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Chapter Text

The greenhouses were quiet this time of day, the soft hum of magical plants filling the space with a calming energy. Harry found Luna at her usual spot by the fluttering ferns, her hands gently tending to a patch of puffapods. She looked up when she heard his footsteps, her dreamy expression turning into a faint smile.

“Hello, Harry,” she said, brushing her hands off on her robes. “You look... unsettled.”

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Luna tilted her head, studying him carefully. “Is it the memory gaps again?”

“No. It’s... something else. I just—Luna, can we talk?”

“Of course,” Luna said, her voice as soft and certain as ever. She gestured for him to sit on the bench beside her.

Harry sank down, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the ground. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him. Luna waited patiently, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

“I kissed Draco.”

Luna blinked, her calm demeanor unshaken. “That’s nice.”

Harry’s head shot up, his eyes wide. “Nice? Luna, I—what? How is that nice?”

Luna shrugged. “Because you wanted to, didn’t you?”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, then closed it, his cheeks flushing. “I—well, yeah. But that’s not the point.”

“What is the point?” Luna asked, tilting her head curiously.

Harry groaned, burying his face in his hands. “The point is... I don’t know what it means.”

“Hmm,” Luna murmured thoughtfully. “What do you think it means?”

Harry let out a frustrated laugh, his hands dropping to his sides. “That’s the problem, Luna. I don’t know. I’m... I’m confused.”

“About Draco?”

“About everything. Draco, the kiss, me... liking blokes. I mean, do I even like blokes? I thought I liked Ginny, and I know I cared about her, but now I don’t even remember what that felt like. And Draco—Merlin, Malfoy’s a whole other story. I don’t know what to think anymore.”

Luna was quiet for a moment. “You’re trying very hard to put yourself into a box, Harry. But people don’t always fit neatly into boxes.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you don’t have to know everything right now. Maybe you like blokes. Maybe you don’t. Maybe you like Draco, and maybe that’s all that matters.”

Harry blinked. “But what if it’s just... I don’t know, confusion? What if I’m making something out of nothing?”

Luna gave him a small, knowing smile. “Harry, I don’t think you’re the type to kiss someone for no reason.”

Harry’s cheeks flushed again, and he looked away, his heart pounding. “It’s just... it’s complicated.”

“Feelings usually are,” Luna said gently. “But they’re also honest. Whatever you’re feeling, it’s real, Harry. And it’s yours. No one else gets to decide what it means.”

Harry swallowed hard, her words striking a chord deep inside him. He thought about the kiss, the way Draco’s lips had felt against his, the way his chest had tightened with something equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. He thought about the way Draco had looked at him after, his grey eyes wide and vulnerable in a way Harry had never seen before.

“It’s not just the kiss,” Harry admitted quietly. “It’s... him. Draco. He’s different now. Or maybe he’s not, and I’m just finally seeing it. But... he makes me feel... I don’t know. Something.”

Luna smiled softly. “It sounds like you’ve already figured out more than you think.”

Harry shook his head. “But what if I screw it up? What if this... whatever it is... ruins everything?”

“Then it does,” Luna said simply. “But isn’t it worth the risk? To feel something real?”

Harry stared at her. His hands were fidgety, and his chest was heavy, and he wanted to argue, to say that it wasn’t that simple. But deep down, he knew she was right. Instead, he admitted something else, something he had never allowed himself to acknowledge before now.

“It scares me.”

Luna reached out, placing a hand gently on his arm. “That’s how you know it’s important, Harry. Being scared means you have something to lose.”

Harry looked at her, his heart pounding so loudly in his ears that he half-expected Luna to comment on it. His entire body felt like it was buzzing with too many emotions at once, a chaotic storm he couldn’t begin to untangle. And yet, there was Luna—calm and as steady as ever. He almost envied her for it. Why couldn’t he manage to be that calm? Why did everything in his life feel like a battle, even his own feelings?

“How are you so calm about all this?”

Luna tilted her head, smiling serenely. “Because… love, or whatever it is you’re feeling, isn’t something to be afraid of, Harry. It’s something to explore.”

Harry nodded slowly as he tried to digest the notion.

Explore. Not fear. 

-

Draco wished that he had someone to talk to. Someone who wasn’t Harry Potter.

Because Harry Potter, with his maddening grin, his unrelenting warmth, and his ability to unearth feelings Draco had long since buried, was the very cause of his current turmoil. And one did not seek solace from the source of their unrest, did they?

But then came the cruel, unbidden revelation: there was no one else to talk to. No Pansy to tease the truth out of him with her blunt candor. No Blaise to offer his sharp, measured insight. No Theo to sit quietly beside him, providing comfort in silence. Those friendships—once so constant, so deeply woven into the fabric of Draco’s identity—were now threads unraveled, scattered by the war and by the weight of everything that came after.

He didn’t know what to do with that realization. It sat heavy in his chest, gnawing at the edges of his composure. Was it something he hated? The lack of connection? Or was it, in some strange, twisted way, comforting that the only person left was Potter?

And Merlin, wasn’t that the crux of it?

Draco sat on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands, replaying the kiss over and over in his mind. Not because he wanted to dwell on it—but because he couldn’t stop.

Harry had kissed him.

Or rather, Harry had started it, and Draco… Draco had let it happen. No, more than that. He had leaned into it, allowed himself to be pulled under by the impossible softness of it.

And that softness—that gentle, unguarded warmth—haunted him now.

Draco had never known such a thing in his life.

Gentleness was not something he had been afforded as a child. His father’s love was conditional, sharp-edged and exacting, a series of hoops to jump through to avoid disappointment. His mother, while kinder, had always been distant, her affection diluted by her own fear and the unrelenting demands of their world.

Draco had never been touched with care, with tenderness. He had been dressed, disciplined, prepared. Not held, not soothed.

And now… now Harry Potter, of all people, had given him a glimpse of something he didn’t know how to process.

The kiss had been so achingly soft, so startling in its simplicity, that it left Draco’s chest hollow and full all at once. It was not the hurried, heated thing he might have expected. It wasn’t possessive or desperate. It was simply… kind. A touch that asked nothing in return.

And Draco had liked it.

Gods, he had liked it.

The warmth of Harry’s lips against his, the tentative press of his hand at Draco’s neck—it had been everything Draco had never allowed himself to want.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers curling into his palms. He didn’t know what to do with the way it lingered, the way it made him yearn for more when he should’ve been running as far from it as possible.

Because what did it mean? For Harry? For himself?

And if he wanted more—if he truly wanted to feel that again—didn’t that make him foolish?

He let out a sharp, frustrated breath and looked toward the un-curtained bed across the room where Harry slept. Or perhaps pretended to sleep.

Draco’s stomach twisted as a thought struck him, uninvited and unwelcome: this was why people loved Harry Potter.

It wasn’t just the fame, the legacy, or the heroic deeds. It wasn’t the lightning bolt scar or the mythic survival story.

It was the way Harry could give without expecting anything in return.

It was the way Harry, for all his chaos and recklessness, still carried within him a warmth that could soften even the sharpest edges.

Draco had always seen it. Had always envied it. That brightness, that raw, undeniable humanity that drew people in.

But now, now that he had tasted it—now that he had been pulled into that impossible orbit—he didn’t know if he could pull away.

And worse, he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

The thought terrified him. It thrilled him.

Draco leaned back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling. He could still feel the ghost of Harry’s touch—the heat of his hand, the press of his lips—and it made his chest ache in a way that was both painful and intoxicating.

He had spent years building walls, years perfecting masks and armor to protect himself from vulnerability. And now, with a single kiss, Harry Potter had undone him.

“Merlin help me,” Draco muttered to the empty room.

But there was no answer, no solution, no way forward except to wait.

And in the silence, he found himself hoping—hoping—that Harry would be the one to speak first.

-

Harry did speak first.

He woke to sunlight spilling into the room, soft and golden, the kind of light that made the air feel warmer than it was. Squinting against the brightness, he groped for his glasses on the nightstand, sliding them onto his face. The room came into focus: the familiar clutter of parchment and books on the desk, the faintly crooked picture frame above Draco’s bed, and—most striking of all—Draco himself, sitting at his desk with quill in hand and a steaming cup of tea beside him.

The sunlight loved Draco Malfoy. It kissed the pale strands of his hair, turning them to soft, spun gold. It brushed against the sharp lines of his profile—the elegant curve of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the almost delicate flutter of his eyelashes.

For a moment, Harry forgot himself entirely, watching the way Draco’s fingers moved, precise and fluid, as he wrote.

Merlin, he’s beautiful.

“Good morning, Draco,” Harry said, his voice low and rough with sleep.

Draco stilled. His quill paused midair, his hand hovering above the parchment. He blinked once, then again, before clearing his throat. “Morning,” he muttered, his voice clipped. He didn’t look at Harry, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on whatever he was writing.

Harry, still sprawled lazily in bed, propped himself up on one elbow. A crooked grin spread across his face—the kind of grin that could unnerve even the bravest of foes. “Grumpy in the mornings, are you?”

Draco exhaled sharply through his nose, his quill resuming its movement. He didn’t bother to hide the faint irritation in his tone. “Ever the chipper one in the mornings, are you?”

Harry let out a hoarse laugh, the sound rich and unguarded, and Draco froze.

There it was again. That damn laugh.

It was the kind of laugh that crept under Draco’s skin, bypassing every wall he’d carefully constructed. It unraveled him in ways he didn’t understand, leaving him exposed. He hated it—or at least, he told himself he did. But deep down, he knew better.

He didn’t hate it at all.

“Tea?” Harry asked, nodding toward Draco’s cup.

Draco huffed, his quill scratching furiously against the parchment as if the act of writing might somehow ground him. “Yes, Potter. I do drink tea. Shocking, isn’t it?”

Harry rolled his eyes, sitting up fully now, the blankets pooling around his waist. “I meant, can I have some?”

Draco finally turned to look at him, his grey eyes narrowing. “Are your legs broken?”

Harry grinned wider, utterly undeterred. “Come on, Draco. Be nice. It’s too early for sass.”

“Too early for sass?” Draco repeated, his tone incredulous. “Coming from you? Merlin, the hypocrisy is staggering.”

Harry only laughed again, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stood, stretching languidly, and Draco quickly turned his gaze back to his parchment, refusing to let his eyes linger.

“What are you writing?” Harry asked, padding over to the desk.

“None of your business.”

Harry leaned over, peering at the parchment despite Draco’s protests. “Looks like… runes? Ancient Runes?”

“Potter,” Draco warned.

Harry straightened, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. No need to get all snippy. You know, you really are grumpy in the mornings.”

Draco closed his eyes briefly, inhaling deeply as if summoning patience from some divine source. “If you don’t stop talking, I’ll hex you before breakfast.”

Harry lingered by Draco’s desk, his hands stuffed into his pajama pockets and that maddeningly lopsided grin still plastered on his face. He was, in this moment, the very embodiment of Gryffindor audacity—a boy who had fought dragons and dark lords, now utterly undone by the sight of Draco Malfoy bathed in morning sunlight.

Draco, for his part, was doing his best to appear unaffected, his quill scratching furiously against the parchment. But the slight tension in his shoulders and the faint pink creeping up his neck betrayed him.

Harry took a step closer, leaning casually against the desk. “You don’t actually mind, do you?”

Draco didn’t look up. “Mind what?”

“Me.”

When Draco’s hand faltered for the briefest moment, Harry’s grin widened.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Potter. I tolerate you because I have no other choice.”

Harry chuckled, the sound low and warm, and Draco hated the way it rumbled through his very own chest, something flipping around in the pit of his stomach. “You tolerate me, huh? That’s funny, because I’m starting to think you don’t hate my company as much as you like to pretend.”

Draco finally set his quill down, turning to glare at Harry. “What exactly are you insinuating?”

Harry shrugged, unbothered by the icy tone. He stepped closer, the distance between them shrinking until Draco could feel the faint heat radiating off him. “Just that maybe—just maybe—you don’t mind me being here. That you don’t mind me.”

Draco blinked. He was staring at Harry with a dazed sort of look in his eye. He wanted to argue, throw up a wall of sarcasm or sharp retorts, but the words wouldn’t come.

Harry tilted his head. “You don’t have to be scared, you know.”

“Scared?” Draco repeated, almost defensively. “Of what?”

“Of this,” Harry said, gesturing vaguely between them. “Of me. Of... someone wanting to be kind to you.”

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

Harry smiled gently, his green eyes steady and unrelenting. “Yeah, you do.”

Draco swallowed hard, looking away. “Potter, don’t—”

“I mean it, Draco,” Harry interrupted, his voice soft but insistent. “You don’t have to be on edge all the time. I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m not trying to take anything from you. I just... I just want to be here.”

“Why?” The word slipped before Draco could stop it.

This was not good—no, this was decidedly not good. Draco could feel himself beginning to spiral, his carefully constructed composure fraying at the edges. Somehow, infuriatingly, Harry could see him—right through the carefully crafted façade Draco had spent years perfecting, down to the very core of things Draco didn’t even dare admit to himself.

Harry hesitated for a moment, wanting to thread carefully. He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against Draco’s forearm. To his surprise, Draco didn’t pull away.

“Because I like you,” Harry said simply. “And I think... I think you’re worth being kind to.”

Draco’s breath caught, his gaze snapping back to Harry’s. He searched Harry’s face for any sign of insincerity, any hint of mockery, but all he found was an earnestness that made his defenses crack just a little more.

“I don’t know how to... do this,” Draco admitted quietly, his voice barely a whisper.

“You don’t have to know,” Harry said, his fingers curling slightly against Draco’s arm. “You just have to let it happen. Let me... let me be kind to you.”

Draco closed his eyes, his chest tight and his mind spinning. For so long, he had been defined by walls—walls built from fear, pride, and the need to protect himself. And now, here was Harry, asking him to let those walls down.

It was terrifying.

But it was also... freeing.

Draco opened his eyes, meeting Harry’s gaze. “I don’t hate you.”

Harry smiled, soft and childlike, and Draco felt the last of his resistance crumble.

“I know,” Harry said, his voice full of warmth. “I’ve known for a while.”

And as Harry’s hand lingered on his arm, Draco allowed himself to lean into the moment, just a little. For the first time in a very long time, he let himself feel something other than fear.

It wasn’t much. But it was a start.

-

Whatever was going on between Harry and Draco was intentionally undefined.

Harry, naturally, had a laundry list of questions he’d love to ask—starting with “What is this?” and ending with the far more terrifying “What are we?” But he wasn’t foolish enough to voice them. He knew Draco well enough by now to recognize that any such inquiry would send the blond fleeing before Harry could even finish the sentence. And Harry wasn’t willing to risk that—not yet.

It was funny, Harry thought, because he didn’t know the first thing about being in a proper relationship, let alone navigating one with Draco Malfoy. He should have known, of course. By all accounts, he had dated Ginny, and Ron had once mentioned—offhandedly—that there had been a brief fling with a Ravenclaw. Or was it a Hufflepuff? Harry couldn’t remember, because none of it existed in his mind anymore.

And that was the crux of the problem.

He wasn’t inexperienced, technically speaking, but he may as well have been. All those supposed moments of romance or affection, all the things he was meant to have learned about relationships—they were gone. Erased, like chalk wiped from a slate. So, in practice, Harry was inexperienced, fumbling his way through this unfamiliar territory like a first-year on his first broom.

Yet, despite all of this—despite the uncertainty, the unanswered questions, and the looming unfamiliarity of it all—Harry didn’t feel particularly scared. He supposed he should have been. Most people would be, in his position. But he wasn’t.

And he thought he understood why.

Because, when it came down to it, everything about this felt oddly simple.

The truth, plain and black-and-white as it was, had settled firmly in Harry’s chest. He wanted to be around Draco Malfoy. He wanted to spend his days with him, talking about anything and everything and sometimes nothing at all. He wanted to touch Draco—just small things, like the brush of his hand against Draco’s arm or the feel of Draco’s palm against his own.

And more than anything, Harry wanted to kiss Draco Malfoy again.

The thought wasn’t startling. It didn’t send him into a spiral or fill him with panic. It was, instead, a quiet certainty that had been building in him for weeks, maybe even longer.

Considering this, Harry arrived at a conclusion that felt so straightforward, so matter-of-fact, that he wondered why he’d spent so much time worrying about it in the first place. Yes, he wanted to date Draco Malfoy.

Because dating Draco Malfoy would mean all those things he wanted—the touches, the kisses, the quiet moments together—could happen. And that was what Harry wanted.

So, no, he wasn’t particularly afraid of the idea. Least of all the fact that Draco was a bloke.

If anything, Harry figured the memory gaps were actually helping him in this matter.

With so many pieces of his past missing, so much of his life fragmented and unknowable, it was like he’d been handed a blank slate. He didn’t have the weight of his past expectations pressing down on him. He didn’t have a checklist of who he was supposed to be or what he was supposed to want.

The Ginny-shaped memories were vague and distant, more a sketch than a complete image. The faint mention of a fleeting romance with someone else—whose name he couldn’t even remember—felt like it belonged to someone else entirely.

In the absence of those details, Harry was free to decide for himself who he was and what he cared about.

It was a strange kind of freedom, born of something inherently broken, but it made everything feel clearer.

Harry wasn’t the same person he’d been before the memory gaps. That much he knew. But that also meant he didn’t have to hold himself to the standards of who he’d been before, to the expectations of what others thought he should be.

Maybe that was why this thing with Draco didn’t scare him. It wasn’t about following a script or meeting anyone’s expectations. It wasn’t about who he was supposed to love or what his life was supposed to look like.

It was just about what he wanted.

And what Harry wanted—more than anything—was Draco Malfoy.

Not the image of Draco Malfoy he’d carried in his mind for years, but the Draco he knew now. The one who rolled his eyes at Harry’s jokes but still smiled when he thought Harry wasn’t looking. The one who drank his tea in tiny, measured sips and frowned at his Ancient Runes homework like it had personally insulted him. The one who, despite his sharp tongue and guarded demeanor, had kissed Harry back with a tenderness Harry hadn’t expected.

So no, Harry wasn’t afraid. If anything, he felt... hopeful.

Because for the first time in a long time, it felt like he wasn’t bound by the weight of his past. He wasn’t defined by what he’d forgotten or what he was supposed to be.

He was just Harry.

And Harry wanted Draco.

Circling back—the point was, whatever was going on between him and Draco was still undefined, and Harry decided that was okay. Perhaps it was Luna’s insight rubbing off on him, her calm assurance that not everything needed a label or an answer right away. Either way, Harry had chosen to stop agonizing over it.

It worked.

Harry didn’t notice the odd stares as he walked through the Great Hall, ignoring the Gryffindor table entirely. He wasn’t oblivious, of course—he knew the weight of curiosity and confusion trailing him, but he didn’t care. His destination was the far end of the Slytherin table, where Draco was seated alone, a plate of untouched food in front of him.

They had spent time together over the last few weeks—studying in the library, sitting side by side during meals on occasion, partnering in the rare class they were forced to share. But this was different. This was deliberate, purposeful, and even Harry, with his newfound nonchalance, felt the faint edge of nerves creeping into his chest.

Draco, unlike Harry, had noticed the stares.

His sharp grey eyes flicked up the moment Harry crossed the room, his hand freezing mid-motion as he reached for his tea. There was a flicker of something—surprise? Hesitation?—before Draco’s face settled into a carefully neutral mask.

Harry slid into the seat across from him with the kind of ease that made Draco bristle.

“Potter,” Draco greeted, his tone even but laced with curiosity. “To what do I owe this… very public intrusion?”

Harry didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached over, plucked a piece of toast off Draco’s plate, and took a bite.

Draco stared at him, aghast. “Are you serious?”

Harry grinned, unrepentant. “What? You weren’t eating it.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s an open invitation for you to eat it.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, chewing thoughtfully. “You’re in a mood this morning.”

Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Yes, well, it’s not every day one’s solitude is disrupted by the Boy Who Lives to Steal Food.”

Harry laughed softly, reaching for a slice of bacon. “You like it.”

Draco opened his mouth to retort but stopped himself, his gaze narrowing. “Why are you here, Potter? Surely you have your fan club waiting for you at the Gryffindor table.”

Harry shrugged. “Wanted to sit with you.”

Draco blinked, his composure faltering for the briefest moment. Harry had said it as if it were the simplest, most natural thing in the world—and Draco, well, Draco wasn’t accustomed to this sort of thing, was he?

Draco quickly recovered, his eyes darting to the surrounding Slytherins who were undoubtedly whispering behind their hands. “You do realize how ridiculous this looks, don’t you?”

Harry tilted his head, his grin turning lopsided. “Do you care?”

Draco’s lips parted as if to answer, but no words came. Did he care? He wasn’t sure. He’d have to think about that—and frankly, these days, nothing in Draco’s mind was making much sense.

“I don’t,” Harry continued. “I don’t care what they think, and you shouldn’t either.”

Draco frowned, his fingers tightening around his cup. “That’s easy for you to say. You’ve always been… untouchable.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, his grin fading. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Draco looked away, his gaze fixed on his plate. “It means you’ve always had the freedom to do whatever you wanted. People love you for it, Potter. You don’t have to worry about the consequences.”

Harry stared at him, a strange mix of emotions swirling in his chest. “Draco,” he said softly, leaning forward. “You’re not that person anymore. Whatever you think people see when they look at you… it’s not who you are now.”

Hell, Harry didn’t even know the version of Draco Malfoy everyone seemed so keen to remind him of. He had been told—time and time again—that Draco had once been an unpleasant, perhaps irredeemable person. A boy with a sharp tongue, a sneer on his lips, and a penchant for cruelty. And maybe the Harry of before would have scowled at the very thought of all of this.

But this Harry—the one forged by memory gaps and a fractured sense of self—saw things differently. To him, it was startlingly simple: Draco Malfoy was no longer who he had been. Neither was Harry. Neither was anyone, really.

If Draco carried guilt, remorse, and regret like the rest of them—and Merlin, didn’t they all—then why shouldn’t he be granted a second chance? Why shouldn’t Draco Malfoy be judged on the person he was choosing to become now, rather than the one he had been before?

Actions had explanations. And whether or not those explanations were deemed good enough, who was Harry to decide? Who was anyone to decide?

Frankly, Harry thought, Draco seemed to punish himself far more thoroughly than anyone else ever could.

The guilt lived in the tension of his shoulders, the clipped edge of his voice, the way he refused to meet certain gazes in the Great Hall. It was etched into the way he bristled when kindness was offered, as if expecting it to be torn away at any moment.

For fuck’s sake, Harry thought, anyone still holding a grudge against Draco didn’t need to. Draco Malfoy was doing a fine enough job of that all on his own.

And perhaps that was the heart of it. The thing that made Harry’s chest ache whenever he saw the blond sitting alone, or the way he struggled to accept even the smallest, most innocent gesture of care.

Harry wasn’t blind. He could see that Draco didn’t quite believe he deserved any of it—friendship, forgiveness, or even something as simple as companionship.

And maybe that was why Harry stayed. Why he reached out, time and time again, despite the walls Draco kept trying to put between them. Because someone had to show him, didn’t they? Someone had to prove that people could change. That they did change.

And if Harry was being honest, he couldn’t think of anyone more deserving of a second chance than Draco Malfoy.

Draco’s jaw was tight, his fingers drumming against the table. “And what, exactly, do you think I am?”

Harry smiled faintly, his voice quiet but certain. “I think you’re someone worth sitting with.”

Draco didn’t respond, didn’t trust himself to speak.

Harry, sensing the shift, reached across the table, his fingers brushing lightly against Draco’s wrist. It was a fleeting touch, barely there, but it sent a jolt through Draco’s entire body.

“Let them stare,” Harry said. “You’re not alone anymore.”

Draco didn’t look at him, but he didn’t pull away either.

-

Harry continued to do these things—small, seemingly inconsequential actions that he didn’t dwell on or overthink. He simply did them, as natural as breathing, following a quiet instinct he didn’t feel the need to question.

He would sit beside Draco in class, even when Ron gave him an odd, questioning look from across the room.

He would linger outside the door after lessons, waiting for Draco to emerge so they could walk to their next class together. Sometimes Draco would glance at him, puzzled, his lips twitching as if he wanted to ask why. But he never did.

He would scout Draco out in the Great Hall during meals, bypassing the Gryffindor table without a second thought. As soon as Harry stepped through the doors, his eyes would sweep across the room until they found the familiar pale blond head. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he would plop down beside Draco, nudging him lightly in greeting.

Harry would share his plate of sausages without being asked, steal a sip from Draco’s juice despite the indignant protests that followed, and comment on Draco’s choice of reading material as though it was an open invitation for critique.

And he kept finding more ways to blur the lines between them.

He’d borrow Draco’s quill during study sessions, only to twirl it absently between his fingers and hand it back with an apologetic grin when Draco finally snapped at him.

He’d tug at Draco’s sleeve during class to point out some mundane observation—like the way Snape’s handwriting was still faintly visible on an old blackboard—or murmur a joke under his breath that left Draco rolling his eyes but hiding a smile.

In the evenings, Harry would drift into Draco’s space without a second thought, settling into the armchair nearest him in their shared dorm room with an unspoken expectation that they would simply exist together.

But the most curious thing, at least to Harry, was how Draco let it happen.

Draco didn’t complain—not really. He would huff, roll his eyes, and mutter sharp, biting retorts. But he didn’t push Harry away. He didn’t pull back or erect the walls Harry half-expected.

Instead, he let Harry inch closer.

When Harry nudged him during meals, Draco stopped flinching. When Harry leaned over his desk to watch him scribble notes, Draco merely quirked a brow and continued writing. When Harry tossed a balled-up scrap of parchment at him during study sessions, Draco would catch it midair and toss it back without missing a beat.

It wasn’t as though Draco didn’t notice. He did. He noticed every time Harry waited for him after class, every time Harry’s shoulder brushed his in the corridor, every time Harry slid into the seat beside him with that maddeningly easy grin.

And though Draco often pretended not to care, he couldn’t ignore the way it made something tighten in his chest—a mix of exasperation and warmth that he didn’t quite know what to do with.

It wasn’t normal. Not for him.

Draco Malfoy had never been someone people sought out, not like this. Not someone people lingered for or cared to be near without reason. But Harry—Harry did it so casually, so effortlessly, that Draco almost believed it was real.

Almost.

Because in the back of his mind, a voice whispered that it couldn’t last. That this strange, precarious thing between them was as fragile as glass, ready to shatter the moment Harry realized who he was—or worse, remembered.

And yet, Draco didn’t stop him. He didn’t stop Harry from sitting beside him, from waiting for him, from orbiting closer with every passing day.

Because for all his hesitation, all his doubts, there was a part of Draco that didn’t want it to stop.

-

The late afternoon sun poured through the classroom windows, casting a warm glow over rows of desks and parchment. Professor Flitwick stood at the front of the room, gesturing animatedly as he explained the finer points of a particularly tricky charm. Harry sat in the second row, quill in hand, trying—and failing—to keep his mind from wandering.

Beside him, Draco was taking meticulous notes, elegant handwriting filling the page in precise, swooping lines. Every so often, he’d glance at Harry with a raised brow, as if daring him to actually pay attention.

“Potter,” Draco hissed under his breath, nudging Harry’s arm. “Focus.”

Harry blinked, snapping out of his daze. He straightened in his seat. His gaze darted to Flitwick, who was now demonstrating a wand movement that resembled a half-loop followed by a sharp flick.

“All right, class,” Flitwick chirped. “Pair up and practice! Remember, it’s all in the wrist.”

Harry turned to Draco, who was already watching him with an expression that bordered on exasperation. “I suppose that means you’re my partner,” Draco drawled.

“Lucky me,” Harry flashed a crooked grin.

Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t protest as they stood and moved to an open space near the back of the classroom. “This should be simple enough, even for you,” Draco remarked, pulling out his wand. “Just follow the motion Flitwick demonstrated.”

“Watch and learn, Malfoy.”

He lifted his wand, mimicking the loop-and-flick motion with surprising ease. The spell came out perfectly—an elegant, shimmering charm that hung in the air for a moment before fading.

Draco blinked, caught off guard. “Well, that’s... unexpected.”

Harry frowned, lowering his wand. “Why?”

Draco gestured vaguely. “Because you’ve been struggling with charms all year. That spell’s not exactly beginner-level.”

Harry stared at his wand. “Huh. I didn’t even think about it.”

And that was the truth. He hadn’t thought about it at all. His hand had moved on its own, as if some forgotten instinct had kicked in. It was as if he’d known the spell before but had no memory of learning it.

The realization hit him like a jolt, and his stomach twisted uncomfortably. How many other things had his mind hidden from him, only to resurface like this, unbidden and without warning?

“Potter?” Draco’s voice cut through his thoughts. “What’s with the look?”

Harry shook his head quickly, forcing a smile. “Nothing. Just surprised myself, that’s all.”

Draco tilted his head, studying him with narrowed eyes. “You’re acting strange.”

Harry laughed, a little too loudly, hoping it would cover the tightness in his chest. “Strange? Me? Never.”

Draco didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press the issue. Instead, he sighed and gestured for Harry to try the spell again. “Do it once more. Let’s see if it was a fluke.”

Harry nodded, grateful for the distraction. He lifted his wand again, performing the motion as he had before. The charm sparkled to life, just as perfect as the first time.

Draco’s lips twitched into a small, reluctant smile. “Well, I’ll give you this—you’re full of surprises, Potter.”

“Guess I’m just a natural.”

“Hardly. But I suppose even you get lucky now and then.”

Despite the teasing, there was something in Draco’s tone—something almost soft. And when Harry glanced at him, he noticed the faintest hint of admiration in those grey eyes.

Draco turned away quickly, pretending to focus on his wand, but Harry didn’t miss the faint flush creeping up his neck.

-

The days blurred into a quiet rhythm, one in which Harry and Draco’s proximity became less a novelty and more a constant. Harry, never one to overthink when it came to things that felt right, grew bolder with each passing moment. It wasn’t conscious—not entirely. It was more instinctive, a natural gravitation toward Draco that felt as though it had always been there, just waiting to unfold.

One afternoon, while walking back to their dorm after Transfiguration, Harry reached out and caught Draco’s wrist.

Late one evening, as Draco sat curled in an armchair with a book, Harry sprawled across the sofa nearby, his feet propped up on the armrest. Draco was fully engrossed in his reading when he felt something nudge his knee.

Looking up, he found Harry grinning at him, his foot extended lazily. “Move,” Draco said flatly.

Harry didn’t budge. “What if I don’t want to?”

Draco sighed, reaching out to shove Harry’s foot away. But before he could, Harry caught his hand, his fingers wrapping lightly around Draco’s wrist.

“You’re all work, no play,” Harry said, his tone teasing but not unkind.

Draco’s mouth opened to argue, but the warmth of Harry’s grip and the way his thumb brushed softly against his skin made the words falter. He pulled his hand back, muttering something incoherent as he buried himself in his book again.

Harry just smiled.

It wasn’t just the touches. It was the way Harry looked at him—like he was something worth noticing.

In the past, Draco had been accustomed to gazes filled with disdain, suspicion, or pity. But Harry’s eyes carried something else entirely. Something warm and inviting, something that made Draco’s chest feel uncomfortably tight.

The worst part—or perhaps the best part—was how natural it all felt. As though this was how it had always been, how it was always meant to be.

And while Draco didn’t always know how to respond, he didn’t pull away. He let Harry linger, let him press into the spaces Draco had once kept carefully guarded.

And with every passing moment, those spaces became a little less fortified.

-

Draco was seated at his desk, scribbling furiously into his Potions notes.

“You’re going to wear a hole in that parchment,” Harry said.

Draco didn’t respond, his focus unyielding. Harry, of course, took this as a challenge.

Sliding off his bed, he wandered over to Draco’s desk, leaning down until his chin was nearly resting on Draco’s shoulder. “What’s so fascinating that you’ve been glued to it for hours?”

“Potter,” Draco said, his tone exasperated, “must you—”

But before he could finish, Harry tilted his head and pressed a fleeting kiss to Draco’s cheek. It was quick, barely more than a brush of lips against skin, but it was enough to make Draco’s quill falter mid-word.

“What—” Draco froze, his entire body going rigid.

Harry pulled back, grinning, entirely unrepentant. “You looked like you needed a distraction.”

Draco turned slowly, his eyes wide and utterly bewildered. “You can’t just—just do that.”

Harry shrugged, crossing his arms. “Why not? You didn’t stop me.”

Draco opened his mouth, then closed it again, his mind scrambling for a coherent response.

-

It was raining the next day, and Harry had dragged Draco to the greenhouses, insisting they explore the newest batch of magical plants Professor Sprout had acquired.

“This is absurd,” Draco grumbled, watching as Harry bent over a cluster of fanged geraniums. “It’s pouring outside, and we could be doing literally anything else.”

“Oh, come on. You’re having fun.”

“I am decidedly not,” Draco said, crossing his arms.

But then Harry straightened, his hair slightly damp from the humidity, and walked closer. There was a mischievous gleam in his eye that immediately put Draco on edge.

“What?” Draco asked warily.

Harry didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped into Draco’s space, so close that their shoes nearly touched. Draco’s breath hitched, his back stiffening.

“Potter, what are you—”

Before Draco could finish, Harry kissed him.

It wasn’t like the cheeky kiss in their dorm. This one was slower, more deliberate, and Draco felt his knees go weak before he caught himself, one hand instinctively gripping Harry’s arm.

Harry pulled back after a moment, his grin softer now, his voice low. “Told you this would be fun.”

Draco stared at him, his chest heaving. “You’re insane,” he said, his voice weak and uneven.

“And yet,” Harry murmured, stepping back with a wink, “you’re still here.”

Draco didn’t respond, his mind too scrambled to form words.

-

Days later, they found themselves in the library again, hidden away in a quiet corner where no one would bother them. Harry was supposed to be studying, but instead, he kept stealing glances at Draco, his chin propped on his hand.

“What?” Draco asked without looking up.

Harry smiled, leaning closer. “Nothing. You’re just—you look really good today.”

Draco’s quill fell from his fingers, clattering onto the desk. He turned to Harry, his brows furrowed. “Potter, I swear to Merlin—”

Harry cut him off with another kiss, this one catching Draco completely off guard. It was deeper than the last, Harry’s hand coming up to rest lightly on Draco’s jaw.

Draco’s first instinct was to push Harry away, to say something biting and sarcastic. But instead, he froze, his body caught between the instinct to flee and the strange, inexplicable urge to lean in.

When Harry pulled back, Draco blinked at him, his expression unreadable. “You—I—you can’t keep doing that!” he sputtered, adorably so.

“Why not?” Harry asked, his thumb brushing lightly against Draco’s cheek.

Draco swallowed hard, his gaze darting away. “Because...”

Harry tilted his head, waiting.

“Because it’s... distracting,” Draco said finally, though the faint pink in his cheeks betrayed him.

Harry laughed softly, sitting back. “Good.”

Draco didn’t respond, but as he picked up his quill and tried to focus on his notes, he couldn’t stop thinking about the way Harry’s lips had felt against his.

-

“P—Harry?” came Draco’s hesitant voice one night, breaking the silence that had settled over the room.

The dorm was dark, save for the faint silver glow of moonlight seeping through the open curtains of their beds. Both of them were supposed to be sleeping, but neither seemed able to.

Harry stirred in his bed, cracking one eye open. Everything was a hazy blur without his glasses, and he groaned softly. “Mmm?”

Draco lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling, his fingers clutching his blanket tightly against his chest. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, unsure of how to phrase what he wanted to say. “Why—I mean—what...” He winced at himself, his words faltering.

Harry sighed softly, shifting onto his side to face Draco’s bed. “What is it, Draco?”

Draco still didn’t dare to look at him. His eyes stayed fixed on the wooden beams above as though they might provide an answer. “What are we doing?” he whispered, the words barely audible in the quiet of the room.

Harry blinked, his mind slowly catching up to the weight of the question. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to wake himself up properly. “What do you want to be doing?” he asked, his tone careful, measured.

Draco was silent for a long time.

The pause stretched between them. Harry didn’t press him, didn’t move. He waited, watching the vague outline of Draco in the bed across from him, the blond’s chest rising and falling steadily in the dim light.

Finally, Draco exhaled, his voice trembling just enough for Harry to notice. “I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

Harry frowned, shifting to sit up. “Why does it have to be a problem?”

Draco closed his eyes, his hand gripping the edge of his blanket so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Because it’s you,Potter.” The words came out sharper than he intended, but there was no venom in them—only frustration, and something quieter, more fragile.

Harry tilted his head, his frown deepening. “What’s wrong with it being me?”

Draco laughed softly, bitterly. “Everything.”

Harry sat up fully now, his feet brushing the cold floor as he leaned forward, trying to make out Draco’s expression through the blur. “You’re not making any sense, you know.”

“Don’t I always?”

Harry didn’t laugh, didn’t take the bait. Instead, he leaned his elbows on his knees, his voice soft. “You don’t have to figure it all out right now, you know. Whatever this is... it doesn’t have to be defined tonight.”

Draco finally turned his head slightly, his gaze flickering toward Harry’s shadowy figure. “And if it never gets defined? What then?”

Harry shrugged, though Draco could sense the faint smile that tugged at his lips. “Then it doesn’t. We just... keep going. One step at a time.”

Draco was quiet again, his mind racing. He wanted to argue, to pick apart Harry’s simple, maddeningly Gryffindor response. But he couldn’t. Because deep down, a part of him wanted to believe it.

“You make everything sound so easy,” Draco murmured.

Harry didn’t respond to Draco’s last words. Not immediately, anyway. Instead, he reached for his glasses, sliding them on. He then stood, his movements unhurried and deliberate.

Draco blinked, confusion tightening his chest as he watched Harry cross the small space between their beds. “Potter, what are you—”

Before Draco could finish, Harry pulled back the edge of Draco’s blanket and crawled into his bed without a hint of hesitation.

“Merlin’s sake!” Draco hissed. He tried to push Harry back, his hands fumbling against Harry’s arms. “What do you think you’re doing? Get out!”

Harry batted Draco’s arm away with a half-hearted swat, settling into the space beside him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “I’m tired,” Harry said simply, his voice slightly muffled as he pulled the blanket up over both of them. “Stop complaining.”

Draco stared at him, utterly dumbfounded, his pulse racing. “You can’t just—Potter, this isn’t—”

“I like you,” Harry interrupted. He turned his head to look at Draco, his face open and unguarded in the dim moonlight. “Do with that what you must.”

Draco froze.

The words struck him like a physical blow, reverberating through his chest and leaving him utterly speechless. I like you.Three simple words, and yet they unraveled something in Draco he didn’t even know he’d been holding together.

“You’re mad!”

Harry smiled faintly, his eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion. “Probably.”

Draco turned his gaze toward the ceiling. This wasn’t supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen. Harry Potter was supposed to hate him. He should hate him. That was how it had always been. Hatred was simple, predictable. It fit neatly into the narrative of their lives, like a well-worn piece of a puzzle.

But this?

This was chaos.

Harry wasn’t following the script. He wasn’t playing the part Draco had always expected him to play.

Draco didn’t know how to handle it.

“How?” Draco asked quietly, his voice trembling despite himself. “How can you possibly like me? After... everything?”

Harry sighed, shifting slightly to rest his head more comfortably against the pillow. “I don’t know. I just do.”

Draco turned his head to look at Harry, his expression conflicted. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Does it have to?”

“Harry...” Draco began, his voice faltering.

“It’s okay,” Harry murmured, closing his eyes. “You don’t have to say anything right now. Just... don’t push me away, yeah?”

Draco stared at him.

He had spent so long convincing himself that warmth, kindness, and affection weren’t meant for him. That he didn’t deserve them. And yet here was Harry, defying every expectation, offering Draco something he didn’t know how to accept.

Draco sighed, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Slowly, tentatively, he let himself relax, sinking back into the pillow.

Harry, sensing the shift, smiled faintly in his half-asleep state. “See? Not so bad.”

Draco let out a soft, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. “You really are mad.”

Harry didn’t respond, already drifting off to sleep, his breath steady and even.

-

Harry awoke the following morning engulfed in an inexplicable warmth, a tactile cocoon of reassurance and ease. His first conscious awareness was not of the sunlight spilling through the curtains but of the steady rhythm beneath his cheek—a heartbeat, strong and real. It took him a moment to place himself, to understand why he felt so profoundly grounded. And then it hit him.

Draco Malfoy was beside him, their limbs intertwined in a tangle that defied both logic and propriety. Harry’s head rested against Draco’s chest, where the subtle rise and fall of breath anchored him. Draco’s arm lay draped across Harry’s back, as if it had found its place there by some unspoken design, holding him in a grasp that was as unintentional as it was perfect.

For several minutes, Harry remained still, unwilling to break the spell of the moment.

He tilted his head to take in Draco’s sleeping face, marveling at the juxtaposition of sharp features rendered gentle in repose. Draco looked like a sculptor’s masterpiece, marble given warmth and life. Pale lashes fanned across his cheeks, and the faint furrow of his brow spoke of a mind that, even in slumber, refused to surrender fully.

Harry couldn’t stop the small, boyish smile spreading across his face.

He felt like a child at the fair for the first time—dizzy with wonder, lightheaded with happiness. When had this become his life? How had he ended up here, wrapped in the warmth of someone he was supposedly meant to hate?

And why, why did it all feel so perfectly, blissfully right?

He fit in Draco’s arms like a puzzle piece long lost, found at last. It was wonderful and warm, and Harry couldn’t help but wonder how the Harry of before—whoever that person was—had chosen to make an enemy of Draco Malfoy. How could he have missed this? Missed him?

Draco stirred beneath him, a faint frown pulling at his peaceful features as his eyes fluttered open. The moment the silver-grey met Harry’s green, the peace cracked.

Draco stiffened, his eyes darting between them, and Harry saw the familiar panic rising—the instinct to push him away, to build walls faster than Harry could tear them down.

“Malfoy,” Harry said softly, already leaning up, placing a hand on Draco’s chest before he could bolt. He could feel Draco’s heart racing beneath his palm, frantic and unsteady. “Draco, just... let it be.”

Draco blinked up at him, his eyes wide and searching, his lips parting soundlessly before he finally found his voice. “I don’t understand. How is this—why is this—” He broke off, his breath coming quicker now.

Harry didn’t let him spiral.

“Shh,” he murmured, leaning in and pressing his lips to Draco’s in a gentle, silencing kiss.

It was slow and deliberate, a kiss meant to calm rather than ignite. There was no urgency, only a quiet devotion that Harry poured into the touch. It was an offering, a promise, a quiet plea to stay.

Draco froze beneath him, his body going rigid, but Harry stayed soft, slow, patient. His lips moved against Draco’s like a question, not a demand, and after a moment—just a moment—Draco kissed him back. Tentative, unsure, but real.

When Harry pulled back, Draco was gaping, his pale cheeks flushed, his eyes wide and disbelieving. He looked as though Harry had just unraveled the very fabric of his reality.

Maybe he had.

“Draco,” Harry said, his voice firm with conviction but still impossibly kind. “I don’t know how many ways I can say it or show it, but the fact of the matter is simple—I like you. Alright? I like... I like the way you roll your eyes at me like I’m the most ridiculous person alive, the way you’re annoyingly precise about everything, the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice. I like how we can just exist in the same space, and I don’t feel the need to be anything but myself. And I think...” Harry’s voice softened, his gaze searching Draco’s. “I think you’re the most bloody beautiful person I’ve ever known.”

Draco’s lips parted, trembling, but no words came out.

Harry smiled faintly, his hand lifting to trace the curve of Draco’s jaw, his thumb brushing lightly over the corner of his mouth. “I want to hold you, and kiss you, and tell you again and again just how much I like you,” he said quietly. “That’s all.”

“Harry—” Draco’s voice cracked, his head shaking slightly, his lips quivering as if trying to form words. “I... I don’t...”

“I know,” Harry interrupted gently. “I know it’s hard to allow something like this into your life. I know it’s hard to believe you deserve it, especially when you’ve been told over and over that you don’t. Trust me, I know what that’s like. I grew up with relatives who didn’t let me forget it. But Draco, you do. You do deserve this—kindness, warmth, love—all of it. You deserve every bit of it. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m not here to take anything from you. I just… I want you to have this. To have me. If you want it.”

Draco shook his head again, his breath hitching, his lip trembling in a way that made Harry’s chest ache. He looked so vulnerable, so unsure, and it hurt Harry to see it.

“I don’t understand,” Draco whispered. “You’re supposed to hate me, Harry. We—we’re supposed to hate each other. I thought—I don’t—how can this be—”

“Well, I don’t hate you,” Harry said firmly, his voice steady and sure. “I don’t know if I ever truly did. And I know it’s hard to grasp—after everything our history entailed—that we could end up here. But we’re here, Draco. Right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Draco stared at him, his expression a complex mixture of awe, confusion, and something Harry dared to hope was wonder.

Harry cupped Draco’s face gently, his thumb tracing the delicate line of his cheekbone. “Look, if you really want me to stop—if you want me to leave, I will. I’m not trying to scare you or push you into something you’re not ready for. But if there’s even a part of you that wants this—us—then just… let me in. Just let me be here.”

Draco’s chest heaved, his gaze locked on Harry’s, wide and brimming with emotions Harry couldn’t fully decipher.

“Why me?” he asked at last, his voice breaking on the words.

“Because you’re you.”

For a long, agonizing moment, Draco didn’t speak.

But then, slowly, he lifted a hand, hesitant and trembling, and placed it over Harry’s.

Harry smiled softly, his heart swelling as he leaned in again, brushing their foreheads together. “That’s all I need,” he whispered.

-

The wind ruffled Harry’s hair as he stood by the Black Lake, squinting against the sunlight glinting off the water’s surface. Draco sat a few feet away on a checkered blanket they’d borrowed—well, Harry had borrowed it from the common room, and Draco had grumbled about its “atrocious color scheme” before sitting down anyway.

It was one of those rare afternoons when the Hogwarts grounds felt untouched by the chaos of the past. The air was crisp but not cold, the sky bright but not blinding, and Harry felt oddly buoyant, his mood light as he nudged Draco with the toe of his shoe.

“Come on,” Harry said, grinning. “You can’t just sit there like some brooding prince of Slytherin.”

Draco didn’t even look up from his book. “I’m enjoying the peace and quiet, Harry. Your incessant yammering ruins it.”

Harry rolled his eyes, crouching down beside him. “You’re sitting in the sun, on a picnic blanket, reading a book. That’s the opposite of brooding.”

Draco’s lips quirked, but he didn’t respond.

“Oh, come on,” Harry pressed, his grin widening as an idea sparked. “Let me see that.”

Before Draco could protest, Harry plucked the book out of his hands and started running toward the water’s edge.

“Harry!” Draco’s voice was sharp, but there was no real anger behind it. He scrambled to his feet, brushing nonexistent dirt off his robes. “Give that back!”

“Catch me first!” Harry called over his shoulder, laughing as he darted toward the lake.

Draco muttered a string of curses under his breath but took off after him, his longer legs quickly closing the distance. Harry was fast, but Draco had an advantage—he was determined not to let Harry get away with this ridiculousness.

Just as Harry reached the edge of the lake, Draco tackled him, his arms wrapping around Harry’s middle as they tumbled to the ground.

They landed in a heap, Draco’s knees digging into the soft earth, Harry’s laughter ringing out unabashedly.

“You’re an idiot,” Draco muttered, pinning Harry’s wrist to the ground as he pried the book from his grasp.

“Worth it,” Harry wheezed, still grinning. “The look on your face—priceless.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but the faintest smile tugged at his lips. He shifted to sit back on his heels, still holding the book. “You’re insufferable, as I so love to remind you.”

“And you’re adorable when you’re annoyed.”

Draco froze, his cheeks going faintly pink. “I am not adorable.”

Harry propped himself up on his elbows, his grin softening. “You kind of are,” he said, his voice quieter now, more sincere.

Draco looked at him, his sharp retort dying on his tongue. For a moment, they just stared at each other, the sunlight catching in Draco’s pale hair, making him look almost ethereal.

“You’re—well—ridiculous,” Draco said again, but this time there was no malice in it.

Harry’s grin widened, and before Draco could stop him, he reached up and tugged lightly at the front of Draco’s robes, pulling him closer.

“What are you—” Draco started, but Harry cut him off by bumping their foreheads together, his smile so warm and open that it made Draco’s heart stutter.

“I like this,” Harry murmured.

Draco blinked. “What?”

“This,” Harry repeated, gesturing vaguely between them. “Us. You pretending you don’t enjoy chasing me around like we’re first-years again.”

Draco huffed, but his lips twitched upward despite himself. “I do not enjoy chasing you, Harry.”

“Sure, you don’t.”

For a second, Draco looked like he might argue, but then Harry reached up, his hand brushing lightly against Draco’s cheek. It was a fleeting touch, soft and almost hesitant, but it sent a warmth flooding through Draco’s chest that he couldn’t ignore.

“Alright,” Draco said quietly, his voice tinged with mock exasperation. “Maybe I don’t mind it as much as I should.”

Harry’s grin turned lopsided, his eyes sparkling as he leaned back against the grass. “That’s the closest thing to a compliment I’ve ever gotten from you.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Draco muttered, but his tone was light, and the faint pink on his cheeks hadn’t faded.

They stayed there for a while, the tension easing into something softer, quieter. The afternoon felt endless, the sun warm against their skin, and for once, neither of them felt the need to fill the silence with words.

Harry, ever the impulsive Gryffindor, reached over and tangled their fingers together, his touch casual but deliberate. Draco glanced down at their joined hands, his brows furrowing slightly, but he didn’t pull away.

Instead, he sighed and muttered, “You’re an idiot.”

Harry just smiled, his thumb brushing over Draco’s knuckles. “Maybe. But I’m your idiot.”

Draco didn’t respond, but the small smile that ghosted across his lips said enough.

-

The soft hum of magical instruments filled the air as Harry swung his legs back and forth on the edge of the hospital wing bed, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress. Madam Pomfrey bustled about, her wand waving over a parchment that flickered faintly with diagnostic readings.

Harry, however, wasn’t paying much attention. He was staring at the large stained-glass window opposite him, where beams of sunlight filtered through, casting vibrant, shifting patterns across the walls. His gaze followed the colorful swirls with the kind of unguarded fascination that Pomfrey couldn’t help but notice.

“Hold still, Mister Potter,” she said, though her voice lacked its usual strictness. There was a warmth in her tone, a faint bemusement as she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “You’re as fidgety as a first-year on their first broomstick.”

Harry grinned, turning his attention back to her. “Sorry, Madam Pomfrey. It’s just—have you seen the light in here? It’s brilliant. All those colors.”

Pomfrey raised an eyebrow, her wand pausing mid-air. “You’ve been in here enough times over the years to notice a window, surely.”

“Well, yeah,” Harry admitted, scratching the back of his neck. “But I never really looked at it before.”

Pomfrey’s lips twitched, and she muttered something that sounded suspiciously like typical boys. She resumed her wand work, her gaze flicking briefly to Harry’s face. He was smiling—a bright, boyish grin that looked far too cheerful for someone whose memories were still riddled with holes.

“How have you been feeling since the last... incident?”

Harry tilted his head, thinking for a moment. “Good. No weird flashes or blackouts. It’s been pretty quiet, actually.”

Pomfrey’s wand gave a soft hum, and she lowered it, her sharp eyes scanning the parchment in her hand. “Your mind seems stable,” she murmured. “That’s a relief. But you’ve been under quite a lot of strain lately. You mustn’t neglect rest.”

Harry waved a hand dismissively. “I’ve been resting. Plenty of rest.”

Pomfrey arched an eyebrow. “And yet, I heard you managed to sneak off to the boathouse with Mister Malfoy during class hours last week.”

Harry flushed, his ears turning pink. “Uh, I wouldn’t call it sneaking, exactly. More like... exploring. Besides, we didn’t skip that much.”

Pomfrey gave him a pointed look, and Harry raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll rest more. Promise.”

She shook her head, but there was no real sternness in her expression. Instead, she watched him closely for a moment, her gaze softening. “You seem... happier,” she observed. “Lighter, almost.”

Harry blinked at her, surprised by the comment. “Do I?”

“You do,” Pomfrey said firmly. “Considering everything you’ve been through, it’s... refreshing.”

Harry’s grin returned, smaller but just as genuine. “Yeah, I guess I am happy. It’s weird, isn’t it? I should be a lot more worried about... well, everything. But I’m not.”

Pomfrey folded her arms, studying him with the careful eye of someone who had patched him up far too many times to count. “And what do you attribute that to, Mister Potter?”

Harry hesitated, his smile turning almost shy. “I think... I think it’s just nice, you know? Not having everything figured out yet. Being able to... start fresh, sort of. I mean, sure, there’s stuff I don’t remember, but there’s also stuff I get to learn all over again. Like how the light looks through that window,” he said, pointing. “Or... how good it feels to have someone to talk to who doesn’t expect me to be anything but me.”

Pomfrey’s expression softened further, and she nodded once. “That’s a rare and precious thing, Mister Potter. Hold onto it.”

Harry hopped off the bed, bouncing on his feet a little. “I will. Thanks, Madam Pomfrey.”

As he turned to leave, she called after him. “And, Mister Potter?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t forget,” she said, her voice tinged with a faint smile, “it’s alright to let yourself enjoy these moments. Even the small ones. Especially the small ones.”

Harry’s grin widened, his guileless delight shining through as he nodded. “Got it.”

And with that, he skipped out of the hospital wing, his steps light and his heart even lighter, leaving Pomfrey shaking her head fondly behind him.

-

“I’m Malfoy, Draco Malfoy.”

Harry blinked down at the hand stretched out before him, his gaze shifting to the boy who owned it. The blond was small, like Harry himself, but there was a sharpness to him—a sort of polished neatness that Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen in another child. His pale hair was sleek, every strand perfectly in place, and his robes looked like they’d been tailored specifically for him.

But it was his eyes that caught Harry’s attention. 

Those grey eyes… Harry had to admit they were beautiful. They were light and bright, like a silver coin catching the sun. And in them, Harry saw something familiar—something that mirrored his own anticipation, his own quiet excitement about all the marvelous things Hogwarts might hold.

They’re wizards, for crying out loud! Harry’s head was still reeling from the idea. Blimey, he hadn’t even known for very long that he could wield such a thing as magic, and now here he was, standing on the brink of an entirely new world.

The blond boy—Draco—seemed to carry that same eagerness in his eyes, a shared thrill for the unknown.

Harry couldn’t help himself; he smiled, wide and toothy, the kind of grin that made his cheeks ache. He extended his arm, his hand meeting Draco’s in a firm, awkward shake. “I’m Harry.”

Draco quirked an eyebrow, his lips twitching in what might have been amusement. “I know that already,” he said with a small laugh. “Everyone knows who you are. You’re Harry Potter.”

Harry’s grin faltered slightly, turning crooked and sheepish. He wasn’t quite used to this—being known, being famous, as Hagrid had called it. He didn’t feel famous. Famous people were... well, not scrawny kids with hand-me-down clothes and messy hair.

“Right,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck as they let go of each other’s hands.

Draco’s lips curved into a smirk, a touch of mischief glinting in his eyes. “I reckon... we’re going to become great friends,” he said, his tone confident and sure.

Harry tilted his head, his brows lifting in curiosity. “You think so?”

Draco nodded, his hand rising to adjust the collar of his robes with a flourish that should have been ridiculous. But somehow, the overly posh, self-assured gesture fit him perfectly, as though he’d been practicing it for years. 

“I know so,” Draco said matter-of-factly.

For a moment, Harry just stared at him, his grin softening into something more thoughtful. He didn’t know much about friendships—not really. But something about the way Draco said it, with so much certainty, made Harry want to believe him.

“Alright,” Harry said, his smile returning, bright and boyish. “I guess we’ll see.”

Draco’s smirk turned into a full grin, and for that fleeting moment, they were just two boys standing on the threshold of something new, both filled with wonder and the giddy thrill of possibility.

Whatever awaited them at Hogwarts, it felt—for now—like anything could happen.

-

Harry woke up feeling oddly displaced, his mind foggy and his chest tight in a way that was difficult to explain. He rubbed his eyes aggressively, as if he could scrub away the dream lingering in the edges of his consciousness. It had been vivid—too vivid—and it left him with the strange feeling of standing in a room he didn’t quite recognize but should have.

He threw on his glasses, the familiar weight settling on his nose, and turned his head to find Draco already awake. Of course, he was. Draco was always up before him, a creature of habit who had his notes and textbooks meticulously spread out on his desk, a steaming cup of tea nearby.

Hearing the shuffling of blankets, Draco turned in his chair, quirking a brow at Harry. “Morning,” he said dryly, his gaze sweeping over Harry. “You look—rubbish.”

Harry croaked a faint laugh, flopping back against his pillow. He wasn’t quite ready to face the day just yet. “Thanks, Draco. Always charming, aren’t you?”

Draco smiled faintly, his attention already returning to his parchment. “So long as you think so.”

Harry sighed, the sound a mixture of weariness and something heavier. His chest felt empty and full all at once, as though something important was just out of reach.

Draco, immersed in whatever schoolwork he was occupying himself with, seemed unbothered by the silence. Harry glanced over at him, taking in the rigid line of his shoulders and the way he occasionally tapped his quill against the desk.

Merlin, Draco needed to give himself a break sometime, Harry thought. But then again, when had Draco ever been the sort to take it easy?

“Draco?” Harry said suddenly.

Draco didn’t look up. “Yes?”

“When we...” Harry hesitated, his nose crinkling slightly as he tried to find the right words. “When we first met—how did it go?”

Draco faltered, his quill hovering mid-air. For a moment, he didn’t move, and then he slowly turned in his chair, his brows furrowed as he looked at Harry.

“Er—well—” Draco began, his voice uncertain.

“In the entrance hall—” Harry started, his tone tentative.

“No,” Draco interrupted, his brows knitting together. “We met at Madam Malkin’s. Sort of. I didn’t introduce myself then, but—” He paused, his gaze sharpening. “You don’t remember?”

Harry winced inwardly, his stomach twisting. “I do. I mean—well—it was a long time ago, Draco,” he said with a forced laugh.

Draco’s frown deepened, his confusion evident. “A long time ago, sure. But you’ve always had a memory like a Hippogriff with a grudge. You don’t forget things like that, Harry.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably, avoiding Draco’s gaze by looking back at the ceiling. “I don’t know. My mind’s been so full of... other stuff, I guess.”

Draco didn’t respond immediately, and Harry felt the weight of his scrutiny. He could sense the cogs turning in Draco’s head, piecing together bits of Harry’s strange behavior.

“It was odd,” Draco said finally, his voice softer now. “The way we met. At Madam Malkin’s. I didn’t even know who you were, not at first. And when I found out...” He trailed off, his lips pressing into a thin line.

Harry glanced at him, curious despite himself. “What?”

Draco shook his head, a small, humorless laugh escaping him. “I thought it would be easy. Introducing myself, I mean. I’d say all the right things, make a great impression. But you... you didn’t seem impressed.”

Harry blinked, something in his chest twisting. That didn’t match the dream at all.

Draco turned back to his desk, tapping his quill against the edge. “You rejected me outright. Chose Weasley instead.”

Harry’s throat felt dry. The dream—the one where Draco had extended his hand with such certainty, where they had shared an easy camaraderie right from the start—was a lie. Or maybe it was a memory distorted by the gaps in his mind. Either way, it left him reeling.

“I—uh—I guess I had no idea what I was doing,” Harry said awkwardly, trying to brush it off. “Eleven years old, you know? You don’t think about that sort of thing properly.”

Draco didn’t look convinced, but he shrugged, his expression guarded. “Clearly.”

The disparity between what he thought he knew and what was real gnawed at him. How had things changed so much? How had they gone from that awkward rejection to this—whatever this was?

Harry’s chest felt abnormally heavy as he turned on his side, watching Draco scribble on his parchment, the lines of his face softened by concentration.

It didn’t matter, Harry decided. However they had gotten here, this moment—this connection—they shared now was real. And if he had to piece together fragments of the past to understand it, then so be it.

“Draco,” Harry said softly, his voice cutting through the quiet.

Draco looked up, his quill stilling. “What now, Harry?”

Harry smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Thanks for... putting up with me, I guess.”

Draco raised a brow, his lips quirking. “I’m sure it’s the trial of the century.”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head as he turned back to stare at the ceiling.

Whatever had happened before didn’t matter. They were here now, and for now, that was enough.

-

Hermione sat stiffly in the chair across from Professor McGonagall’s desk, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Madam Pomfrey stood nearby, her wand tucked into the pocket of her robes as she observed Hermione with her usual clinical sharpness. McGonagall’s expression was carefully neutral, though her pursed lips betrayed the concern Hermione had come to recognize over the years.

“You wanted to see me, Professor?” Hermione asked, though she had a sinking feeling she already knew why she was here.

McGonagall exchanged a glance with Pomfrey before folding her hands on the desk. “Yes, Miss Granger. We’ve been discussing Harry’s... progress,” she began carefully. “And given how close you are to him, we thought it prudent to involve you in this conversation.”

Hermione’s heart tightened. “How do you mean? Is something wrong?”

Madam Pomfrey's expression turned thoughtful, her eyes narrowing slightly as she stepped forward. "Not entirely inaccurate, I should say. However, there are certain... reservations. Concerns, if you will, regarding Harry's current state of mind, as well as the potential... repercussions that may arise in the future."

“Concerns?”

"You've observed it, I presume? The subtle yet undeniable shift in his bearing of late. A certain... buoyancy to his step, a carefree quality. And his eyes, of course—the way they sparkle with an almost... unguarded innocence, as if the burdens of the wizarding world have momentarily lifted from his shoulders."

Hermione blinked, her mind racing. “Well, yes, but I thought—he’s been so much happier lately. Like a weight has been lifted.”

Madam Pomfrey's expression turned solemn, her voice dropping to a hushed tone. "Precisely. A weight has indeed been lifted—but only because the memories that once bore him down have been... suppressed. Not erased, merely hidden.”

McGonagall’s brow furrowed slightly, and she leaned forward, her tone softer. “What Madam Pomfrey means, Miss Granger, is that Harry’s current demeanor may not entirely be a sign of healing but rather a reflection of what’s missing. A great deal of his trauma—his losses, his battles—are tied to memories he no longer holds.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped. “You’re saying he’s like this because... he doesn’t remember the worst of it.”

"Indeed," Pomfrey said, her voice low and measured. "Intellect and emotion are two vastly different realms. For instance, Harry may comprehend, on a rational level, that Sirius is no longer with him, but the emotional resonance of that loss—those are the things that truly shape us. And it's precisely those emotions that Harry's mind has... insulated itself from, at least for the time being."

Hermione swallowed hard. “He doesn’t recall it, not really. He knows it because we’ve told him. But he doesn’t carry the weight of that memory.”

Madam Pomfrey's words hung in the air like a challenge. "Without those memories, Harry exists in a state of emotional numbness. He grasps the facts, but the anguish, the loss, and the trauma remain elusive. And that's why he can smile so effortlessly now, why he seems so... untroubled. It's not that he's healed; it's that he's forgotten what shattered him in the first place."

Hermione's hands clenched into fists in her lap, her brow furrowed in concern. "But isn't that... isn't that a blessing in disguise? He's happy, free from the weight of his memories."

Professor McGonagall's sigh was heavy with foreboding, her expression grave. "It's not quite so simple, Miss Granger. When – or if – Harry's memories return, there's a very real risk that the emotional impact will be far more devastating than before. He'll not only relive those moments but also grapple with the disorienting sensation of having lived without them for so long. The repercussions could be... catastrophic."

“So, what you’re saying is... this version of Harry, this lightness, it’s—temporary?”

“We don’t know for certain,” Pomfrey admitted. “But it’s a possibility. And it’s why we’re watching him closely.”

Hermione's teeth sank into her lip, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts. "He's still... Harry, though," she ventured, her voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty. "Even without those memories."

Professor McGonagall's expression softened. "Of course he is, Miss Granger," she said firmly. "But you must grasp that Harry's memories—both the joyous and the painful—have indelibly shaped him into the person he is today. Without them, he remains himself, yet... unencumbered. It's a bittersweet truth, really."

Hermione's nod was slow, deliberate, her voice barely above a whisper. "He doesn't seem to realize, though. He doesn't question it. It's as if... he's content to simply exist, without probing the depths of his own memories."

Pomfrey folded her arms. “Harry has always been remarkably resilient. But if he ever begins to piece things together—or if a surge of memories returns—it could be... overwhelming.”

“What should I do? What can we do?”

“Be there for him,” McGonagall said gently. “Continue to support him as you always have. But be mindful of what he’s going through—even if he doesn’t realize it himself. He may need you more than ever when the time comes.”

Hermione nodded, her resolve hardening. “I will. Always.”

As she left McGonagall’s office, her heart heavy but determined, Hermione couldn’t help but think of Harry’s bright, carefree smile and the way he had seemed so... unburdened lately.

It wasn’t false, she realized, but it wasn’t complete either.

It was both a gift and a looming storm.

-

The three of them sat by the Black Lake, the soft lapping of water against the shore providing a soothing backdrop to the quiet afternoon. Harry was sprawled out on the grass, his hands tucked behind his head, his glasses slightly askew. Draco sat more rigidly, perched on a conjured cushion that he’d insisted on summoning because, as he’d put it, "I don’t fancy dirt on my robes, Harry." Luna was sitting cross-legged, humming softly as she braided a strand of wildflowers into her hair.

Draco glanced at her with thinly veiled confusion. “What are you doing?”

“Decorating,” Luna said dreamily, not looking up from her handiwork. “They like to be noticed, you know. The flowers, I mean.”

Draco blinked, clearly caught off guard. “The flowers like to be... noticed?”

“Of course,” Luna replied, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Wouldn’t you? If you were so lovely and no one ever paid you any mind?”

Harry snorted softly, tilting his head to look at Draco. “She’s got a point, you know. You’d probably hex someone if they didn’t notice your perfectly coiffed hair.”

Draco shot him a glare, but there was no real malice in it. “I don’t need validation from grass, Harry.”

Luna laughed, a soft, melodic sound that made Draco falter. “It’s not about validation,” she said. “It’s about connection. Everything in the world is connected, in one way or another. Even us.”

Draco hesitated, his usual sharp retort failing him. Something about Luna’s calm, unguarded demeanor disarmed him in a way he hadn’t expected.

Harry sat up slightly, propping himself on his elbows, a grin tugging at his lips. “She’s good at this, isn’t she?” he said, glancing at Draco. “Makes you think, even when you don’t want to.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but his posture had eased slightly. “She’s certainly... unique.”

“Thank you,” Luna said brightly, as though it were the highest compliment she could receive.

Draco blinked at her, his usual composure slipping. “You’re not... offended by that?”

“Why would I be?” Luna tilted her head, studying him with her wide, unflinching gaze. “It’s true, isn’t it? I am unique. So are you. So is Harry. Everyone is.”

Draco didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t. Instead, he let his gaze drift out over the lake, the soft ripple of water catching the sunlight.

“You’re quiet,” Harry said, nudging him lightly with his foot. “That’s a first.”

Draco looked at him, his lips twitching upward. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Luna, meanwhile, leaned toward Draco, holding out her braid of flowers. “Here,” she said. “For you.”

Draco stared at it like she’d handed him a live Niffler. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Wear it, of course.”

Harry burst into laughter, rolling onto his side as he clutched his stomach. “Oh, please put it on, Draco. I’ll never let you live it down.”

Draco shot him a withering look, but there was no real bite to it. Slowly, hesitantly, he took the braid of flowers from Luna’s outstretched hand.

“You don’t have to,” Luna said kindly.

Draco, to Harry’s absolute delight, set the braid gently on the ground beside him. “I’ll keep it here,” he said primly, smoothing his robes. “Consider it... admired.”

Harry was still grinning as he sat up properly, his shoulder brushing lightly against Draco’s. “You’re softening, Malfoy,” he teased.

“Am not,” Draco said quickly, though his tone lacked conviction.

“You are,” Luna said, her voice thoughtful. “That’s not a bad thing, you know. It means you’re letting yourself be seen.”

Draco didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the horizon. He wasn’t used to this—being around people who weren’t guarded, who didn’t expect him to wear his armor all the time. It was disarming, yes, but it was also... oddly comforting.

Harry bumped his shoulder lightly again. “You doing alright over there?”

Draco glanced at him, his lips quirking into the faintest of smiles. “Surprisingly, yes.”

And as Luna hummed softly beside them and Harry’s laughter rang out again, Draco let himself relax just a little more, the tightness in his chest easing in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

-

Things had been going well.

Harry didn’t know exactly how to define what was happening between him and Draco, but he didn’t feel the need to. They hadn’t called it anything—there hadn’t been a grand declaration, no serious talks—but the way Draco lingered in the library until Harry showed up, or how Harry always left a spot for Draco beside him at meals, made it clear enough.

They were something, and that was enough.

Draco had started spending more time with Harry and Luna, which was... oddly nice. Harry had worried at first—Draco wasn’t exactly known for his easygoing nature—but somehow, it worked. Luna had a way of softening the edges of everyone around her, and with her, Draco didn’t seem to feel the need to put up a front. He could simply be.

The three of them were sitting by the fire in the eighth year common room one evening, a quiet sort of warmth surrounding them as the wind howled outside. Luna was absently doodling in the margins of her notes, her humming filling the comfortable silence. Harry was sprawled across one end of the couch, his legs stretched out and his hand resting near Draco’s thigh, a casual closeness that had become second nature.

Draco, perched with his usual poise, was the first to break the silence. “Christmas is coming up.”

Harry looked at him. “Yeah. Are you going back to the Manor?”

Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s... different now.”

Harry tilted his head, studying Draco’s face. “Different how?”

Draco hesitated, his gaze flickering to the fire. “Just... different. The Manor isn’t what it was.” His voice was quieter now, tinged with something Harry couldn’t quite place.

Harry frowned slightly. He didn’t understand, not fully. He knew the war had changed things for Draco and his family—he’d been told as much—but the weight of it, the depth of it, felt just out of reach.

“Isn’t it still home, though?”  

Draco turned to him, his grey eyes sharp with something like confusion. “Do you really not remember?”

Harry blinked, caught off guard. “Remember what?”

Draco stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head as if to clear it. “Never mind,” he said, his voice a touch too brisk. “You wouldn’t understand.”

The words stung more than Harry expected, though he knew Draco didn’t mean them cruelly. He sat up straighter, his hand brushing against Draco’s knee. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

Draco’s expression softened, but he didn’t reply.

Luna, without looking up from her notes, said, “Home isn’t always about where you come from. Sometimes, it’s about where you feel safe.”

Draco glanced at her, his lips quirking slightly. “You have a way of saying things, Lovegood.”

She smiled. “It’s a gift.”

“What about you?” Draco asked, turning back to Harry. “The Weasleys’?”

Harry hesitated. “I don’t think I’ll go either.”

Draco raised a brow. “Why not? Isn’t it... isn’t it your home?”

Harry looked away, his hand retreating to his lap. “It’s different now, too.”

“Different how?” Draco asked, his voice mirroring Harry’s earlier curiosity.

Harry chewed on his lip, choosing his words carefully. “It’s hard to explain. This summer, being there, it felt like...” He paused, searching for the right metaphor. “It felt like I was on the outside looking in. Like everyone was trying too hard not to upset me, walking on eggshells. It just... didn’t feel the same.”

Draco tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to piece something together. “But why would they—”

Harry forced a smile, shrugging lightly. “I don’t know. Things just change, I guess.”

“So, what will you do for Christmas?”

“Stay here, maybe. The castle’s nice when it’s quiet.”

Luna looked up then, her gaze serene. “I think Hogwarts would like that,” she said simply.

Draco rolled his eyes, though his lips twitched upward. “I suppose I could tolerate staying here as well,” he said, his voice laced with mock exasperation.

Harry smiled, his heart feeling lighter. “Yeah? You’d stay?”

“Someone has to keep you out of trouble, Harry.”

Harry grinned, leaning back against the couch. “I’d say that’s a full-time job.”

It wasn’t perfect—it was messy and complicated and full of things unsaid.

But it was theirs.

-

The castle was quiet, the faint hum of magic in the air the only other sound. Harry was standing just outside the library doors, his hand clutching a worn book he couldn’t remember picking up.

Draco was there, leaning casually against the opposite wall, his robes draped over his arm as though he didn’t have a care in the world. His pale blond hair was falling just slightly out of place, as if he’d been running a hand through it.

“Honestly, Harry, how long does it take to find one book?” Draco drawled, though there was no real bite to his tone. His grey eyes were bright, filled with something almost playful as he tilted his head.

Harry blinked at him, momentarily distracted by the easy smirk pulling at Draco’s lips. It wasn’t a smirk of derision—it was... warm. Friendly, even.

“I was looking,” Harry said, though the defensiveness in his voice was undercut by the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re the one who insisted I needed to read up on—what was it again?”

“Basic charms theory,” Draco said with a roll of his eyes, pushing off the wall and stepping closer. “Honestly, how have you managed to survive at Hogwarts without knowing even the simplest—” He stopped, his words faltering as his smirk softened into something smaller, less performative. “Never mind. I suppose that’s why you’ve got me now.”

Harry raised a brow. “Got you for what?”

“To keep you out of trouble, obviously,” Draco said, tossing his robes over his shoulder with a theatrical flourish.

Harry couldn’t help but laugh, the sound echoing in the empty corridor. “You mean to get me into trouble.”

Draco’s grin widened, and for a moment, they were just two boys sharing a moment in the middle of the night, the weight of the world entirely absent. “Maybe a bit of both,” Draco admitted, his voice light.

Suddenly, they were outside by the Black Lake, the moon casting rippling light across the water. Harry was sitting on the edge of the grass, his knees pulled to his chest, while Draco lay stretched out beside him, one arm tucked behind his head.

“You know,” Draco said, his voice quieter now, “I didn’t think we’d get along at first.”

Harry turned to look at him, confused. “Why not?”

Draco shrugged, his eyes fixed on the sky. “I don’t know. I thought you’d be... different. Someone who wouldn’t look twice at me. But you’re not.”

Harry frowned slightly. “Why would you think that? You’re brilliant, Draco.”

Draco turned his head then, his eyes meeting Harry’s. There was something vulnerable in the way he looked at him, something unguarded and raw. “Do you really think that?”

“Of course,” Harry said, his voice earnest. “You’re my best friend.”

Draco’s lips parted, as though he wanted to say something more, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he gave a small nod, his expression softening.

‘You’re mine too’, is what Draco Malfoy wanted to say. 

-

Harry woke suddenly, his breath catching in his throat as the image of Draco’s face lingered in his mind.

The reality hit him like a punch to the gut. That wasn’t how it had happened.

Draco had never smiled at him like that as a child. They hadn’t spent late nights laughing in the corridors or sharing quiet moments by the lake. They hadn’t been friends.

The ache in Harry’s chest was sharp and disorienting as he sat up, running a hand through his hair.

When he glanced over, Draco was already awake, perched at his desk with his back to Harry. The sunlight streamed in through the window, catching in Draco’s hair and making it look almost silver.

“You’re up early,” Draco said without turning around, his tone casual.

“Yeah,” Harry murmured, his voice still rough from sleep.

Draco glanced over his shoulder, his brows furrowing slightly at the look on Harry’s face. “You alright?”

Harry hesitated, the dream still heavy in his mind. “Yeah. Just a weird dream.”

“Dreaming about saving the world again, were you?”

“Something like that,” Harry muttered, his chest tightening as he looked at Draco—the real Draco.

Because the Draco from his dream, with his easy smiles and warm laughs, didn’t feel so far from the one sitting in front of him now.

And Harry couldn’t help but wonder, as he watched Draco return to his parchment, why the memory of that imaginary friendship felt so real—and why, despite knowing it wasn’t, part of him wished it had been.

-

The dreams were occurring more often, vivid and strange, leaving Harry disoriented and restless. They felt too real, like memories, but they didn’t align with anything he knew to be true. They were fragmented, altered versions of events he thought he understood—or worse, things he didn’t remember at all.

One dream might show Draco smiling warmly at him as if they’d been lifelong friends. Another would place Sirius alive and well, sitting beside Harry at Grimmauld Place, laughing like they’d never been separated. Each morning he woke up with his heart pounding, trying to untangle the truth from the dream.

It was beginning to gnaw at him, the uncertainty of it all.

So, on his next visit to Madam Pomfrey, he decided to ask.

Pomfrey was running her usual diagnostic spells, her wand hovering over his head as he sat on the edge of the hospital bed, his legs swinging slightly like a schoolboy waiting for a scolding. She hummed softly under her breath as she examined the parchment that floated beside her, filled with magical readings that Harry couldn’t decipher.

“Everything seems stable,” Pomfrey said finally, lowering her wand. “No signs of another memory surge. You’ve been resting?”

Harry hesitated. “Er—yeah, sure.”

Pomfrey shot him a skeptical look over the rim of her glasses. “Harry.”

“Alright, maybe not exactly resting,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. “But I’ve been fine. Better than fine, actually.”

Her expression softened, but her sharp gaze didn’t waver. “Better than fine? That’s unusual to hear from someone with memory gaps the size of the Forbidden Forest.”

Harry smiled faintly but didn’t respond right away. Instead, he stared at the floor, his thoughts swirling.

“Madam Pomfrey,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “The dreams I’ve been having... could they be memories? Or are they just... dreams?”

Pomfrey stilled, her parchment floating down onto the table beside her as she crossed her arms. “Tell me about these dreams.”

Harry fidgeted, trying to find the right words. “They’re... strange. It’s like they’re memories, but they don’t match what I’ve been told. Like... I dreamed about meeting Draco when we were kids, but it wasn’t the way it really happened. In the dream, we were—” He hesitated, his cheeks flushing slightly. “—friends. Like, actual friends.”

Pomfrey raised an eyebrow, though she didn’t interrupt.

“And then there’s this dream about Sirius,” Harry continued, his throat tightening as he spoke the name. “He was alive, sitting with me at Grimmauld Place, and it felt so real. But I know that’s not possible. I know he’s—” He broke off, swallowing hard.

Pomfrey sighed softly, pulling up a chair to sit across from him. “Dreams can be tricky things, Harry,” she said gently. “Especially for someone in your situation.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” she began, her tone patient, “your mind is trying to reconcile what it knows with what it’s lost. Memories aren’t linear—they’re not filed neatly away in your brain like books in a library. They’re emotional, fragmented, and deeply tied to how we process our experiences. When your memories were disrupted, it created gaps that your subconscious is now trying to fill.”

Harry frowned, his brows knitting together. “So... you’re saying my brain is making things up?”

"Not precisely," Madam Pomfrey clarified. "It's more akin to... your mind endeavoring to fill in the gaps, to weave a narrative from the fragmented threads of memory that remain. The dreams may be an amalgamation of genuine recollections, imagination, and emotional reckoning. They feel authentic because they're drawing upon emotions you've genuinely experienced, even if the events themselves didn't unfold exactly as you perceive them in your dreams."

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “But why Draco? Why Sirius? Why does it feel so... important?”

Pomfrey gave him a small, knowing smile. “Because those people are important to you. Whether they’re connected to your lost memories or your present, they hold a significant place in your life. Your mind knows that, even if you don’t fully understand it yet.”

Harry exhaled slowly, his chest feeling both heavier and lighter at the same time. “So... what am I supposed to do with all of this?”

Pomfrey reached out, patting his knee gently. “Take it one day at a time, Harry. These dreams are your mind’s way of working through everything, even if it doesn’t make sense right now. And if they’re troubling you, you don’t have to face them alone.”

Harry nodded, though his thoughts were still spinning.

As he left the hospital wing, her words stayed with him, intertwining with the lingering echoes of his dreams.

He didn’t know if the memories would ever come back—or if he even wanted them to. But one thing was certain: the people in his dreams, the ones who made his heart ache and his chest tighten, weren’t going anywhere. And neither, he realized, was Draco Malfoy.

-

The room was quiet, bathed in soft moonlight that filtered through the partially open curtains. The faint crackle of the fire in the hearth was the only sound, a gentle background to the stillness of the night.

Harry was already in bed, his hair a familiar mess against the pillow, his glasses abandoned on the nightstand. He was staring at Draco, who was sitting on the edge of his own bed, his back straight and his hands fiddling with the edge of his blanket.

“Draco,” Harry called softly, his voice carrying across the small space between them.

Draco turned, his grey eyes catching the dim light, and Harry couldn’t help but smile.

“What is it, Harry?” Draco asked, his voice low but not impatient.

“Come here,” Harry said, patting the empty side of his bed.

Draco hesitated, his brows furrowing slightly. “Why?”

Harry grinned, his cheeks dimpling as he propped himself up on one elbow. “Because I want you to.”

Draco huffed, but there was no real resistance in his movements as he stood and padded over. His bare feet made soft sounds against the floor, and Harry scooted back to make room.

“You’re impossible, you know that?” Draco muttered as he sat down, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight.

Harry didn’t reply, his grin widening as he reached out to tug Draco down beside him. Draco let out a soft noise of protest but allowed himself to be pulled, his head resting on the pillow next to Harry’s.

For a moment, they just looked at each other, their faces close enough that Harry could see the faint flush creeping up Draco’s neck.

“You’re blushing,” Harry teased, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I am not,” Draco shot back, though his tone lacked its usual bite.

Harry chuckled softly, his hand brushing against Draco’s cheek. “You are. It’s cute.”

Draco opened his mouth to retort, but whatever he was about to say was lost when Harry leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. It was slow and warm, and Draco melted into it despite himself, his hand coming up to rest lightly on Harry’s arm.

When they broke apart, Draco’s eyes were wide, his breath shallow. “You really are impossible,” he murmured, though his lips curved into the faintest smile.

“And you like it,” Harry replied, his voice full of quiet confidence.

Draco rolled his eyes, but his arm slid around Harry’s waist, pulling him closer. Harry nestled against him, his head resting on Draco’s chest, where he could hear the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

They lay like that for a while, the fire casting flickering shadows across the room. Harry’s fingers traced lazy patterns on Draco’s arm, and Draco’s hand found its way to Harry’s messy hair, his fingers tangling in the unruly strands.

“Goodnight, Draco,” Harry murmured, his voice heavy with drowsiness.

Draco pressed a soft kiss to the top of Harry’s head, his own eyes fluttering closed. “Goodnight, Harry.”

And as they drifted off, their breaths falling into sync, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to be tangled together like this, sharing the quiet comfort of each other’s presence.

-

Harry was running through a golden field, the sun warming his face, laughter bubbling in the distance. But then the warmth started to fade, and the golden hues turned to grey. The laughter morphed into panicked screams, and the sky above him darkened, heavy and suffocating.

Suddenly, he wasn’t running anymore—he was falling.

And then, he was there.

Cedric was lying on the ground, his eyes wide and lifeless, his face frozen in an expression of shock. Harry’s heart clenched as the memory surged forward, unbidden and merciless.

“Kill the spare.”

The words rang out, sharp and unforgiving, as if they’d been etched into the marrow of his bones.

Harry tried to turn away, but the scene shifted, dragging him into the chaos of the Department of Mysteries. Sirius was laughing, his voice ringing in triumph—until it stopped.

The veil rippled, and Sirius fell backward, his figure swallowed by the void.

“No!” Harry screamed, reaching for him, but his hands grasped at nothing but air.

The memories twisted and blurred, and now he was in Malfoy Manor, the cold stone floors biting into his knees. Hermione’s screams echoed around him as Bellatrix loomed, her face wild with sadistic glee. Draco was there too, standing stiffly in the corner, his pale face tight with fear and something Harry couldn’t quite place.

Then he was on the Hogwarts grounds, the battlefield. Draco was clutching his wand, looking torn and frantic, and Harry could feel the weight of Voldemort’s presence like a suffocating blanket. 

Spells and screams ricocheted around them, bodies falling left and right.

It was too much.

The memories surged like a tidal wave, each one heavier, darker, louder than the last. The weight of them crushed him, drowning him in grief and guilt and terror.

In the real world, Harry thrashed violently in his bed, his body jerking as if trying to escape the invisible horrors plaguing his mind. His face was wet with tears, his breathing ragged and choked.

“Harry,” Draco muttered, startled awake by the sudden movement. He sat up quickly, his heart hammering as he reached out to shake Harry’s shoulder. “Harry, wake up. You’re dreaming.”

But Harry didn’t wake.

“No!” Harry yelled, his voice raw, his fists clenching the sheets as he writhed. “Don’t—don’t take him!”

“Harry!” Draco tried again, louder this time, his hands gripping Harry’s shoulders and shaking him harder. “Wake up, you idiot!”

But Harry’s screams only grew louder, guttural and anguished, tearing through the stillness of the room.

“Please, no—Sirius! Cedric!”

Draco’s chest tightened with panic. “Harry, wake up! Please!”

He was horrified. He’d seen Harry battle trolls, duel Death Eaters, even face the Dark Lord himself with unwavering resolve. But this—this was something else entirely.

Harry’s thrashing grew more violent, his sobs wracking his body as though the pain was consuming him. Draco was terrified he might hurt himself.

Draco’s voice cracked as he yelled, “WEASLEY! Neville! Somebody get in here!”

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the eighth-year dormitory hall. Ron burst through the door first, his eyes wide with alarm, Neville close behind him.

“What’s going on?” Ron demanded, skidding to a stop at the sight of Harry convulsing on the bed.

“I don’t know!” Draco snapped, his voice sharp with panic. “He won’t wake up! Just—go get McGonagall! Now!”

Ron hesitated for only a second before bolting from the room, his footsteps pounding against the floorboards.

Neville approached cautiously, his face pale. “What’s happening to him?”

“I don’t know!” Draco repeated, his voice almost breaking as he kept shaking Harry, his own hands trembling. “It’s like he’s trapped in a nightmare—he won’t wake up!”

“Harry, mate, it’s alright,” Neville tried, his voice soothing as he crouched on the other side of the bed. But Harry didn’t respond, his screams turning into broken sobs.

Draco’s grip on Harry tightened, his voice lowering to a desperate plea. “Harry, please. Just wake up. Wake up. Come back.”

But Harry was lost, drowning in the flood of memories surging through his mind.

Draco’s own chest ached at the sight of him, his usually composed demeanor shattered. He glanced helplessly at Neville, who was murmuring something calming, though Draco couldn’t make out the words over the pounding of his heart.

The door slammed open, and McGonagall swept in, her wand already out. Behind her, Ron stumbled in, his face pale and his breathing labored.

“What happened?” McGonagall demanded, her sharp gaze darting between Draco, Neville, and Harry’s trembling form.

Draco didn’t look up. “He won’t wake up,” he said hoarsely, his voice barely audible. “He’s—he’s trapped in something. I don’t know what to do.”

McGonagall moved swiftly to Harry’s side, her expression grim as she began casting diagnostic spells. The glow of her wand lit up the room, casting flickering shadows on the walls as she worked.

Draco watched, his hands still on Harry’s shoulders, as though letting go would make things worse.

“Please,” he whispered, though he didn’t know who he was pleading with. Please let him be alright.

-

The hospital wing was eerily quiet, save for the faint hum of magical instruments and the occasional rustle of Madam Pomfrey’s robes as she moved purposefully around Harry’s still form. Harry lay motionless in the bed, his face pale, his breathing shallow but steady. The sheets were tucked up to his chest, and his glasses sat folded neatly on the bedside table.

Draco was pacing, his fingers tugging restlessly at his sleeves. His normally unruffled demeanor was in tatters; his face was pale, his eyes rimmed red, and there was a slight tremor in his hands. Every so often, his gaze darted to Harry, his jaw tightening as though the sight physically hurt him.

Ron and Hermione sat to one side of the ward, exchanging worried glances. McGonagall and Pomfrey stood in quiet conversation near the foot of Harry’s bed, their faces drawn and grim.

Draco’s pacing suddenly stopped. He turned on his heel, his eyes blazing as he stared at the adults. “Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on?!”

Pomfrey hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line, but it was McGonagall who stepped forward. “Mister Malfoy,” she began carefully, her tone measured, “this is—”

“No,” Draco cut her off, his voice rising. “Don’t ‘Mister Malfoy’ me. He’s been unconscious for hours, and none of you are saying anything. I deserve to know what’s happening!”

Ron, seated beside Hermione, frowned, clearly uncomfortable. “Why do you care so much, Malfoy? You’re acting like—”

Draco’s head snapped toward him, and before anyone could stop him, he yelled, “Because I’m his bloody boyfriend,Weasley!”

The words hung in the air, sharp and raw, cutting through the tension like a knife.

Ron blinked, his mouth falling open. “You’re—you’re what?”

Hermione, on the other hand, didn’t look remotely surprised. Her expression softened as she stood, moving toward Draco with a quiet calm. “Draco,” she said gently, “sit down.”

“No!” Draco’s voice broke as he gestured toward Harry’s bed, his composure crumbling further. “Don’t ask me to sit down! Don’t ask me to calm down! Just tell me what’s wrong with him!”

Hermione reached out, her hand brushing his arm lightly. “Draco, listen to me. I know you’re scared, but you need to—”

“Scared?” Draco laughed bitterly, his hands raking through his hair. “Of course, I’m scared, Granger. Do you think I can just stand here and watch him like this without losing my bloody mind!?”

“I know,” she said softly, nodding slowly as though that would somehow calm Draco down. “And you’re right. You do deserve to know.”

“Hermione, what are you doing?” Ron hissed, his eyes darting between her and Draco.

“Ron,” Hermione said sharply, her tone brooking no argument. “He has a right to know.”

Draco stilled, his chest heaving. “Know what?” he demanded, his voice quieter but no less desperate.

Hermione glanced at Pomfrey and McGonagall, who both gave her solemn nods of approval. She turned back to Draco, her expression heavy with the weight of what she was about to say.

“Harry has... memory gaps,” she said carefully. “From the war. It’s... it’s not just forgetting a few details. Entire pieces of his life—things that define him—are gone.”

Draco stared at her, his face blank with shock. “What are you talking about?”

Hermione continued, her voice steady but soft. “He knows things because we’ve told him—he knows Sirius is dead, for instance—but he doesn’t remember it. He doesn’t carry the memory of it happening. It’s like... someone ripped out entire chapters of his life and left the rest for him to piece together.”

Draco stumbled back a step, his hand reaching for the edge of a nearby chair to steady himself. “You’re saying... he doesn’t remember?”

“Not everything. And it’s not just the big things. He doesn’t remember small things either. Things about us, about Hogwarts, about… you.”

“Me?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Hermione nodded, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “He knows you’re Draco Malfoy. He knows there was... tension between you, but he doesn’t remember the details. The war. The manor. The years of rivalry. All of it—it’s a blank space in his mind.”

Draco couldn’t move. He was rooted to the spot, his eyes locked on Harry’s still form in the hospital bed. Hermione’s words echoed in his head, louder and louder until they drowned out everything else.

Harry didn’t remember.

He didn’t remember anything. Not the war. Not Malfoy Manor. Not their tangled, messy, hate-fueled past. All of it was nonexistent.

Draco felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. He gripped the back of the chair harder, his knuckles white, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

All of this—all of them—was built on nothing. A lie.

The Harry who had kissed him, who had curled into his arms at night, who had looked at him with those devastatingly open green eyes… wasn’t the Harry who truly knew him.

He doesn’t know me, Draco thought bitterly, his chest tightening like a vice. He doesn’t know the things I’ve done. He doesn’t know what I’ve been to him—what I’ve done to him.

And if he remembers…

Draco’s mind raced, images of the past flashing before him in brutal clarity. The taunts. The duels. The sneers he’d thrown Harry’s way, sharp enough to cut. The war. The moment at Malfoy Manor when Harry was dragged, bloodied and battered, into the drawing room, and Draco had stood frozen, unable to meet his eyes.

If he remembers, he’ll hate me all over again.

The thought tore through Draco like a storm, violent and unrelenting. All the progress they’d made, all the quiet moments, the touches, the warmth—it would be gone in an instant.

He would lose Harry.

Draco’s knees buckled slightly, and he sank into the chair, his head in his hands. He couldn’t breathe.

“Draco?” Hermione’s voice was soft, but it startled him.

He jerked his head up, his eyes wild. “This isn’t real,” he snapped, his voice breaking. “None—none of this is real.”

Hermione frowned, stepping closer. “No—what do you mean?”

Draco’s laugh was bitter, hollow. “He doesn’t remember me. He doesn’t remember anything. This—this thing between us—it’s built on nothing. On lies. He doesn’t know who I really am.”

“Draco,” Hermione started, but he cut her off.

“If he gets his memories back. He—he’s going to hate me. All over again. Just like… like he’s supposed to.”

Hermione flinched at the raw pain in his voice. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do!” Draco shouted, standing abruptly. He gestured wildly at Harry, who lay so still, so vulnerable. “He’ll remember everything I did—everything I said. He’ll remember Malfoy Manor, and the war, and every goddamn reason he had to despise me. And then—”

Draco broke off, his breath hitching. His hands trembled as he raked them through his hair.

“And then this,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper now, “whatever this is… it’ll be over. It’ll have meant nothing.”

Hermione watched him carefully, her own emotions warring behind her eyes. “Draco, what you have with Harry now… it is real. Memories or not, he will have this. He knows this—and he could never—” Hermione shook her head. “This—what you two have—is real.”

“It’s not. It’s based on a version of him that doesn’t know who I am. He doesn’t remember, Granger. He doesn’t know!”

“But he knows you now,” Hermione said firmly, stepping closer. “The Harry who wakes up every day and chooses to sit with you, to walk with you, to be with you—he knows you.”

Draco looked at her, his grey eyes bright with unshed tears. “But what if he remembers?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “What if he wakes up and hates me again? What then?”

Hermione hesitated, her throat tightening. “Then you’ll have to decide if what you’ve built with him is worth fighting for.”

Draco let out a shaky breath, his gaze dropping to the floor. His mind was a whirlwind of fear and doubt, his chest aching with the weight of it.

He looked at Harry again, at the faint rise and fall of his chest, at the messy dark hair that was so achingly familiar.

He wanted to stay. He wanted to leave. He wanted to hold onto Harry with everything he had, but the fear of losing him was too sharp, too real.

Hermione stood silently beside him, her heart breaking for both of them.

He’s going to remember he hates me. 

-

The hospital wing was cloaked in an almost oppressive silence.

Draco sat slumped in a chair beside Harry’s bed, his head in his hands, his chest tight with an unbearable mixture of guilt and fear.

Hermione and Ron had stepped away, giving him space—or maybe giving themselves time to think. McGonagall had left to contact someone, and Madam Pomfrey was tending to another patient on the other side of the ward.

Draco couldn’t look at Harry anymore. He couldn’t bear to see the way he lay so still, so pale, as though he might never open his eyes again. And yet, a part of him couldn’t bring himself to leave.

So, he stayed, one leg bouncing with nervous energy, his thoughts spiraling. The tears he hadn’t wanted anyone to see had dried, leaving streaks on his pale cheeks. His hands trembled in his lap, and his mind wouldn’t stop replaying Hermione’s words:

When his memories come back—if they come back—it’s going to be hard.

But Draco didn’t know what was worse—Harry never remembering, or Harry remembering everything.

The sharp intake of breath shattered the silence.

Draco’s head snapped up, his heart lurching. Harry stirred, his brow furrowing as his lips parted in a shallow gasp.

“Harry?” Draco’s voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor.

Harry’s eyes fluttered open, his emerald gaze unfocused and glassy. He blinked rapidly, his face twisting in confusion as he looked around the room.

“Harry?” Draco tried again, stepping closer, his voice trembling. “Harry, can you hear me?”

Harry’s eyes landed on Draco, his expression one of utter bewilderment.

“Malfoy?” Harry croaked, his voice rough from disuse. His forehead creased deeply as he took in Draco’s disheveled appearance—the flushed cheeks, the red-rimmed eyes, the way his normally pristine robes were wrinkled and out of place. “What are you doing here?”

Draco froze, his heart dropping into his stomach. “Harry…”  

Harry pushed himself up onto his elbows, wincing as he did so. His gaze darted around the room, the confusion on his face growing. “Where’s Ron? Hermione? What’s going on?”

“Harry,” Draco said again, stepping closer, his throat tightening. “It’s alright, just—”

Harry flinched away when Draco reached a hand out—and that was enough the shatter the entirety of Draco Malfoy’s heart.

“What day is it? Is the battle still going on? Where’s Voldemort?” Harry was shaking his head before his eyes landed on Draco again, narrowing. “What—what are you even doing here, Malfoy?”

Draco stumbled back, his face going pale. “The—what?”

“Why do you look like you’ve been crying?” Harry asked, his tone accusatory.

Draco didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

“Malfoy?” Harry pressed, his voice growing louder, more frantic.

Draco flinched at the name, his chest aching in a way that felt almost unbearable.

Draco wasn’t—

He wasn’t sure he was breathing.

Maybe he was hyperventilating.

He was inching away from Harry’s hospital bed, blinking furiously.

He—holy fuck—how—how to breathe? Inhale. Inhale, Malfoy—INHALE!

Madam Pomfrey appeared, her wand in hand, her expression stern. “Mister Malfoy, step aside,” she said briskly.

Draco stumbled back, his legs feeling unsteady beneath him.

Pomfrey leaned over Harry, murmuring diagnostic spells as she assessed him. But Harry’s gaze remained fixed on Draco, his confusion and distrust clear.

“Why is he even here?” Harry demanded. “What is going on!?”

Draco’s lips parted, but no words came out.

Harry’s voice cut through the air, sharp and devoid of any warmth. There was no lilt, no boyish charm, none of the easy lightness that Harry so often carried like a second skin. It was flat, cold, and unfamiliar—a tone that Draco had spent seven years of his life hearing.

Apathy. Distaste.

And worse, the green in Harry’s eyes—the brilliant, lively green that Draco had come to know far too well—was dulled. Dim and cold. When Harry’s gaze landed on Draco, it was as though all the warmth had been snuffed out, leaving only the sharp edges of something brittle.

For a fleeting moment, Draco thought maybe he was imagining it. Maybe it was just his own panic, his own guilt twisting Harry’s expression into something it wasn’t. But then Harry looked at Pomfrey, his face softening slightly, the coldness fading entirely.

It wasn’t Draco’s imagination.

It was real.

The iciness, the disdain—it was reserved just for him.

Holy fuck.

Draco felt like he might actually die, right here and now. His heart was hammering in his chest, the sound of it drowning out everything else. His hands trembled at his sides, and he felt the blood drain from his face.

This wasn’t just a bad dream or a misunderstanding.

Harry didn’t remember.

And worse, this Harry—this sharp, distant version of Harry—hated him.

Harry got his memories back, all right—but the memories that mattered, the ones Draco needed him to remember, were nowhere to be found.

Draco’s throat tightened painfully, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. He wanted to say something, to defend himself, to explain, but his mind was blank, his voice caught in his throat.

“Malfoy,” Harry said again, his tone cutting, as though even speaking the name left a bad taste in his mouth.

Draco flinched, his body betraying him. That single word, said in that single tone, shattered something fragile inside him.

“Why is he here?” Harry asked Pomfrey, his gaze flicking away from Draco as if he couldn’t bear to look at him any longer.

Pomfrey hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line as she glanced between the two boys. “Harry, I think—”

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Harry wasn’t supposed to look at him like that anymore.

Draco took a step back, his legs shaky. The room felt too small, too stifling, the walls closing in around him.

He didn’t wait to hear Madam Pomfrey’s response. He didn’t want to hear it. Instead, he turned on his heel and walked out of the hospital wing, his chest heaving as he forced himself not to run.

When he reached the empty corridor, he leaned back against the cold stone wall, pressing his shaking hands to his face.

Draco let out a shaky breath, his chest aching with a pain he hadn’t felt in years. He had spent so long convincing himself that he didn’t deserve any of this—Harry’s kindness, his warmth, his affection.

And now, it felt like the universe had confirmed it.

Draco pressed his back harder against the wall, as if it could hold him together, as if it could stop him from shattering completely.

For the first time in a long time, Draco felt utterly, devastatingly lost.

Harry got his memories back, and in that cruel twist of fate, Draco Malfoy would have given anything to lose his own.