Work Text:
“Draco, darling,” Pansy croons. “You’re going to get a crick in your neck if you insist on repeatedly staring over your shoulder like that.”
“I’m not staring,” Draco insists. “I’m … being observant.”
“And what purpose does it serve?”
Draco sighs, rolling his eyes at Pansy as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Honestly,” Pansy murmurs, “You should move on. Life is not meant to be traveled backward.”
“Merlin, you sound like my mother.”
“Of course I do, darling. Don’t you remember? Whenever Snape was around, she simply couldn’t help herself. The motherly advice fell uninhibited from her lips.”
“Ah. Lily. How could I forget?”
“Seems the two of you were more alike than you realized.”
His face pales and he pushes himself from the table without another word. When Harry walks by, glasses slightly askew and gaze fixed on the cobblestone floor, Draco ignores him. He certainly didn’t notice the slight tinge of pink that crept onto Harry’s cheeks as he passed. Definitely not.
“Harry!” Hermione calls, the strain in her voice muffled by the sharp gusts of wind enveloping her.
Draco stands underneath the archway, clenching his fists so hard that his knuckles turn white. He will not get involved. He will not get involved. He will not --
“Potter’s finally lost his bloody mind, hm?” He taunts, stepping through the damp grass, the soles of his black oxfords caked with mud.
“Oh, shut it, Malfoy. It seems you failed to learn your lesson the last time you got smart with me.”
Draco chuckles.
“Let me guess. He refuses to come down.”
Hermione huffs, though Draco catches the slight nod of her head.
“I’ll pull him down a peg or two.” Draco murmurs, quietly accio’ing a spare broom from underneath the Quidditch stands.
“Malfoy,” Hermione warns, “Don’t provoke him.”
“Oh, Granger. And here I thought you were bright. If he’ll respond to anyone, it’s me.”
The last syllable hardly has time to reach Hermione’s ears before Draco ascends into the clouds. This may very well be the only thing he and Potter will ever have in common. Up here, they’re surrounded by freedom’s whisper -- weightless, yet anchored with the opportunity to begin again.
“Well, well, Potter. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Sod off, Malfoy. I’m not in the mood.”
“Oh, but I think you are.”
Draco’s parallel to Harry now, swaying easily in the breeze. Control in the midst of chaos. The fiery embers resurrect themselves in his belly, coaxing him to push. He wants to. He needs to. Though he’ll never admit it, riling Potter up is the only thing that makes him feel human these days.
“I said I’m not in the mood,” Potter barks, jaw clenched, hands wrapped tightly around his broom handle. Threatening descent.
“And I said,” Draco drawls, “I think you are.”
Harry rolls his eyes, though his face is hardened.
“I know you better than you think, Potter.”
“Yeah? Prove it, then.”
Draco thrusts himself into Harry’s ribs in an attempt to knock him from his broom. Harry shifts a little, but he’s barely phased.
“Is that all you’ve got,” Harry challenges, pausing. “... Draco?”
“Don’t you dare. Where the hell do you get off calling me --”
“Now who’s riled up, eh?” Harry smirks and dips below the clouds, invisible.
Furious, Draco dives toward the ground, a permanent scowl etched onto his face.
Crack.
The downpour sneaks up on them both, heavy drops of rain soaking their clothes through, stinging their eyes, pushing them toward surrender.
Thud.
Draco hits the muddy earth first, tumbling from his broom, landing with his chin pointed to the sky, strands of blond hair soaked with grime and dirt. He tastes the sharp, bitter embarrassment seeping onto his tongue.
Harry follows shortly after, landing awkwardly, his cheek pressed against Draco’s hip, glasses knocked askew. He’s heavy but warm, and for a moment, Draco wishes things were different. That he could be Draco, and Potter could be ‘just Harry’. That war hadn’t torn them apart. Hadn’t made them cynical, suspicious and bitter.
… Then Draco’s fingers are tangled in Harry’s hair. He’s tugging him upward, a spark of heat pulsing between their bodies despite the torrential downpour. Draco lets go of Harry once his nest of unruly, soaked black hair is tucked underneath his angled chin. He smells like soap and earth. It’s as if time slows. Draco’s lips are pressed against his head, and he revels in the sensation of Harry shivering against him.
“Mmmph, you --” Harry whimpers.
“What about me, Harry?”
“Still a --” Harry manages, extracting himself from Draco’s chest, sliding upward until his lips are ghosting over Draco’s. “Git.”
“You think so?” Draco whispers, fighting the hitch that threatens to disrupt his steady breathing.
Harry nods, tongue tracing over his bottom lip.
“Mmmmm.” Draco thrusts himself forward and presses his lips to Harry’s. The kiss is awkward at first, rigid with surprise, but Draco feels the moment Harry melts into him. He licks into his mouth tentatively, eager to swallow the moan in Harry’s throat before he pulls away.
Harry blinks.
“Still a git?”
“Not as much of one,” Harry mumbles, capturing Draco’s lips.
Hermione stands in the courtyard, her wand outstretched, enveloping them in a transparent bubble.
“Boys,” she muses, shaking her head before turning and making her way inside.
“About time,” Pansy mutters, leaning nonchalantly against the threshold, offering Hermione a knowing look.
“Shall we?” Hermione asks, extending her arm to Pansy.
“Let’s.”