

“I mean,” Harry said, far too calmly, “a reporter asked me questions. And I answered them.”

He plucked the copy of The Quibbler from the table and lobbed it towards her. She snatched it mid-air, eyes narrowing at the headline.

Her pale, doughy face mottled into a blotchy, furious violet.

“When did you do this?” she asked, trembling with fury.

“Last Hogsmeade weekend.”

Umbridge was practically vibrating with rage, The Quibbler crumpling under her stubby fingers as her blotchy face turned an alarming shade of magenta. “There will be no more Hogsmeade trips for you, Mr. Potter,” Umbridge hissed, her voice low and venomous. “How you dare… how you could…”

She inhaled sharply, visibly trying not to shriek.

“I have tried again and again to teach you not to tell lies. Clearly, you refuse to learn. Fifty points from Gryffindor!” She sucked in another furious breath, then added with gleeful malice, “And—and you are banned from Quidditch!”

The words echoed across the Great Hall.

“What?” Ron shot to his feet, his bench screeching loudly across the stone floor.

Fred slammed his palms onto the table, rattling dishes. “You can’t do that! That’s not fair!”

“Harry hasn’t broken a single school rule!” Hermione’s voice rang out, sharp with righteous fury, her fists clenched white-knuckled at her sides.

Outrage rippled through the hall in a wave of whispers, heads turning, eyes narrowing as Umbridge squared her shoulders and attempted to look composed.

Adjusting her cardigan with jerky, trembling fingers, she plastered on a sickly-sweet smile. “You may consider your Quidditch privileges revoked, Mr. Potter,” she said with syrupy finality, voice wobbling with triumph.

Harry’s hands curled into fists atop the table, knuckles bone-white.

She spun on her heel, stomping away with The Quibbler clutched to her chest like a prized possession. Students followed her exit with gleaming eyes, whispers already starting to ripple through the hall.

Draco watched her go, lip curling. “I’d pay good money to see her slip on an owl dropping.”

Ron flopped back onto the bench, seething. “Absolute cow.”

“She’s rattled,” Hermione muttered, eyes sharp. “The article did more damage than she expected.”

Fred smirked. “I say we plaster copies of it on the castle walls.”

“Tempting,” Draco said smoothly, folding his arms. “But unnecessary. She’s doing the work for us.”

He wasn’t wrong.

By mid-morning, enormous signs had appeared across Hogwarts—not just on House notice boards, but in every corridor and classroom, each one in bold black ink:

— BY ORDER OF —

The High Inquisitor of Hogwarts

Any student found in possession of The Quibbler will be expelled.

This is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-Seven.

It was laughable.

“What exactly are you two so bloody pleased about?” Harry asked, squinting at Draco and Hermione, both of whom were openly grinning every time they passed another sign.

“Oh, Harry, don’t you see?” Hermione said, practically vibrating. “If she could have done one thing to make absolutely sure that every single person in this school will read your interview, it was banning it!”

“Let her have her tantrum, Darling.” Draco added, looping his arm lazily through Harry’s. “You’re winning.”

And Harry, to Draco’s quiet satisfaction, smiled.

Chapter Text

Draco and Harry stood beside Snape in the quiet, dark stillness of the Pensieve, watching the scene unfold like a ghost haunting someone else’s life. Because that’s what it felt like—haunting. Watching Malfoy, not him, stalk through the Entrance Hall flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. Watching that sneer he knew far too well twist across his own face. Although this version of him was almost unrecognizable.

He didn't consider him “Draco” anymore. It was easier that way. Easier to see Malfoy as someone else—someone who wasn’t him—because if he thought too hard about it, about the things he’d said and done, the weight would crush him.

The memory sharpened as Malfoy spotted Harry and Weasley descending the marble staircase. His—Malfoy's—eyes flicked around, checking for teachers.

“You’re dead, Potter.”

Harry's dry reply echoed in the hall: “Funny, you’d think I’d have stopped walking around...”

Snape said nothing beside him, only watched with that unreadable look he wore like armor. Draco’s stomach turned as Malfoy kept speaking—about revenge, about his father, about making Harry pay. It was so painfully obvious now, how scared Malfoy had been. How much of it was bluff and bluster.

Harry mocked him with Voldemort—“What’s the matter? He’s your dad’s mate, isn’t he? Not scared of him, are you?”—and Draco saw it clearly: the flinch. The way Crabbe and Goyle faltered, and Malfoy did too, just slightly.

When Malfoy advanced, wand half-raised, Draco couldn’t look away. He knew what was coming. He remembered the heat of humiliation when Harry beat him to the draw. But this time, watching from the outside, he didn’t feel angry. He felt hollow.

Snape’s voice cut through the tension: “Potter! What are you doing?”

And then Potter’s voice—so bold, so reckless: “I’m trying to decide what curse to use on Malfoy, sir.”

Draco couldn’t help it—he let out a soft, humorless breath that might have been a laugh. Or a sigh.

The memory shifted.

Color bled and blurred like watercolor in the Pensieve, the marble of the Entrance Hall melting away into something softer—cool greys, gentle candlelight. The drawing room at Malfoy Manor.

The memory came into full focus: Malfoy, sat rigidly on the velvet sofa, posture perfect, every inch of him trying to appear composed. On the low table in front of him lay a copy of the Daily Prophet, the headline glaring back:

HARRY POTTER: THE CHOSEN ONE?

Beside him, Harry shifted. He stood just behind Draco in the present, shoulder to shoulder, but slightly apart from Snape. His eyes caught the headline and froze there.

In the memory, Narcissa stood near the fireplace. She was still beautiful—poised and elegant in that way only she could manage—but there was something hollow about her in the memory. Like the glamour couldn’t quite cover the exhaustion, the fear. She looked far older than she should’ve at that age.

“The Dark Lord will punish us both,” she said, voice like silk worn thin. So soft it barely stirred the air. Draco wondered if she was speaking carefully because others might be listening.”

“But it was Father who—” Malfoy began, his voice brittle.

“It doesn’t matter,” Narcissa cut in, her tone as calm as it was cold. “We must prepare for the worst. He is displeased, Draco. And your father’s failure reflects on all of us.”

Malfoy looked away then, his jaw tightening, his hands curling into fists against his knees.

“We failed him,” she said. “Do you understand?”

Malfoy nodded once. Stiff. Dutiful. Swallowing down the part of him that wanted to scream.

“What… what will he do?”

Narcissa’s lips pressed together—just briefly—but it was enough. A tiny flicker of hesitation, quickly smothered.

“We will endure it,” she said, which wasn’t an answer at all.

Malfoy didn’t look up. His throat worked as he swallowed hard, the paper still spread out on the table between them. The headline—HARRY POTTER: THE CHOSEN ONE?—seemed to glow in the low light like it was mocking them both.

“The prophecy… no one even knows what it said—”

“And yet,” Narcissa cut in, her voice like cut glass, “belief is more dangerous than truth. And right now, both the public—and the Dark Lord—believe Potter holds the key to his downfall.”

The drawing room blurred, colors running like spilled ink as the memory began to dissolve. The low light, the crackle of fire, the weight of unspoken fear—it all slipped away, leaving only silence and stone.

Harry stumbled back a step as they emerged from the Pensieve, his breath sharp and uneven in his chest.

“The Department of Mysteries,” he said hoarsely, eyes locking onto Snape. “That’s what he’s after.”

Snape didn’t speak.

“The prophecy.” Harry went on, voice rising. “The one they were talking about in the paper—that’s what you’ve all been guarding.”

Draco stayed silent beside him, he didn’t think he could speak even if he wanted to.

Harry’s hands curled into fists. He turned sharply on Snape, fury rising fast and hot as if often did with Harry. “You knew. You knew the whole time. Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Snape’s expression was unreadable, his voice flat. “Because the Headmaster believed it wasn’t time.”

“And you agreed with him?” Harry snapped. “Of course you did. Just keep the idiot boy in the dark and hope he doesn’t trip over the truth!”

“Not just me,” Snape said tightly. “Your godfathers—”

“—Sirius and Remus know?”

For a split second, Snape’s mouth twitched—almost a wince, though he caught it too quickly to be sure.

The Pensieve trembled on its pedestal. So did the floor beneath their feet, the magic in the room reacting to the storm building behind Harry’s eyes.

“They lied to me,” Harry said, his voice raw, breath tearing out of him.

“They were protecting you,” Snape replied coolly, but even he sounded less certain than usual.

“Don’t you dare,” Harry snapped. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles blanched. “I’ve spent months thinking I was losing it—watching him torture people, feeling it like it was me doing it. Feeling him. And all this time, there is a prophecy—about me—and no one thought to mention it?”

Snape didn’t answer. He just looked at Harry with an expression Draco had never seen before—some strange, uneasy tangle of sympathy and uncertainty. It was unsettling. Severus Snape didn’t do uncertain.

The Pensieve cracked.

A jagged line split down the center, and the silvery liquid inside began to spill over the edge, churning violently like a storm caught in a bowl.

Draco stepped toward him instinctively, eyes wide.

“Harry,” he said quietly. “You need to breathe.”

But Harry wasn’t listening.

His fists trembled at his sides, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful. His eyes—burning, unreadable—were locked on Snape with something close to betrayal.

Then—quiet, venomous—Harry spat, “Fuck you.”

He turned on his heel and stormed out, the door slamming behind him with a resounding crack that echoed through the room.

Draco moved, already a step toward the door, but—

“Draco,” Snape said sharply.

Draco stopped mid-step.

“Let him go,” Snape added, voice cold and unreadable, but something in his eyes flickered—tired, maybe. Resigned.

Draco turned slightly, jaw set, eyes still fixed on the place Harry had disappeared.

“He’s not going to calm down,” he muttered. “I need to go—”

“—No,” Snape said, voice clipped and firmer now. “You need to let him learn to process his emotions on his own.”

Draco let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh, sure. Because that’s gone so well so far.” He turned fully, folding his arms tightly across his chest, his expression sharp with contempt. “You all love making decisions for him—what he knows, what he’s ready for, what he can handle.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed, but Draco wasn’t finished.

“He’s not a bloody weapon you keep in a drawer until it’s time to use it. He’s a person. And he deserved to know. From the start.”

His voice rose, brittle with fury. “The only reason to hide something like this is so you can drop it when it suits you. Like it’s a strategy. Like he’s a strategy.” Draco’s jaw locked. “You should’ve told him. Sirius should’ve told him. Dumbledore. You. All of you.”

Snape’s jaw tensed, but he said nothing.

Draco rolled his eyes and turned on his heel and strode after Harry.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

When Draco got to their dorm, the room was quiet and dim. Harry’s bed curtains were drawn shut.

“Harry?” Draco called softly.

No response.

Draco hesitated only a moment before murmuring a quiet spell to pull the curtains back. What he saw made his chest ache.

Harry was curled in on himself, facing away from him, knees drawn up. The mirror—the one he almost never touched anymore now that he had his atlas—was on the bed beside him. It wasn’t connected.

Draco stepped forward, heart hammering. He crouched beside the bed and reached out. “Did you talk to them?” he asked gently.

Harry’s only answer was a heartbroken sob. It sounded like it had been building inside him for months and finally broke free. His shoulders shook. Another sob. And another.

Draco’s breath caught. He climbed onto the edge of the bed and pressed close, wrapping an arm around Harry without hesitation.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, even though it wasn’t. “I’ve got you.”

But Harry just kept crying, his face buried in the pillow, as if he could muffle the grief through sheer force of will. The sound of it—quiet, broken, relentless—was unbearable.

Draco rested his forehead against Harry’s back, eyes stinging.

Finally, through the tears, Harry choked out, “I don’t know w-what I’d even say.” The words came in pieces, raw and unsteady. “I don’t even know if I want answers… or if I’d just s-start screaming.”

Draco shifted, easing up onto one elbow so he could see Harry’s face—flushed, tearstained, buried partly in the pillow.

“You’re allowed, Harry,” he murmured, voice quiet but unwavering. “To scream. To say nothing. To be angry, or confused, or absolutely gutted. Whatever you need… however it comes out—it’s yours.”

Harry didn’t answer, but his shoulders sagged a little, some of the tension bleeding out of him with a soft, shaking exhale.

Draco counted it as a win—a fragile, splintered little thing—but a win all the same. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Harry’s cheek—salty with tears, warm with grief.

They lay there after, wrapped in silence—not hollow, but heavy. Thick with all the things they didn’t know how to say. Questions too big. But Draco stayed, holding him through it. One arm curled around Harry’s waist, their legs tangled beneath the blankets.

Draco held Harry anyway, wrapping an arm around his waist, tangling their legs beneath the blanket.

Eventually, Harry’s breathing began to even out again, and Harry spoke again. Voice barely above a whisper. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” Draco said, just as soft.

“I don’t want to be the Chosen One.”

“You don’t have to be anything except Harry.”

Harry turned to lie on his back, Draco leaning over him. They were red-rimmed and dry now, but full of something Draco recognized too well: doubt.

“What if being me isn’t enough to stop him?”

“Then we stop him together.”

A small, broken laugh escaped Harry. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not. It’s going to be shit. But we don’t have to figure it all out tonight and I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry exhaled shakily, then leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Draco’s collarbone like he was trying to crawl into his skin, into safety.

Beside them, the mirror sat untouched. After a beat, Harry reached for it, but instead of using it, he slid it under the pillow—out of sight, like even looking at it hurt.

“They’ll come find me tomorrow, won’t they?”

Draco sighed softly. “Without question.”

Harry gave a slow, resigned nod. “Suppose Snape won’t be thrilled I told him to fuck off.”

“Mm. Likely not, no,” Draco hummed, the corners of his mouth twitching.

A quiet settled over them again. Then Harry shifted, fingers curling into the fabric of Draco’s shirt—hesitant, almost shy.

“You wouldn’t happen to be… opposed to distracting me?” he asked.

Draco blinked. “Distract—?”

Then his brain caught up.

His cheeks went pink.

“Oh,” he said flatly. “Now? Seriously?”

Harry didn’t answer—just looked up at him with those ridiculously beautiful green eyes. Still a bit glassy from crying, red-rimmed and tired, but somehow still unfairly captivating. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Draco groaned, letting his head drop into the crook of Harry’s neck with a dramatic sigh. He stayed there for a beat, breathing in the warm sunshine smell before pulling back just enough to meet Harry’s gaze again.

“You’re a ridiculous, horny idiot.”

Harry smiled—small, and a bit sheepish. “Yeah. But I’m your ridiculous, horny idiot.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, pretending to think for a moment. “Hmm,” he said thoughtfully, glancing toward the ceiling like as if he was weighing the pros and cons. “That depends entirely on what sort of distraction you’re after.”

Harry’s smile turned crooked, a little wicked. “Well,” he drawled, inching closer, “I wouldn’t object to stuffing that pretty mouth of yours.”

Draco blinked at him, deadpan. “Merlin, Harry.”

“What?” Harry leaned in, breath ghosting over Draco’s lips. “You like it.”

Draco didn’t respond right away. His brain stuttered, caught between outrage and arousal—then his hands were in Harry’s hair, tugging him in by the curls.

“You are absolutely insufferable,” he muttered, voice dark and dangerously fond. “How much time do we have before the others come back?”

Harry shifted and kissed up his throat, sucking the warm skin beneath Draco’s jaw. “Ron mentioned pudding with Dean and Seamus. Could take a while.”

“And Neville?”

“Dunno,” Harry said between kisses. “Might’ve gone to the greenhouse.”

Draco tilted his head, giving Harry more space to roam. “So… an hour, maybe?”

“Give or take,” Harry breathed, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

Draco shifted smoothly, coaxing Harry onto his back. He straddled him with lazy confidence, gathering his own hair and sweeping it back into a messy knot, just enough to keep it out of the way.

Harry looked up at him, wide-eyed, cheeks flushed, pupils dilated. Draco felt the heat tighten low in his belly—it never got old, how Harry looked at him.

Draco let his hands slide down Harry’s sides, slow and deliberate. He could feel every breath, every twitch of anticipation. When he reached the waistband of Harry’s trousers, he paused only a beat before sliding them down along with his boxers in one smooth motion, eyes never leaving his.

“Don’t tease,” Harry whispered, voice thick and trembling.

Draco’s gaze softened as he leaned in, lips brushing against Harry’s hip, then lower, breath warm and maddening. “I’m not teasing,” he said, his voice like velvet. “I just like looking at you.”

Harry shivered beneath him, breath stuttering.

“You do not.”

Draco huffed a quiet laugh, the sound warm against Harry’s skin. “I really do,” he said, another kiss pressed lower.

Harry’s fingers curled into in his hair, a quiet gasp escaping him. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow pulls of air, eyes fluttering closed as Draco mouthed at him slow and reverent.

Draco’s tongue traced the length of Harry’s cock, soft licks and kisses that had Harry twitching under him. He teased the head, licked the underside, planted kisses all along the shaft until Harry was fully hard and aching.

A low moan slipped from Harry’s lips.

But Draco was too busy tasting him, hungry and focused, letting his lips part as he sank lower. He pressed kisses to Harry’s balls, pulling one into his mouth, rolling it with his tongue, then the other. His hands held Harry steady as he worked, slow and methodical.

Harry was panting now, barely able to stay still. His thighs trembled, and his grip in Draco’s hair tightened.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his fingers tightening in Draco’s hair. “Bunny—please—”

Draco didn’t answer. He just looked up at him through his lashes, eyes smoldering. Then he pressed a kiss to the head of Harry’s cock, slow and reverent, before letting his tongue flick across the slit. Then he opened wide and took Harry in, inch by inch, lips stretching around him, mouth hot and slick as he sank down deep.

He was too turned on to even gag.

Draco gripped Harry’s hips, firm and possessive, pulling him closer, dragging him deeper. His gaze stayed locked on Harry’s face.

Harry was just watching. His lips parted like he’d forgotten how to breathe. And his cheeks—his beautiful brown cheeks—were flushed dark with heat. That blush spread across his face, a rich, reddish hue that stood out against his deep skin, striking and vivid against the pale contrast of Draco’s hands on his thighs.

Draco’s pulse stuttered. He couldn’t look away. Harry looked like something sacred. Untouchable. Except Draco was touching him everywhere.

Harry’s chest rose in shallow, uneven breaths as Draco took him deeper, letting his throat relax around the thick weight of him. His eyes never wavered. Watching Harry unravel was half the thrill. The other half was feeling the way Harry’s body trembled under his hands, the way every twitch and moan felt earned.

He pulled back slow, saliva slicking Harry’s cock, then slid down again—

“Look at you,” Harry gasped, voice breaking around the words. “So fucking—ah—pretty.”

Draco popped off with a slick sound, giggling breathlessly, eyes glittering. “Am I?” he said, cocking his head, his hand moving in place of his mouth. “Tell me more.” He didn’t even try to hide how much he loved it—how praise from Harry was like a drug.

Harry licked his lips, trying to steady his breathing. It didn’t work. His pupils were huge, eyes glassy. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a broken moan.

“Fuck—Draco,” he panted. “I love… I love fucking your mouth.”

Draco hummed, pleased, and slid him back into his mouth with a practiced, eager movement. Harry bucked slightly, another moan tearing out of him.

“L-love how you take all of me,” he managed, voice thin with effort, his hips jerking with each stroke of Draco’s tongue. “So fucking deep…”

Draco loved when Harry babbled. So much so that now he found himself humping against the mattress to relieve the pressure he could feel building in his trousers.

“You’re so good,” Harry breathed, words catching on every exhale, “so fucking soft—and cute—but not fragile. I can fuck your throat and not worry I’m gonna break you—s-shit—”

Harry’s hands were trembling now, one fisted in Draco’s hair, the other clawing uselessly at the bed. He was falling apart with Draco’s mouth stretched around him, cheeks hollowing, spit dripping down his chin.

“Goddammit,” Harry choked, voice wrecked. “I just want to stay in your mouth. All the fucking time.”

Draco looked up at him, eyes heavy-lidded and hungry, and sank down again—like he wasn’t going to stop until Harry forgot his own name.

“Jesus fuck, Bunny,” Harry gasped, voice shaking. “I—I want to fuck you.”

His hips twitched, barely restrained. He was trying to hold still, trying to be good, but his control was crumbling with every second Draco stayed wrapped around him, every wet, obscene sound filling the room.

Draco didn’t pull off. Didn’t say a word.

Instead, he slid back slowly, lips dragging along Harry’s cock until just the tip rested against his tongue—then he sucked hard.

Harry let out a strangled noise, fist stuffed against his mouth, legs trembling.

“Fuck, Bunny, please,” he moaned, voice half-gone. “Let me—please, I-I’m so close—”

Draco pulled off with one last wet, obscene sound. He was panting, chin slick, lips swollen and shining. His smile was slow and wicked.

“You want to fuck me?” he said, voice soft, dangerous.

Harry nodded, frantic.

Draco tilted his head, gave him a mock-pitying pout. “But we don’t have time, Harry,” he murmured. Then he leaned in, close enough for Harry to feel every word ghost over the flushed head of his cock. “We’d barely get started before someone walks in.”

And before Harry could respond, Draco swallowed him down again—fast, and filthy.

It didn’t take long.

Harry cried out, and came hard, body shaking, head thrown back as he spilled down Draco’s throat. Draco took every drop like it was nothing. Like it was everything.

When he finally pulled off, lips red and glistening, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up, breathless and proud.

“Feel better?” he asked, voice rough and teasing. A little hoarse.

Harry hummed, eyelids heavy. “Mmhmm.”

He sounded wrecked. Satisfied. Barely able to speak.

Which had been the goal after all…

Draco crawled up his body to kiss the corner of Harry’s mouth.

Harry blinked up at him slowly, then reached out, hand curling around Draco’s waist to tug him down. “Come here,” he murmured.

Draco let himself be pulled, chest pressed to Harry’s side, their legs tangled together. He tucked his face into the warm space under Harry’s jaw and exhaled.

“Still hard,” he pouted against Harry’s skin.

Harry’s hand slid down Draco’s back, possessive, lazy. “Yeah?” he whispered. “Maybe I’ll return the favor.”

Draco smiled against his neck, hips shifting ever so slightly for friction. “You better,” he whispered.

Harry huffed a soft laugh, sliding his hand lower, fingers brushing just under the waistband of Draco’s trousers—

And then the door slammed open.

“Oi—anyone seen my—oh bloody hell!”

That was Ron.

“Fucking hell!” Dean’s voice came right on his heels, loud and horrified.

“Oh my Gods, Harry—” Seamus, sounding far too amused.

Harry went rigid.

Draco bolted upright so fast he nearly brained himself on the canopy. Swearing under his breath, he grabbed the curtains and yanked them shut like it might somehow erase the last three seconds from existence.

Silence.

Just one, horrible beat of it.

“Harry, I’m definitely telling everyone how massive your dick is,” Dean declared, tone weirdly impressed.

Draco groaned like he was in physical pain, dragging both hands down his face.

“Please don’t,” Harry croaked.

Seamus snorted. “Too late, mate. You’ve scarred us for life—the least you can do is let us profit from it.”

Ron made a strangled noise. “I was just looking for my jumper! My jumper, for Merlin’s sake!”

Draco grabbed a pillow and screamed into it.

Outside the curtains, Ron was laughing through a grimace. “Swear to Merlin, I’m never looking at Draco the same way again.”

Draco flopped back against the mattress like he’d been shot with a killing curse. Arms sprawled, eyes wide, soul clearly leaving his body. “You act like I’m not already traumatized from walking in on you and Pansy. I’ve seen enough of your freckled dick to haunt me into my 80s.”

Dean piped up. “Wait—you’ve seen Ron’s? Is it, like… bigger than Harry’s?”

“Valid question!” Seamus added, laughing so hard he was wheezing. “Maybe we should all measure, get it over with. Dorm-wide contest.”

Ron groaned like he’d aged twenty years. “I hate this dorm.”

“I live for this dorm,” Dean said cheerfully.

Draco turned to whisper in Harry’s ear. “This is your fault.”

Harry groaned and yanked the pillow over his head. “I know.” Then Harry shifted closer, breath warm against Draco’s ear. “But like…” he murmured, barely audible. “Am I? Bigger, I mean?”

Draco snorted. “Seriously?” he whispered back, lips twitching.

Harry shrugged, sheepish.

Draco stared at him another beat, then leaned in and pressed a slow, heated kiss just below his jaw. and whispered, “You have nothing to worry about.”