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The first time it had been Hagrid, coming up to Harry in the middle of a crowded Entrance Hall with a beatific smile on his friendly face, box full of poisonous streelers in hand. He had been distraught afterwards when Harry, Ron and Hermione went to see him in Headmistress McGonagall’s office, un-imperiused and missing his memory from the last couple of hours.
Harry was raging, the magic emanating from him in fat, rolling waves, that - he later found out - could be felt even three floors down on the ground floor. He only snapped out of it when a giant hand settled on his shoulder and nearly sent him toppling; Hagrid’s way of assuring him he was alright.
He was still furious a week later, as well he might be, when an imperiused Neville came up to him in the eighth year common room with a venomous tentacula that tried to strangle him. If it hadn't been for Hermione, who had been prepared for such a moment, stepping in with a well-timed incarcerous whilst Ron shot off a patronus to McGonagall, Harry might’ve found that whole ‘death’ thing quite permanent this time round.
So it was that general suspicion fell on Malfoy due to the marked resemblance of these assassination attempts to his sixth-year modus operandi, except Harry himself had seen Malfoy go a sickly green at the latest event as it occurred on the other side of the common room. Regardless, the consensus was, for the lower years at least, that this was a string of cack-handed revenge attempts by Malfoy, carried out due to his feeling humiliated by Potter’s assistance in gaining him a pardon with the Wizengamot. Malfoy, for his part, largely ignored the accusations and kept to himself with as much dignified air as possible, much as he had done at the start of eighth year.
That was until mid-October, however, when it was Malfoy himself who clambered onto the Gryffindor table during a packed dinner, stood in front of Harry with a terrifyingly rictus grin on his face, body racking with sobs, and scrawled DEATH EATER onto his forehead.
And so, whoever had been behind this spate of imperiusing hadn’t been after Harry after all. The professors dealt with the situation deftly, but after that the chill that settled on the Great Hall would have told the culprit - if indeed they were amongst the students at the time - that they had dearly misjudged the situation. And if the horrific sight of Malfoy being psychologically tortured for all-and-sundry to see wasn’t enough to quell them to their very bones, then the waves of furious magic emanating from Harry and making all the plates and cutlery rattle ominously would have.
Hermione had a plan, as she always did, but when Harry offered to help, her stern talking-to had him take a step back.
“Not only might you end up accidentally killing the culprit,” she said. “But you’ll just end up in my way.”
Harry would have been offended by this if he didn’t love Hermione as much as he did, and if, to be honest, she hadn’t been one hundred percent right. But, as it always was with Hermione, she was, as evidenced by the window that had just shattered over a terrified seventh year who Harry had overheard cackling to his friends that ‘that Death Eater scum deserved it’ .
So Harry was relegated to meditation and calming potions and Hermione to the library, and that would have been that for the foreseeable future. Except, a week had gone by and Malfoy still hadn’t ended his convalescence.
It was after the lower years’ curfew when Harry entered the hospital wing. There was a curtain drawn around a bed in the corner of the room and Harry approached with caution, making sure first to check that Pomfrey had removed to her own quarters for the night.
He hesitatingly tried to knock, or an approximation thereof, to alert of his presence, but the curtains had been spelled shut. He didn't think Malfoy would appreciate an uninvited alohomora and was just on the edge of completely bottling it when a pale hand reached through and yanked the curtains open.
“Stop dithering out there, Potter, you're making me nervous.”
Malfoy was sat up in bed looking equal parts annoyed and wary, but it didn't look like Harry had woken him, nor did it look like there was any trace of a scrawl left on his forehead. He rolled his eyes, grabbed Harry by his robe and pulled him in, before spelling the curtains shut again with more force than may have been strictly necessary.
“What?” Malfoy demanded, prickly.
Had Harry been the same person he was even just a scant year ago, Malfoy’s manner would have instantly irritated him. There had used to be something about him that just pissed Harry off on sight. However, that was then, and this Harry had a hindsight of a whole war to put things into a little more perspective. Malfoy, clearly, was desperately embarrassed at his display at dinner, never mind that he was cursed at the time. Harry didn’t bother trying to allay his fears, not least because he knew it probably wouldn’t be welcome from him, but because Harry knew that if it had happened to him, he would be feeling humiliated and vulnerable just the same.
And he supposed that was it: right now Malfoy felt vulnerable. Just like a hedgehog, cute until you poked it and then the barbs were out. Except Malfoy could be far more dangerous than a hedgehog which could only poke you, Harry reminded himself; and he didn’t even mean in a death eater-y way, but more in a second-in-class-behind-Hermione-and-really-quite-good-at-a-bunch-of-quite-creative-curses-actually kind of way.
Harry felt his mental picture of Malfoy shift a little, alongside the recently added jigsaw pieces of didn’t give us up to Bellatrix and apologised to me, Ron and Hermione after his trial and seemed pretty sincere about it. He supposed having a father like Lucius Malfoy went a long way into explaining why someone could be such a massive twat. Draco Malfoy, at least, seemed to finally be going the opposite way to his father and trying to repent.
Turns out he had become completely disillusioned with the might-is-right purebloods-are-intrinsically-better ideology around the summer before sixth year when he saw his father crawling on all fours to kiss Voldemort’s shiny snakeskin boots, and from then on his involvement with the death eaters had become more a fight for survival than any sort of lingering ideological agreement. At least, that was what he had said during his trial; and, considering he was under veritaserum at the time, Harry was inclined to believe him.
It would be kind of hypocritical to keep holding Malfoy against his dad, he supposed, when Malfoy genuinely had seemed to be trying to keep his head down, nose clean and to make an honest go of it. After all, Dudley had the misfortune to have Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon as parents, and he had managed to send Harry a birthday card this year that apologised for being a complete twat growing up and I’ve cut ties with mum and dad because they were racist to my girlfriend, fancy coming round for tea?. Go figure.
So Harry could forgive Draco Malfoy, and even more than that, Harry could feel genuinely furious on his behalf at his being made a spectacle of.
“Are you just going to stand there gawking, Potter, or have you actually got something interesting to say?” Malfoy snapped. Poke poke poke.
“Just checking if you were okay,” Harry replied.
“Just peachy, as you can see. Now go away.”
Harry smirked at Malfoy in amusement, which clearly discomfited the Slytherin because he crossed his arms with a huff and turned away. Harry took a gamble and perched on the corner of Malfoy’s bed, which went far better than he could have hoped to be honest, seeing as he half-expected Malfoy to try and hex his balls off. He didn’t, in fact; he just glared at Harry out of the corner of his eye whilst simultaneously trying not to look like he was.
“Malfoy, it was pretty shitty what happened to you,” Harry ventured. “And you’ve been out for a week. I’m not asking for you to have a heart-to-heart with me or anything. I just wanted to let you know that… we’re working on it. That we’re going to find who did this to you - and Hagrid and Neville.”
Malfoy snorted, “‘we’?”
“Me, Ron and Hermione.”
“Well if Granger’s on the case, I’ll rest easy.”
But the funny thing was, even though Malfoy’s words dripped in sardonicism, Harry could tell that there was an undercurrent of truth there. Malfoy looked at Harry and seemed, as much as he might be trying to hide it, a bit scared. And it was that more than anything else that took a hold of Harry.
Everyone knew he had a hero complex, and it didn’t suit Malfoy to look so scared. It reminded him of the bathroom in sixth year, a thought which sent a wave of nausea and revulsion rocking through Harry. Malfoy didn’t deserve what happened to him, and Harry would be damned if he let it happen again.
“Sit with us in the library.”
Malfoy started. “What?”
Harry realised he had blurted this out without voicing any of the previous thoughts that led up to it, but pressed on regardless.
“Sit with us in the library. It’s just to study. You don’t even have to talk to us if you don’t want to. But it would be… I want you to sit with us.”
And Harry did.
In fact, Malfoy was the only one out of the few returning Slytherins who had not integrated themselves with the rest of their small eighth year cohort; at the very beginning of September, Neville, proving to be far more a Gryffindor than anyone else in that room, had approached Zabini, Greengrass, Bulstrode and Malfoy with an invitation to join the other students in front of the fire. And, either because of that famous Slytherin self-preservation or due to genuinely wanting to change, they had started to make amends with the rest of the students. Blaise Zabini even played football with Dean, nowadays.
Only Malfoy remained apart from them. Not icily so - he was perfectly civil and polite to anyone if approached. But therein lay the issue: he didn’t approach anyone. He kept himself on the sidelines and to himself to the point where Harry himself felt gloomy, watching the Slytherin isolate himself. As the former prince of Slytherin, surrounded before by his adoring masses, it was disconcerting to watch Malfoy be so humbled.
Harry wouldn’t go so far to say he missed the prickly bastard, but there was a certain something that he was sad to see missing from Malfoy. Which wasn’t the same thing at all.
“Are you mad, Potter? Wait, don’t answer that. Of course you are. Well, thank you profusely for the invitation but I refuse. I don’t plan on making another spectacle of myself any time soon, and sitting with you would just be that: another spectacle.”
Okay, so that stung a bit, Harry supposed. Still, he continued.
“I’m not saying this for some spectacle or something, Malfoy, I’m asking genuinely. Someone out there is trying to mess with you and for some reason that includes trying to make me see; at least this way people know that we’re on the same side.”
“Same side? Bloody hell Potter, even if I had been the slightest bit inclined beforehand I definitely wouldn’t be now.”
Harry realised that Malfoy’s plummy accent got even more posh when he was wrongfooted and stored that little piece of information away with a small smile.
“Well, do it to help me then. You can help me with potions, Merlin knows I need it,” and looked pleased when Malfoy said the same thing at the same time, though Malfoy just looked annoyed.
“Stop begging Potter, there is nothing I would like less than sitting next to you and your do-gooder friends, swapping study notes.”
“You sure about that?” Harry grinned. “Because Hermione told me you help each other in arithmancy sometimes.”
Malfoy looked furious, but Harry counted that as a win.
“Look, Malfoy,” Harry said, standing to leave. “I’m not trying to trick you or anything, I just genuinely want you to sit with us. I think it would be good. But I’m not going to push you if you don’t want, and I’m not begging. Just think about it.”
And with a lazy wave of his wand to open the curtains, he bid Malfoy goodnight.
—-
Harry had definitely won, as he found out the day Malfoy was discharged. It was Malfoy himself who found the three of them in the library, and with a pained expression, plonked himself down on the free chair.
Ron and Hermione had already been forewarned by Harry that they may have a visitor and greeted Malfoy politely when he joined them. Hermione immediately captured Malfoy’s attention with a particularly tricky question about runes that both Ron and Harry had proved useless for, something which gratified them all because it disallowed any awkward silences that threatened to approach.
The sight of the four of them pottering away at their homework clearly sent shockwaves throughout the student population, because they were accosted by no-less than three tittering crowds of lower years in less than thirty minutes before Hermione lost her temper and told them all to get lost. Harry, whose eye had started twitching in annoyance, hadn’t realised that his magic was starting to build until Ron elbowed him in he side and told him to get a hold of himself. Abashed, Harry pulled himself together, though he did notice Malfoy looking at him in interest.
“That happen often, does it?” He asked, affectedly neutral.
Harry ducked his head in embarrassment. He knew that it was only supposed to be kids who lost control of their magic like that, but ever since the forest he had found it more and more difficult to keep it in check. The meditation and calming potions helped, and apparently this was all supposed to be a temporary thing - his erratic emotions were an understandable trauma response, the healers had said - but he still felt a bit silly for it all.
“Only when I get annoyed or angry,” Harry said, voice low to keep any eavesdroppers at bay. “I’m working on it.”
Malfoy simply nodded and, when Harry made no attempts to broach the topic further, turned back to his work.
That was it. No needling, no prying, no cawing or cackling from the rooftops with this morsel of information that made Harry vulnerable. Just acknowledgement, space to speak if he wanted, and no pressure to bare his soul if he didn’t want to. Harry would have boggled as to where Malfoy had gathered these impeccable people skills from if he didn’t realise that, probably, Malfoy was just treating Harry the same way he wished to be treated. There was something equally pleasing and sobering about that thought, but it made Harry think that he could probably take his cue from Malfoy and treat him how he would like to be treated. That is, like a regular person.
“We’re going to Hogsmeade on the weekend,” Harry said. “I need to get more broom polish. Did you want to join us?”
Ron and Hermione, to their credit, didn’t say anything, but judging from the looks on their faces he was going to get interrogated about this further.
The initial look of distrust that flitted past Malfoy’s face did sting a little, but the small nod which followed made happiness blossom in Harry's chest that nearly blindsided him. Still, he let a silly, pleased smile appear on his face, and felt gratified when it seemed that Malfoy had to try and suppress his own.
Later that evening, Ron and Hermione did accost him, but Harry just shrugged in response.
“I just am doing what I would want him to do if the positions were reversed,” Harry said. “Give me a second chance.”
He ignored the shared look between them as he was wont to do nowadays, ever since they realised they were arse over teakettle for each other. Still, it sent a mournful little pang in his chest, not jealous exactly but something close to it. Of course Harry wished to have someone to share knowing looks with, someone who would just get him without having to be told. Someone who would be there for him and see him as a regular person, not the Boy Who Lived; someone who would knock him down a peg or two if he did ever start getting a bit too big for his boots, who would remind him to keep his two feet firmly on the ground. And someone who he could be there for, to focus all the love and support he was waiting to give.
But it didn't look like it was going to happen any time soon.
—-
Ron and Hermione declined to go Hogsmeade that weekend, ostensibly so that Hermione could keep investigating who was behind all the imperiusing, although Harry was ninety percent sure it was also so that she and Ron could snog behind the shelves in the library without affecting Harry’s delicate sensibilities.
And so it was that on a crisp, late-October afternoon, former nemeses Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy found themselves wandering together around Hogsmeade. At least, that was probably what the Prophet would say. Harry was too delightedly surprised that he actually really liked hanging out with Draco to bother with such epithets. Because he was Draco now, of course; ever since his first delicious reaction when Harry slipped and called him by his first name. Harry liked the flustered splotches of red that appeared on Draco’s cheeks. He wanted to keep them there.
They ended up in The Hog’s Head when Harry, for once in his life not oblivious, sensed Draco’s discomfort when eyeing up The Three Broomsticks and steered them towards Aberforth’s instead. Sure, the decor wasn't as cheery and maybe it was not as clean, but Aberforth had genuinely made an effort at optimism these past months; he'd even wiped a surface or two.
The plus side of going to The Hog’s Head though was that they were blessedly free of any gawking lower years; the rest of the eighth years had accepted Harry and Draco's burgeoning friendship with a curious hint of understanding that seemed beyond Harry, and it had started filtering down the younger students, but they were still a novel vision for some.
“And so,” Draco was saying, laughter on his lips, unburdened perhaps by both the atmosphere and the alcohol. “The peacock ended up latching on to the end of my broom and I had to literally make a feint above the duck pond before I could even manage to dislodge it.”
He laughed and Harry joined him, watching how Draco’s shoulders shook in genuine mirth and his hair, no longer severely gelled back but long and loose, fell gently out from behind his ear. He tucked it back unthinking, and Harry traced the movement of his fingers with a sudden lump in his throat.
He caught himself staring and shook himself out of it, before realising that Draco had finished his story and was now smiling at Harry, and Harry was just kind of smiling dopily back. Draco was wearing a pale grey jumper with these intricate little knit patterns, and the tips of his pale ears and nose were rosy in his tipsy state. He looked quite soft. He looked just like a normal teenager.
Harry couldn't imagine how anyone could have done such a horrific thing to him. The image of Draco, grinning down at him as he wrote on his skin, body shaking in sobs, transposed with Malfoy, younger, terrified, crying into a mirror, bleeding out on the floor.
“I wish I had just talked to you,” Harry said. It just slipped out, as did the smile off Draco's face.
“Don't, Potter.”
And Harry hated it, how Draco shut down, drawing his defences around him.
“I'm sorry, I just…” Harry trailed off and glanced at Draco’s hand on the table, and made an abortive movement towards it, though he didn't know why. “I didn't mean to bring it up. It just happened. But still. I don't think we should ignore it.”
Draco closed his eyes, his expression uncomfortable, but made no move to silence Harry.
“I'm sorry. For what I did to you.”
Draco took a deep inhale to compose himself and then opened his eyes, the force of his gaze enough to make Harry flinch.
“I already forgave you, Harry. Ages ago.”
Whatever Harry was expecting, it wasn't that. Draco sighed, shoulders slumping, and for a moment he looked much older than his young years. And again Harry was overtaken with the need to touch him, to anchor Draco to the present.
“I hated you for a long time, you know. You were everything I wanted to be when I was younger. You were better than me at flying even though I had years more in practice. You were good at magic without having to really try very hard, and powerful at that. And everyone liked you and wanted to be your friend and you didn't even have to try.
“I've always felt like a failure in comparison, and never mind that my father never let me forget it. And then when you cursed me, and I bled out on the floor, I could only deteste you. You almost killed me and you didn't even stick around for the aftermath. I felt like such an insignificant speck of dirt because of you, Harry.
“And then you were willing to let yourself die. I know you did, mother told me. You walked into your death and somehow walked off an avada, you saved everyone, and there you were in the witness stand, vouching for me and my mother and saving us all over again. And I probably still hated you then, a bit, that I was still so dependent on you saving me all the time, and I'm including the fiendfyre in that too.
“But then you gave me back my wand. After everything, you found me out and gave me back my wand. It could have languished in the bottom of your trunk somewhere yet you came and found me. You found my mother, you thanked her for saving your life.”
He had addressed this all to his hands, clasped together on the table as if to stop them from trembling. But the next sentence he addressed to Harry, and his gaze pierced right through him.
“I realised that all of it, all of it, was nothing but projection. I was small, and weak, and I was jealous. And it was never you I should have hated.”
Harry's hand shot out despite himself and Draco’s eyes widened, but he didn't withdraw. In fact, his eyes had taken an almost glassy quality, as if he wasn't even there anymore. Harry knew that look well, knew it mirrored on his own face whenever he wanted to be far, far away.
“I was once told,” Harry said firmly, drawing Draco’s gaze back to him. “That it's our choices that really define us.”
Draco let out a mirthless cackle.
“And look at all of my choices.”
“Your choice not to hand us over to your aunt,” Harry interrupted. “Your choice to apologise to us. Your choice, Draco, to make amends.”
Draco didn't reply but he let Harry’s words settle into him. He seemed unburdened, slightly, by his confession, and though he didn't seem like he believed Harry, that was okay. He had listened to Harry, and he no longer seemed to be disappearing to that far off place. Harry gave his hand a squeeze before withdrawing and Draco gave a somewhat watery, ghost of a smile in response.
It didn't matter that Draco didn't believe him yet, because Harry had failed him before. When Draco was sobbing, eyes wild and desperate, Harry had made the decision to hurt. He needed to prove himself to Draco now, prove that he meant what he said, and for Draco to realise all on his own the truth of his words. Harry wouldn’t fail him again.
—-
When Harry returned to the common room later that afternoon to find Hermione and Ron, the satisfied look on both their faces told Harry that he had been right to hedge his bets earlier. Nevertheless, he asked them about their research into the spate of imperiuses because he trusted implicitly in Hermione's ability to multitask.
Hermione replied in the negative, however, but did say that rather than go it alone as they were used to doing, she had touched base with the professors to see where things were.
“And you, Harry,” she concluded with a warning. “Are not to get involved.”
“Yeah yeah, ‘mione, keep to myself and try not to destroy anything.”
She sighed, but then looked at Harry fondly.
“It's not that,” she said, scooting closer to Ron to make room on the sofa for him. “You've literally spent your life trying to fix everyone's problems. This time, let other people try and fix it. You just need to look after yourself.”
Hermione said this with such genuine care in her voice that Harry couldn't help but be touched.
“That's right,” Ron piped up. “And that starts with telling us all about your date with Malfoy.”
“My- my what ?”
“Oh come on mate,” he said with a roll of his eyes, stretching his arm behind Hermione's shoulders to give Harry a little shove. “You know, the whole asking him to study with us, wanting to go to Hogsmeade with him. You've finally figured out you fancy him, right?”
Harry just stared flabbergasted.
“What are you talking about? ” Harry said, and wow he never realised he could sound so scandalised.
“You. Malfoy. You and Malfoy, together. You're not telling me all that staring at him during sixth year was just because you thought he was up to something, did you?”
“He was though!” Harry hissed, dropping his voice and looking around in case said Malfoy happened to be in the vicinity. Luckily, it seemed that the common room was mostly empty, at least of any Slytherins.
“What Ron means,” Hermione interrupted, shooting Ron a quelling look. “Is that you should use this time to really learn about yourself. Understand who you are and what you want.”
“And if what you want is to snog Malfoy, then Hermione and I support you one hundred percent.”
Harry got up and walked zombie-like to his bedroom, ignoring the thump from behind him as Hermione charmed a cushion to thwack Ron round the head.
-—
Harry felt like his friends had jumped a few too many steps forward. He had never even thought about fancying blokes, but here they were ready to give Harry away at the altar to Draco of all people.
Okay, so maybe the thought of that sent a strange thrill through him, but that was because he actually had a future now in which he could get married and not lay murdered on a forest floor, and it was not, in fact, down to the thought of Draco Malfoy in a pale, dove-grey suit, waiting for him with a soft smile and a face full of adoration.
Where had they even gotten the idea he fancied boys from, anyway? He had only ever shown interest towards Cho and Ginny, and he genuinely had fancied them, and now here they were keeping Harry up at night with their insinuations, wracking his brain for any hint that he had been attracted to boys in the past.
Well, thinking about it, he supposed it was a bit suspicious that, when Cedric had helped him with the second Triwizard task, leaning to whisper in Harry's ear, Harry had been unusually preoccupied for quite a bit after with the way Cedric's breath had goosebumped his skin.
And sure, objectively, he could understand why it would seem from an outsider's perspective that Harry was overly concerned with Draco. But Harry liked hanging out with him, was all. He liked how comfortable he felt around Draco, that the years of history that stretched out between them only served to strengthen the fact they were becoming friends now.
And maybe he had spent quite a bit of time over the years staring at Draco. But that was only to be expected; Draco was eminently arresting. His aristocratic features juxtaposed nicely with his pale grey eyes and bright, blond hair, softer now he was older, and honestly it made it impossible not to notice him. He was, after all, very very pretty.
No, they were wrong. Harry didn't fancy Draco.
Not one bit.
-—
It took three weeks for Harry to realise that he fancied Draco, and in fact, that he fancied him quite a lot.
Their library study sessions and Hogsmeade trips had become a regular occurrence which had slipped into spending more time together just the two of them, whenever Ron and Hermione wanted to spend time by themselves. Which was fine with Harry, really, because he enjoyed spending time with Draco.
He especially enjoyed it when Draco wore the jumper he had stolen from Harry, which itself had been unwanted by and scavenged from Dudley some years ago. It was a faded, forest green and hung long on the arms, so Draco had to periodically push the sleeves up when they fell to cover his hands whenever he wore it. Which was admittedly often.
Harry walked in sweaty from an impromptu quidditch friendly and caught Draco in his pilfered jumper, curled up in an armchair with a book, and the picture before him was so achingly lovely that it made his heart stutter. Draco heard him enter the common room and looked up, and it might have just been the suddenness, or the firelight, or just the fortuitousness of catching him unguarded, but for the first time he let Harry see the smile that played around his mouth without trying to hide it.
Harry stumbled forward unthinkingly to stand beside the armchair and Draco tipped his head back against the headrest to gaze up at him, exposing the long line of his neck and letting his hair fall away from his eyes.
“Hello,” he said gently.
His eyelashes were thick, and long, and sent shadows to play across his face. And his gaze was so delicate, so full of something close to what Harry wished to be affection that it made his heart ache with longing.
“Hello,” Harry replied, voice low enough that only Draco could hear.
Harry smiled dopily down at him, wanting nothing more than to comb his fingers through those soft strands of white blond hair. His fingers twitched at the thought, but neither he nor Draco moved to break the atmosphere between them.
The noise of the common room door opening again caused Harry to snap out of it and he took a minute step back.
“Probably best if I go shower,” he said, voice rough.
Draco wrinkled his nose.
“Glad you said it before me.”
Harry laughed a little breathlessly and left.
-—
Harry liked Draco; liked him with an acuity that felt terrifying and exciting all at once. He was used to his gaze following the Slytherin across the room, but whereas before it was driven by a tangled mess of intensity and threat, the warmth that suffused him now felt so full of potential that it made Harry feel light-headed. He would have felt silly, really, how ridiculously he was acting, but it just felt good. And after everything, didn’t he deserve at least that?
He wasn’t going to tell Draco. He knew nothing could happen between them, that their new-found friendship was miracle enough. So he vowed to keep these feelings secret, keep them precious. Maybe it was overly sentimental of him, but Harry had learnt a lot about love in his short life, learnt how powerful and strong and how destructive it could be, but this he just wanted to keep simple. Simply, he liked Draco. Maybe that could be enough.
—-
These were the things that Harry loved about Draco:
Harry loved the way Draco put the tip of his quill to his lips when he was thinking.
He loved the way the moonlight played off of his hair to make him glow like a beacon in the middle of the night.
He loved the way they still bickered without any true heat behind their words; just a quicksilver push-pull that kept him on his toes.
He loved how he tried so earnestly to grow, and loved all the ways he already had.
He loved the way he looked when he wore Harry’s forest green jumper.
He loved the way he tucked his feet under him when he was curled in an armchair, firelight flickering on his face.
The stretches of silence between them that felt like an understanding.
The warmth of his eyes when he looked at something he loved.
That razor-like intelligence.
The taste for sweet things.
That overwhelming, fierce loyalty.
The touch of his fingers.
The heat of his skin.
Him.
—-
Neither Hermione nor the professors were able to identify the culprit before he struck again. Humiliation of Draco Malfoy had always been the aim and the attacker a student, it seemed, due to the cruel and puerile nature of the curses inflicted.
It had been months since the last attack and everyone had let their guards down. A midday lesson changeover, where the courtyard was at its busiest, and an imperiused Draco Malfoy clambered on top of a broken stone edifice and cast sonorous.
“I, Draco Malfoy,” his voice boomed. “Am a coward.”
Harry, Ron and Hermione immediately sprang to attention, as did the other eighth years who were nearby, but none of their spells could penetrate the thick wall of the protego that trapped Draco there.
“I walk amongst you now a pretender, a counterfeit wizard. I act as if I did not willingly betray you all in order to save my own skin. I handed the Death Eaters the keys to Hogwarts for no other reason than to gain power. I willingly turned traitor because I am nothing but a self-serving, disgusting criminal.
And here I stand before you all, the students of Hogwarts who I happily lead to their doom, nothing more than a weak, failed Death Eater. A Death Eater who would clutch at the robes of Harry Potter, once again for no other reason than my own self-preservation.
I, Draco Malfoy, stand here before you now, a criminal, a Death Eater, a traitor.”
The sound of the protego shattering into a thousand little pieces struck through the courtyard like a whip.
The waves of magic that emanated from Harry reached through the shield it had devastated and enveloped Draco, the imperius dissipating from him and making his knees buckle. Draco passed out and fell off the edifice, Harry’s magic cushioning him as he fell.
The students in the courtyard had fallen into a terrified hush and were being escorted away by the professors, but Hermione had cast incarcerous on one, a fifth-year, who spat defiantly that Draco had deserved it, had deserved everything that he had done to him. But Harry wasn’t able to hear, the commotion around him nothing more than white noise as he stared at the prone body of Draco, a crumpled heap on the floor.
—-
Tommy Carrigan, a Hufflepuff, whose parents had been murdered by Death Eaters during the war. He was passed into the hands of the aurors by a grim-faced McGonagall. At least that was what Hermione had said. Harry hadn’t left Draco’s bedside in days.
He wasn’t waking up. There was no magical reason, no curse anymore; just the physical and mental ramifications of an imperius. A terrifyingly human outcome.
Harry stayed near Draco, the feeling of helplessness piercing through him with each even breath the Slytherin took.
On the ninth day, Draco woke up.
Harry wasn’t there, having been convinced to dinner by his friends, but a house-elf notified him as soon as Draco opened his eyes. He ran to the hospital wing and there Draco was: the same bed, the same curtain shut tight.
Madame Pomfrey was just drawing away when she caught Harry’s eye. She looked about to order him away but then seemed to think better of it, and instead nodded in acquiescence for Harry to go in. And so he approached, and knocked, and Draco let him inside.
He didn’t look at Harry. Draco stared out the window, his gaze distant, far, far away, and Harry ached for him. He drew up the chair he had been using over the past week and sat down, and he wanted to touch Draco, so he did: he interlaced their fingers together, felt the solid warmth of him, needing to reassure himself, as much as Draco, that he was there.
Draco looked at their joined hands with a hint of surprise and finally, finally, looked at Harry.
“Stop looking at me like that, Potter,” Draco said, with the ghost of a sardonic smile. “You’re making me nervous.”
Harry was never one to cry, but he felt right there he could sob with relief.
“You really worried me there, you know?”
“What can I say? My mother always told me I was dramatic.”
Harry chuckled, a watery, insipid laugh.
“Is your mother on the way?”
“She’s apparently with McGonagall right now. She stayed long enough for Pomfrey to give me the all-clear.”
Harry squeezed Draco’s hand automatically.
“You’re okay?” He breathed.
“I am, yeah. No lasting physical effects. Just the clear knowledge of what I was made to do.”
Draco squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing as he tried to push away the memory of such violation.
“But it’s okay. I’ll be fine. There is nothing I was made to say that I haven’t thought of before.”
“No, all that stuff, that was just - that’s not true-” Harry started, but Draco hushed him.
“Shush, Harry. Didn’t you hear me? I said ‘before’ .”
“You mean - right now, you don’t…?”
Draco snorted in derision, and finally he was once again the man Harry had fallen in love with.
“Please, give me some credit. You’ve spent long enough trying to convince me that I’m more than all that. Stands to reason I would have started believing it somewhere along the line.”
Warmth blossomed in Harry’s chest, an unfurling of complete adoration that engulfed him.
“You believe me?”
“You’re Harry fucking Potter. If you of all people see some good in me, then I must be alright, right?”
Harry kissed him.
He had told himself that he would keep his feelings to himself, keep them secret and precious forever. But there was nothing, nothing more precious right now than Draco, the solid feel of him anchoring Harry, the warmth of his lips and feel of his fingers carding through his hair and pulling him deeper, closer.
They broke apart and Harry rested his forehead against Draco’s. They slotted together like puzzle pieces, the afternoon sun spilling through the window. His eyes were soft when he looked at Harry, melted quicksilver, smile warm in the sunlight.
“Hello,” he said gently.
Harry smiled.
“Hello.”